As the town's last torchlight flickered into the night sky, Lucia stood at the forest's edge, one hand clutching the red cloth Cynthia had given her. It felt heavier than it should have, not in weight—but in meaning. A piece of faith she didn't share, wrapped tightly around her trembling fingers.
The air was thick with the damp breath of the wilderness, the scent of wet moss and decay curling around her like a warning. Insects sang somewhere unseen, and the leaves above rustled, as though the trees themselves whispered secrets too old for language.
She looked back once.
The lights of the village—her home—blinked like fireflies in the distance, soon to vanish behind branches and doubt. Somewhere, children were being tucked into their shared beds, women were folding herbs, and her father was likely staring into the darkness, whispering verses to a god she no longer believed in.
Still, she stepped forward.
The pull toward the ruins was like a thread wrapped around her chest. Every step deeper into the woods made her breath hitch, not from exhaustion—but from something older, stranger. Something calling her.
This is madness, she thought. I'm ACTUALLY doing this.
Her torch crackled in protest, barely piercing the oppressive dark. Shadows swayed like figures in mourning. It felt less like walking into a forest and more like slipping into a memory she didn't know she had.
She tried to laugh at herself. "Surely Cynthia didn't mean tonight," she muttered aloud, voice shaking. "She mentioned the ruins like she was commenting on the weather."
And yet, the way the priestess had placed the cloth in her hands, the way she had disappeared so quickly after—it had felt planned. As though she had been waiting for this. Pushing Lucia toward something neither of them could name.
Lucia had left without asking for details. No maps. No supplies. Just instinct, guilt, and that stupid, burning need to understand.
She tried to turn back twice.
Each time, her feet stopped mid-step. Her chest tightened. It was as if the forest refused to release her.
Branches slapped against her arms, damp leaves clung to her robe, and she winced as twigs snapped underfoot like bones. Her skin glistened with oil from the overgrowth, and the air was dense with the musk of animals.
"Saint, what am I doing," she breathed, brushing a spider off her shoulder.
Fauria had never been a comfortable home and yet somehow, this wilderness felt far more hostile. More alive. Like it was watching her.
Fauria wasn't cozy, even on a good day.
Summers boiled the skin. Winters cracked it. Her childhood had been spent curled beneath thin blankets in a stone house barely insulated from the wind. And yet, she'd been lucky. Others had lived in shared tents, elbow to elbow, clinging to what little warmth they had.
The Faurians had little, but they had each other. And they had faith.
Lucia…Lucia wasn't sure what she had.
She grimaced and swatted a mosquito off her cheek. She could hear her father's voice in her head now—gentle, amused, full of worry.
"Lucia," she whispered aloud, mimicking his tone. "What in the Saint King's name are you doing?"
She imagined what his face would look like once he learned she'd left. How he'd try to mask the concern of it
She paused to catch her breath. Above her, the stars glittered behind shifting clouds, offering no guidance. No Saint King appeared in the sky to light her path like the verses so often claimed he did for his loyal followers.
Her thoughts drifted back to her father.
I'm sorry, she wanted to whisper.
She imagined him coughing in his bed, waiting for her return. The thought sliced through her resolve like a blade. She could see his face—the man who had given up so much just to keep the town safe. His sermons, warm and thunderous, had moved hearts, even hers, once. His eyes had always held belief strong enough for both of them.
And yet, he had never seen the doubt in hers.
Lucia stumbled on a root, nearly falling. She cursed under her breath and kept going.
The forest began to change.
The trees grew thinner, older. Their bark peeled like ancient skin, and the underbrush faded into stone and moss. The noise of the forest dulled. Silence pressed in from all sides.
Then she heard it.
Rushing water.
Her heart jumped as she emerged from the trees and stood before a wide river, its rapids churning like an angry beast. Mist curled along its edges, hiding what lay beneath. The moonlight shimmered on the surface like a cracked mirror.
She stood frozen. There was no bridge. No clear path forward.
This is it, she realized. Valene must be on the other side.
She searched along the banks for nearly an hour, hands shaking, boots soaked. Every stone was too slick, every fallen tree rotted through. Nothing seemed safe.
Then she saw it.
A single log, weathered and narrow, stretched across the rapids. It was barely wide enough for her to crawl across.
Lucia laughed, hollow and sharp. "No way. I'm NOT doing that."
But her feet didn't listen. Her legs moved with a will that wasn't entirely her own.
Her inner thoughts were incoherent screaming as she hugged the log and began inching across. Cold water slapped at her calves, soaking through her robes. The current hissed beneath her, pulling at her ankles like hungry hands.
Her hands blistered. Her knees scraped. Her arms trembled from the effort. But she didn't stop.
When she reached the other side, she collapsed onto the moss, shaking. But
She didn't cry.
She just stayed there, face pressed into the earth, gasping for air.
Eventually, she stood.
And in the distance, through the thin mist, her eyes caught a flash of red.
A flag.
Tattered and old, but unmistakable—the crimson crest of Elicia, fluttering gently over stone ruins swallowed by vines.
The ancient empire.
The Saint King's legacy.
And the truth that waited to be unearthed.