Prologue: A Hearth of Echoes
Taren stood at the hearth, stirring the pot with a worn wooden spoon while the smell of stewed root and wild herbs filled the cottage. The low flames licked gently at the iron pot, and a soft crackling punctuated the rhythm of his motion. Behind him, his wife moved like a quiet wind, her steps practiced and precise as she laid bowls on the table. They moved together without speaking, each anticipating the other's motion. It was a kind of dance, familiar and old.
She bumped her hip gently against him, a smile in her eyes.
"You're adding too much elderroot," she said.
"It needs depth," he replied.
"It'll taste like a tree."
"Then they'll learn to love trees."
She laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she handed him a pinch of salt. "You're hopeless."
"Completely," he agreed.
From outside came the sound of feet pounding across wooden planks and the creak of the front door as it swung open with a bang.
"Mama! Papa!" came three voices in a jumble.
Taren turned just in time to brace for the collision as two of the children barreled into him and one clung to his leg.
"You're early," his wife said, leaning against the table, hands on her hips.
"We finished our lessons early!" the eldest proclaimed, already setting her pack down beside the fire.
"And I made a crown from reeds!" the youngest said proudly, placing the misshapen thing on her father's head.
Taren bowed dramatically. "Do I look like a king?"
"You look like a mushroom," his son said.
Taren gasped. "A mushroom? That's an insult fit for war."
The children collapsed into laughter, and even his wife let out a soft chuckle as she returned to ladling soup into bowls.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and crumbs. The youngest spilled her cup, the middle child argued over bread, and the eldest kept asking for more stories. When they'd all finally eaten their fill and the fire was fed with fresh wood, the family settled in around the hearth.
Taren leaned back in his chair, a mug of cider in hand, watching the firelight play across the children's faces. He could feel the warmth seep into his bones, the comfort of old timber and the low hum of home.
"Papa," said the youngest, "what is Primordial magic, really?"
He raised a brow. "That's a very serious question."
She nodded solemnly.
"Well," he began, "you know how Steps let you walk in ways the world usually forbids?"
They nodded.
"Primordial magic is older than Steps. It's not about where you go, but what you leave behind when you do."
"That doesn't make sense," said the boy.
Taren smiled. "It's not supposed to. Primordial magic is like listening to the world's dreams. Or maybe its nightmares."
"Did you use it?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes."
"Was it scary?"
"Sometimes. But it also saved me. And others."
The eldest looked up, her expression thoughtful. "Could we use it?"
Their mother, quiet until now, spoke gently. "You could. But it's not meant to be used like a tool. It's a conversation. And if you speak without listening, you might not like what answers."
The fire popped, and for a moment, none of the children said anything.
Then: "Mama, is it true the Forgotten Steps can burn away your name?"
She looked to Taren.
He nodded. "Yes. They're not like the regular Steps. The Forgotten ones are… different. Unanchored. They lead to places that aren't fully real anymore. Places the gods died trying to hold still."
"Did you ever walk a Forgotten Step?"
Taren took a sip from his mug. "More than once."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes."
"Did you cry?"
He tilted his head. "Yes. Once. When I thought I'd lost myself. But sometimes pain is the price of becoming."
"Like growing?"
"Exactly like that."
The boy frowned. "What if you grow the wrong way?"
"Then you find your way back. Or make a new way forward."
The youngest yawned and curled closer to her brother.
"Tell us one more story," the eldest pleaded.
"What kind of story?"
"A happy one."
Taren laughed. "You always ask for the hardest ones."
The children looked at him expectantly.
"Well then," he said, shifting in his chair, "do you know how I met your mother?"
All three children shook their heads.
He looked over at his wife, who raised a brow but said nothing.
Taren grinned, eyes distant with memory.
"It all began," he said, "in a time long forgotten even by the rivers of memory…"