The first light of dawn broke over Greyhaven, gilding the rooftops in soft gold. The air shimmered with the scent of spice and sweet bread, and the distant clang of bells rolled across the harbor like a song calling the city to life.
Eliar woke before the toll — for once — his heart already stirring with that rare mix of anticipation and unease. The memory of his father's voice lingered faintly in the back of his mind, echoing from the night before:
> "When you look at the stars, don't stop there…"
He shook the thought away, pulled on his boots, and stepped outside. The morning was bright and cold, carrying a wind that smelled of the sea.
Greyhaven had transformed overnight.
Colorful banners streamed from windows and balconies, and merchants filled the streets shouting prices over the laughter of children. Stalls of every kind crowded the cobbled lanes — roasted chestnuts, carved trinkets, polished stones, ribbons, and spiced cider. The Autumn Requiem Festival had begun.
As Eliar made his way toward the western square, he caught sight of Coren, already standing behind their small wooden stall, waving both arms wildly.
"Eliar! Saints above, you're early! Did Aldrin finally hammer some discipline into you?"
Eliar grinned. "Just a miracle of the season."
Coren slapped his back with a laugh. "Then the gods have blessed us indeed. Come on, help me with these crates. The crowds are coming fast."
They worked quickly, arranging baskets of goldstem pears and redwind figs, fruits brought from the southern coast of Thirvale, a land said to bask in summer even during snow. Their stall stood among dozens — spice traders, smiths, musicians, and even a small troupe of performers from the distant empire of Caelvarn.
By midmorning, the square was alive with color. Dancers spun through the streets, children chased paper ribbons, and the cathedral bells rang every hour to mark the festivities.
Coren leaned over the counter, shouting above the noise. "Look at them! Even the soldiers from Caelvarn are smiling. I didn't think they knew how!"
Eliar laughed, tossing him another basket of fruit. "Don't say that too loud — they're still armed."
The two friends worked through the morning rush, their laughter mixing with the hum of music and the clang of distant forges. For the first time in months, Eliar felt the weight of routine lift from his shoulders.
Then, near noon, the procession began.
A column of banners unfurled down the main avenue — gold and white silk embroidered with the sigil of the Empire. Soldiers in polished armor marched in formation, their boots striking the stone in perfect rhythm. The crowd parted, murmuring in awe.
"By the stars," Coren whispered, "they're grander than I imagined."
Eliar said nothing. His gaze was drawn to the man walking at their head — a tall figure in a long dark cloak, his face half-shadowed beneath a hood. There was something… still about him. Not the rigid stillness of discipline, but a quietness that drew the eye, as if the world itself moved around him.
As he passed, Eliar felt a faint hum in the air — subtle, like the tremor of a distant string. He blinked, glancing up at the cathedral spires. For just a heartbeat, the sunlight seemed to dim.
"Eliar?" Coren's voice cut through. "You're staring again. You all right?"
Eliar forced a nod. "Yeah. Just—just the light. Must've caught my eyes wrong."
Coren squinted but shrugged it off. "Well, keep your eyes open for customers, not soldiers. They don't buy fruit."
Eliar chuckled faintly, though the sound didn't quite reach his eyes.
As the sun climbed higher, the square began to swell with more visitors from the neighboring provinces and even from the Empire's heartland. Then a messenger arrived, running through the crowd, breathless.
"Eliar! Master Aldrin's looking for you — something about the new orders!"
Eliar straightened. "Now? The festival's—"
But before he could argue, Coren waved him off. "Go on. He'll skin you alive if you make him wait. I'll mind the stall."
Eliar sighed, grabbed his coat, and hurried down the eastern street, where the scent of hot iron and coal smoke still clung even in the middle of the celebration.
When he reached the forge, Aldrin was there, sleeves rolled up, hammer in hand, barking orders at two apprentices who scrambled to polish a row of newly forged swords.
"Took you long enough," Aldrin snapped, though there was relief beneath his tone. "The inspection starts within the hour. These blades are bound for the Empire's capital itself — I won't have them smudged by lazy hands."
Eliar joined quickly, setting to work oiling the hilts and checking the edges. "They said soldiers from Caelvarn will come?"
"From the Imperial Citadel itself," Aldrin grunted. "They're inspecting all armaments before the convoy leaves tomorrow. You'll stand straight and speak only when spoken to."
Eliar nodded, but his attention drifted to the blades — their sheen almost mirror-like, catching the forge light in faint ripples. For an instant, he thought he saw something move in the reflection — a faint shadow twisting behind him.
He blinked, and it was gone.
"Focus, boy!" Aldrin barked. "You zone out like that again and I'll send you back to the cathedral to scrub the bells."
"Right, sorry." Eliar forced a smile and kept working.
An hour later, the soldiers arrived. Their armor gleamed under the torchlight, their insignia marked with the golden falcon of Caelvarn. The officer in front, a stern woman with sharp eyes, examined each blade in silence.
When she reached the end of the rack, she nodded once. "The craftsmanship is worthy of the Empire. Lord Commander will be pleased."
Aldrin bowed slightly. "It's an honor."
As they turned to leave, Eliar felt that hum again — that same quiet vibration in the air, faint but familiar. His gaze followed the officer's entourage, and there he saw it: the same cloaked figure from the procession, standing in the forge's doorway, watching silently.
For a brief moment, their eyes met — though Eliar could not see the man's face beneath the hood, he felt as though something ancient and heavy had looked through him.
Then the figure turned, disappearing into the bright noise of the festival outside.
"Eliar?" Aldrin's voice cut in again. "You still breathing? Good. Clean the ash and you can leave."
Eliar nodded distantly, his thoughts far away. As he stepped out into the dusk, the songs of the festival had begun again — louder, brighter, full of joy. But to him, every note seemed to carry a whisper underneath.
> "When you look at the stars…"
He shivered and looked up — only to find that, even under the daylight, the first faint stars had already begun to show.
The sun had already begun its slow descent when Eliar left the forge. The clang of steel faded behind him, replaced once more by laughter and music. Lanterns now hung from every post and window, their orange glow flickering against the early twilight. The festival had deepened — the air alive with warmth and scent and song.
As he neared the western square, the smell of baked fruit and honeyed wine reached him first, followed by Coren's unmistakable shout.
"There you are, forge boy! Thought you'd been melted into a sword yourself!"
Eliar grinned, weaving through the crowd. Their small stall was now surrounded by cheerful townsfolk, the last crate of redwind figs sitting half-empty on the counter.
"You actually sold everything?" he said, half surprised.
"Almost," Coren said proudly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Turns out even the Empire's soldiers have a sweet tooth. One of them bought half our stock before noon. We'll split what's left — gift the rest to the townsfolk. A good name buys better coin next year."
Eliar laughed. "You think that far ahead?"
"Someone has to," Coren said with a wink.
So they spent the next hour giving the last of their fruit to the children darting between the stalls, to the musicians who played in the corner, and even to an old sailor who claimed to have once sailed to Thirvale itself. Laughter followed them as they moved — light and genuine, like a brief forgetfulness of life's weight.
By the time the final pear was gone, dusk had painted the sky in deep indigo. The cathedral bells rang out across the city — soft, resonant, and ancient.
"That's it then," Coren said, stretching his arms. "The stall's empty, our hands are sore, and our pockets are… well, almost full."
Eliar smiled faintly, his gaze drifting toward the towering silhouette of the cathedral. "Not bad for one day."
Then a familiar voice called behind them — rough and patient, like old oak creaking in wind.
"Well, well. Two workers who've actually earned their bread today."
They turned to see Master Bram, leaning on his cane, his long gray coat swaying with the evening breeze. His eyes, though aged, still carried a spark of quiet wit.
"Master Bram!" Coren greeted, bowing playfully. "Didn't think you'd crawl out of your books for a festival."
The old man chuckled. "Even old bones enjoy warmth once in a while. I came to see if my favorite troublemaker," — he nodded at Eliar — "wasn't wasting the entire day asleep under a tree."
Eliar smirked. "Almost did, until Coren forced me into business."
Bram looked at the empty stall, then at them both. "Looks like he made the right choice. Greyhaven's autumn doesn't come twice, boys. You best remember this one."
His tone softened, eyes wandering toward the horizon where the mountains met the fading sun. "The Empire sends its soldiers and banners, the merchants their gold — but these simple nights, these faces… they're what remain when all else fades."
Eliar and Coren exchanged a quiet glance, the laughter around them dimming just enough for his words to linger.
Then Bram clapped his hands lightly, shaking off the moment. "Now go, both of you. Enjoy what's left of the day. The bells won't wait for dreamers."
Coren grinned. "We were just about to find some cider."
"Good," Bram said, smiling faintly. "Drink to what's here. Tomorrow always comes too quickly."
As the old master walked away, the crowd swallowed his figure into the glow of the lanterns. Eliar stood there for a moment, watching him go — feeling again that faint pull in the air, that small tremor at the edge of sound.
"Eliar," Coren said softly, "you're staring again."
He blinked, forcing a smile. "Just thinking."
"Then stop thinking and come on," Coren laughed, tugging his arm. "Tonight's the only night Greyhaven forgets its worries."
Eliar followed, though his gaze lingered once more on the cathedral, where the bells continued to toll, deep and sonorous, like a heart beating beneath stone.
And somewhere — faint and fleeting — a whisper passed through the crowd, too soft for any to notice but him.
> "When you look at the stars…"
Eliar turned sharply, but there was nothing — only the orange glow of lanterns and the rising cheer of the city in celebration.
Coren's attention flickered suddenly toward the far end of the square, where a small group of travelers had arrived from the southern gate — a few young women among them, laughing as they passed through the lantern glow.
"Well, would you look at that," he muttered, straightening his coat. "Seems Greyhaven's beauty doesn't end with its mountains."
Eliar gave him a half-lidded look. "Don't tell me you're abandoning me for your next tragic love story."
Coren grinned, unashamed. "Tragic? Please. This one might finally be a success."
"Or another bruise to your pride."
Coren laughed and stepped backward into the crowd. "If I don't come back, sell my share of the fruit and name the stall after me!"
"Done," Eliar called out, shaking his head. "I'll name it The Fool's Fortune!"
The old master beside him — Bram — let out a deep chuckle. "That boy could charm a ghost out of its grave."
Eliar smirked. "He'd probably flirt with the ghost too."
Bram's laughter softened into a sigh. "Ah, youth. Loud, bright, and burning fast. I envy it sometimes."
For a while, they stood together in companionable silence. The crowd had thinned, and the square was washed in amber light. Somewhere down the lane, a violin played a slow, wistful tune. The sound lingered like a memory of something once beautiful and now distant.
Eliar's gaze drifted to the cathedral. Its spires glowed dimly under the first stars, towering above the roofs of Greyhaven like watchful guardians.
"Master Bram," he said at last, his voice quieter now, "have you ever had dreams that felt… too real?"
Bram tilted his head slightly. "Dreams that don't fade with the morning?"
Eliar nodded. "Yes. I've had them lately — strange ones. Places I don't recognize, voices I can't remember hearing before. And sometimes, even when I'm awake, I hear something — a whisper, maybe. Not loud, but it feels close. Like it's trying to tell me something I'm supposed to already know."
Bram studied him carefully, his weathered hands resting on his cane. The festival's noise seemed to dull around them. "And this whisper — does it frighten you?"
Eliar thought for a moment. "No… not exactly. It's not dark or cruel. Just… sad, maybe. Familiar in a way I can't explain. When I hear it, I feel like I've forgotten something important."
The old man's eyes gleamed faintly in the lantern light. "Dreams can be messengers, Eliar. Sometimes from the gods, sometimes from the soul. Both speak in riddles when we're not ready to listen."
Eliar frowned. "I'm not sure I want to listen. It feels like the kind of thing that changes you — and I don't even know what it is."
Bram smiled faintly, the wrinkles at his eyes deepening. "Change finds us whether we open the door or not. The question is whether we face it awake or still dreaming."
The words sank into Eliar like a slow echo. He looked down at his hands, still faintly marked with soot from Aldrin's forge. "My father used to say strange things too," he murmured. "Once, when I was little, he told me — 'When you look at the stars, don't stop there. There's far more beyond them.' I laughed back then. Thought he was just trying to sound wise."
Bram's gaze softened. "Leroy was wiser than he knew. He looked farther than most — farther than was safe, some would say."
"Yeah,he used to be your apprentice.Right?"Eliar said with a cold tone.
Bram nodded, eyes distant now. "He was more than that.Your father was a friend… and a rare kind of man. He carried light where others only saw fog. You have his eyes, you know — always searching for something unseen."
Eliar smiled faintly, though there was weariness behind it. "If I do, I wish they'd find something useful."
The old man chuckled softly. "In time, they will. But be patient, boy. The world doesn't reveal its heart to those who demand it. Only to those who endure it."
Eliar exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sometimes I think I'm chasing shadows — or they're chasing me. Either way, I just want it to stop."
Bram laid a steady hand on his shoulder. "Don't run from what calls to you. The unknown doesn't always come to harm, Eliar. Sometimes it comes to remind."
The younger man nodded slowly, unsure whether he understood but somehow comforted all the same.
"Go home now," Bram said softly. "Your mother will be waiting. Greyhaven's nights can turn cold, and thoughts like these are best carried under warm roofs."
Eliar managed a small smile. "Thank you, Master."
"Thank me when you understand," Bram said with a wink, and turned away into the lantern glow. His figure vanished quickly among the dispersing crowd — just another old man swallowed by the celebration's fading light.
Eliar lingered, gazing at the cathedral's spires one last time. The stars had fully emerged now, countless and pale across the heavens. Somewhere in their shimmer, he almost thought he saw motion — as if one star flickered twice before vanishing entirely.
He whispered under his breath, "Father… when you said there's far more beyond them — is this what you meant?"
The night wind stirred, brushing against his cheek like a sigh. And in that quiet moment, something faint answered him — softer than the rustle of leaves, gentler than breath:
> "Don't stop there…"
Eliar froze, the warmth draining from his hands. For a moment, the sound was everywhere — in the bells, the murmuring air, the faint lilt of the violin far away. Then it was gone.
He swallowed hard and shook his head, forcing a weak laugh. "I'm hearing ghosts now," he muttered to himself.
And with that, he turned homeward — the lights of the festival glowing behind him like embers slowly dimming in the wind.
emotional and sensory depth.
The square was alive again. Lanterns swayed from every post, ribbons of gold and crimson fluttering under the chill wind. Music rose from a dozen corners — the pulse of drums, the ringing laughter of children, the scent of roasted chestnuts and honeyed bread drifting through the air.
Eliar walked slowly through it all, letting the sounds and lights wrap around him. After his talk with Bram, something heavy in his chest felt quieter. Perhaps it was the firelight, or the song, or simply the comfort of seeing life moving without him having to move it.
Near the western gate, a great bonfire burned bright, sending embers spiraling into the night sky like a trail of tiny stars. People were gathered close — merchants, guards, and wanderers alike — faces painted with warmth and wine. A little girl tugged on her mother's sleeve, pointing toward the flames as sparks danced upward. Eliar couldn't help but smile.
He found a seat on a low stone near the edge of the firelight. The warmth reached his hands, the crackle soothing the lingering unease from earlier. The crowd's laughter rose and fell around him — distant, fleeting, human.
For the first time that night, he allowed himself to simply be.
The music changed — slower now, the violin whispering a tune that seemed both hopeful and mournful. The bonfire flared; the wood split, sending another rush of sparks to the sky. Eliar's gaze followed them upward, until the stars blurred.
Then — faintly — a sound brushed past his ear. A low voice, nearly lost in the crackle of the fire.
> "Do you hear it again,seeker?"
Eliar froze. His breath caught.
He turned, scanning the faces near him — but no one was looking his way. The laughter carried on, unconcerned. Yet at the edge of the firelight, a shadow moved — quick, deliberate, and unmistakably human.
A man stood there, half-lit by flame. His face was turned away, hood drawn low. But something about the tilt of his head made Eliar's chest tighten — as though the stranger had been watching him for some time.
The voice — or maybe the memory of it — lingered in his mind. "Seeker…".
Eliar rose slowly. The fire's warmth seemed to fade behind him as he stepped away from the crowd. The stranger was already moving — slipping into the dark beyond the lanterns, toward the line of trees where the forest began.
For a heartbeat, Eliar hesitated. The festival lights flickered behind him, full of joy and song. Ahead lay only shadow.
And yet, his feet moved on their own.
He followed.
The music dimmed. The laughter died away. Soon the only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath his boots. The air grew colder, the smell of pine thick around him. Moonlight cut thin silver lines across the forest floor.
Something was wrong — he could feel it. The forest was too quiet, too still, as if the night itself were holding its breath.
"Who are you?" he called softly. His voice came back to him in a whisper.
No answer.
He stepped forward again — then stopped.
A figure stood a few paces ahead, at the edge of a clearing. Cloaked, motionless. The hood lifted just enough for a glimpse of pale skin — and eyes that seemed to reflect no light at all.
The cold deepened suddenly, biting through his clothes. The bonfire's warmth felt like a distant dream.
Eliar tried to speak, but his throat tightened. Every instinct screamed to run — yet his body refused to move.
The figure took a single step toward him.
The forest seemed to bend, the shadows stretching.
Eliar's breath left him in a sharp exhale.
Then — silence.