Rowan and Bjorn followed Sorin into a round dining room nestled within mossy stone walls. Ivy-wrapped scrolls lined the shelves that curved above them like quiet guardians. In the center, a broad wooden table rested beneath a glass skylight glowing with twilight. A wave of scent rolled over them: herbs crackling in oil, mushrooms roasted dark and rich, onions sweetening the air, and golden potatoes carrying a buttery warmth.
Rowan’s stomach growled the moment he sat down. Bjorn didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a slice of bread and tore into it, crumbs spraying across the table.
“Hey!” Rowan chuckled, reaching for his spoon. “Don’t eat it all before we even start!”
Bjorn mumbled something with his mouth full, and Rowan only shook his head. He scooped up a spoonful of stew, and the first taste made him sink back in his chair with a blissful sigh. Heat spread through his chilled fingers, easing the ache in his legs, and even the tight knot in his shoulders began to loosen.
“This is amazing!” Rowan said between bites. The flavors seemed to swirl and dance, each spoonful warmer and brighter than the last.
Bjorn, meanwhile, was already working on his third slice of bread. He crammed the whole thing into his mouth at once, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Careful. You’ll choke.”
Bjorn waved him off, then his eyes went wide. He hacked and thumped his chest.
“See?” Rowan said, pushing a mug toward him. “Told you.”
Bjorn downed the cider in one go, then let out a thunderous burp that rattled the table. “Totally worth it.”
Rowan laughed softly, lifting his cup. The cider fizzed with spice, tickling his lips as he gulped it down,
HIC!
A wild burst of wind exploded from his mouth! WHOOOSH! An empty bowl rocketed across the table, and a tower of scrolls tumbled down, pages whirling through the air like startled birds.
Bjorn’s jaw dropped. “Whoa! What was that?!”
Rowan’s cheeks turned bright red. “I… I didn’t mean to! It just sorta happened!”
Bjorn slapped the table, laughing so hard his chair wobbled. “You hiccuped a wind blast!”
Even Sorin’s calm face cracked into a quiet smile, his shoulders shaking with amusement.
By the door, Tetra tilted her head, feathers rustling like she, too, was stifling a laugh.
Sorin brushed a few crumbs from his sleeve and spoke in his steady voice. “Well. That explains it.”
Rowan turned to him. “Explains what?”
“You’ve bonded with a Windkoro,” Sorin said. “But the power is new and you’re still learning to control it.”
Rowan glanced down at his trembling fingers. “Sometimes I can feel it,” he admitted softly. “Like a breeze beating with my heart. But I don’t know how to use it or how to stop it.”
Sorin rose from his chair. The firelight caught his cloak, setting it aglow like silver smoke. His eyes gleamed. “Then it is time you learned.”
Bjorn froze mid-chew, a hunk of bread still sticking out of his mouth. “Wait. You mean… right now?”
Sorin’s eyes softened with a smile. “The wind chooses its own moment to stir. Even by accident, it is never too soon to learn.”
Nerves fluttered in Rowan’s chest as he stood. He reached for his cloak, hesitated, then pulled it snug around his shoulders. Bjorn sighed dramatically, but not before swiping another hunk of bread.
Tetra hopped ahead, her feathers casting a faint glow across the dim stone walls. Sorin walked with slow, steady grace, his presence like a quiet current drawing them forward. Rowan and Bjorn followed close behind, the warmth of cider still lingering in their bellies.
“Where are we going?” Rowan asked, his voice echoing softly against the moss-covered walls.
Sorin glanced back. “To the courtyard. But first, you must understand what it means to be a Windnaru.”
He led them through an arched doorway into a hall of towering stained-glass windows. Colors shimmered in the dim light, spilling blues, greens, reds, and golds across the stone. Each window told a story: storms coiling over jagged cliffs, forests blooming in a rush of green, seas rolling beneath the moon, and fire twisting like a living serpent. At the center of every scene glowed a shining stone, each one a different color, each ringed with drifting spirals of light.
Sorin’s pace slowed, and he lifted a hand toward the glowing windows. “These are the Koro. Long ago, they were spread across Althoria by a force no one could see. Each carries the spirit of an element, and to bond with one is to hold a fragment of that ancient power.”
Bjorn pointed at a panel where flames coiled in red and gold. “So if I touched that fiery one, I’d get like, flamethrower powers or something?”
Sorin chuckled. “Not quite. When someone bonds with a Koro, they awaken a power called a naru. But the naru is never the same. It grows from the person as much as from the stone.”
Rowan’s gaze lingered on a pane where wind curled into colorful feathers. “So it’s not just fire or water powers,” he murmured. “It’s personal?”
“Exactly,” Sorin said with a nod. “A Windnaru might let one person glide on the breeze, while another vanishes in a gust. Another might speak to the birds overhead. The bond is shaped by who you are.”
Bjorn crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Okay, but what if someone collected more than one? You know, mix and match?”
Sorin came to a stop. “You cannot carry more than one Koro. The bond is too deep. If you reach for another, the first slips away, like a leaf carried off by a new wind.”
Rowan looked at Sorin. “So the old power just fades?”
“It returns to the world,” Sorin said softly. “The path of a Seeker is not about gathering as many Koros as possible. It is about mastering the one that has chosen you.”
Bjorn let out a low whistle. “Yikes. Sounds like a big decision.”
“Indeed,” Sorin replied. And with that, he guided them through the final archway.
The hush of the library slipped away as they stepped into the night air. A cool breeze brushed Rowan’s cheeks, carrying the faint scent of moss and stone. Above, clouds drifted slowly across a sky scattered with ember-bright stars. Ivy curled along the courtyard walls, broken statues leaned among tangled flowerbeds, and an owl’s hoot echoed through the stillness. At the center stood a wide stone platform.
Sorin pointed toward the stone platform. “Here is where your training will begin.”
Bjorn immediately flopped onto a bench, folding his hands behind his head. “You two go ahead. I’ll stay here in case you go flying into the sky.”
Rowan let out a shaky laugh. His fingers twitched at his side as he stepped onto the stone platform. The surface was steady beneath his boots. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “Time to figure this out.”
“Okay, Windboy!” Bjorn hollered. “Show us what you’ve got!”
Rowan lifted his hand, palm open to the night air. “Alright, wind… if you’re listening, just a little breeze. That’s all I’m asking.”
He waited. Nothing stirred. Rowan cracked one eye open, still nothing.
He coughed into his fist, then thrust his arm out with extra drama. “Wind Strike!” His shout rang against the courtyard walls.
POOF!
The gust erupted. Not forward, but backward, slamming straight into Rowan’s chest. With a startled yelp, he rocketed off the platform and crashed headfirst into a flowerbed. Petals burst into the air, fluttering down around him like confetti.
Bjorn shot up from the bench. “Whoa! You okay over there?”
Rowan sat up, leaves poking out from his hair like crooked antlers. “Yeah… just got wind-slapped by my own naru.”
Bjorn burst into laughter, nearly toppling over. “You looked like a flying turnip!”
Rowan groaned, brushing dirt and petals from his cloak. “Thanks for the encouragement.”
Sorin, who had been watching silently, folded his hands. His voice was calm, steady as a breeze. “You tried to command it. But wind doesn’t take orders. You must invite it. Let it move with you, not against you.”
Rowan’s shoulders straightened as he nodded, as the words sank in. “Invite it. Got it.”
Rowan stepped back onto the stone platform, slowly this time. He closed his eyes, planting his feet as the night breeze curled over his fingers and teased the back of his neck like a curious cat.
Softly, he whispered, “If you’re ready… I’m ready.”
For a moment, the courtyard fell silent. Then the edge of Rowan’s cloak lifted, as the faintest swirl of air stirred it. He cracked one eye open and grinned.
“Ha! Did you see that?” he shouted.
Bjorn squinted. “You moved what, a thread?”
Rowan rolled his eyes but lifted both hands. He spun once and flicked his wrist. This time, the breeze gathered in a quick burst, sending a handful of leaves tumbling upward into the starlight before they drifted back down like sleepy feathers.
“Whoa,” Rowan gasped. “That was kinda cool.”
Bjorn smirked. “Better. But you still look like you’re swatting invisible bugs.”
Ignoring him, Rowan centered himself. He blocked out every sound until only the whisper of the wind remained. He opened his arms as though welcoming an old friend. The air swirled around him in a playful rush, tugging at his sleeves and ruffling his hair. Three leaves lifted into the air, spinning in a slow, graceful dance before drifting gently back to the platform.
From the shadows, Tetra gave a low, musical coo. Her feathers shimmered faintly, as if in approval.
Bjorn’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, that one actually looked intentional.”
Rowan’s face lit with a grin. “I think it’s working!”
Bjorn bent down, plucked up a pebble, and smirked. “Time for the next test.”
“Wait, what?” Rowan started, but the pebble was already whizzing toward him. His eyes widened. He pushed his palm toward the pebble, and the wind snapped around him in a sudden twist, catching the pebble midair and whipping it back.
THUNK!
“OW!” Bjorn yelped, clutching his forehead. “You wind-punched me in the face!”
Rowan doubled over laughing. “You threw a rock at me!”
“I was helping you train!” Bjorn shouted, chuckling even as he rubbed the sore spot.
“You should’ve ducked faster!” Rowan shot back through his laughter.
Finally, Sorin stepped forward. “That’s enough for today.”
Rowan, still breathless from laughing, grinned and nodded. “I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Good,” Sorin replied, his tone sharpening. “Because one day, a breeze won’t be enough. You’ll need the storm.”
Rowan brushed the dust from his sleeves, though the grin refused to leave his face. He cast one last glance at the star-filled sky before following Sorin toward the archway. Bjorn gave the pebble near his boot a sheepish nudge, then followed after them, rubbing his forehead the whole way.
The quiet halls of Ashmere Hold stretched before them, their footsteps hushed against the ancient stone. Sorin guided them into a small study where strange objects gleamed on glass pedestals. A globe of water spun endlessly in midair without touching the jar that held it. Feathers were suspended inside a block of crystal as if caught in flight. A lantern glowed softly without a single flame.
But at the very center of the room stood a table draped in deep green cloth. Resting atop it was a brass compass. Its rim shimmered with etched patterns that curled like wind trails, and though the glass face bore the scratches of age, the metal caught the light like hidden treasure, daring someone to uncover it.
Sorin stepped aside and gestured with quiet reverence. “A gift,” he said.
Rowan’s eyes grew wide as he looked down at the compass. “For me?”
Sorin lifted his head. “This compass points to where fate pulls you to go, not to where you want to go.”
Rowan reached out carefully. The brass felt cool against his skin as he lifted it from the cloth. Inside, the needle spun lazily in silence before snapping to a stop, pointing firmly west.
“It does not follow maps,” Sorin explained. “It follows purpose. And sometimes, purpose is harder to trust than any trail.”
Bjorn tilted his head. “Sounds… kinda risky, if you ask me.”
Sorin gave a small smile. “Everything feels risky when you don’t know the path. But that is what makes it an adventure.”
Rowan turned the compass in his hands, then slipped it gently into his pocket. “Thank you. For everything.”
Sorin nodded once. “Fate brought you here for a reason. But what comes next is yours to choose.”
Rowan opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but Sorin was already tiptoeing down the dark corridor.
Their footsteps echoed through the halls of Ashmere Hold until they reached the great wooden door. It creaked open with a groan, and the crisp morning air rushed in.
“Where to next?” Bjorn asked, shading his eyes against the sunrise.
Rowan pulled the compass from his pocket. The needle spun once in a smooth, deliberate circle, then clicked into place, pointing due south.
Suddenly, a desperate, high-pitched scream rang out from the direction they were heading.
“Somebody help!”