Rowan dreamed of finding the seven Unity Koro and ruling all of Althoria. But first, he had to get his hands on that honey bun. Right now, destiny could wait. The last pastry at the Harvest Festival was calling, and Rowan wasn’t about to miss out. He tore down the hill, the wind chasing him like a jealous rival, while the wheat fields thundered in golden applause.
From the top of the hill to the valley below, the town of Zyranth bloomed with color and sound. Ribbons in every shade fluttered from the rooftops. Painted banners swayed across the cobblestone streets. Children darted between vendor stalls, their cheeks streaked with green and gold, their laughter weaving into the air like bright music. Beneath the branches of the old eldertree, fiddlers played warm, wobbly tunes that danced through the square.
Rowan leapt over a crooked stone wall and landed beside a cabbage patch, sending a startled chicken bursting into the air.
“Sorry, Meryl!” he called, skidding past the gardener’s gate. She shook her trowel after him, muttering something he didn’t wait to catch.
The scents of roasted nuts and cinnamon pears wrapped around him as he entered the market. He ducked under a drying line strung with embroidered towels, dodged a goat chewing on someone’s laundry, and splashed through the fountain’s edge. On a carved bench nearby, three elders watched with amused smiles, steam curling from the teacups in their hands.
Rounding a corner, Rowan’s boots slid on the cobblestone. A basket of pearfruit teetered dangerously beside a stack of bright orange festival barrels. He lunged, steadying it just in time.
“Please tell me you saved me one,” he panted.
Behind her stall, the baker’s wife stood with her arms crossed and a playful look in her eyes. Her headwrap shimmered with silver thread that caught the breeze like tiny sparks.
“Saved you one? You’re lucky I didn’t trade it to the storyteller from Fenshadow. He pays in tales and good ones, too.” She teased.
“I’ve got tales,” Rowan said between breaths. “Most involve falling off rooftops or almost getting eaten by goats.”
She laughed, lifting a linen cloth to reveal a golden honey bun still warm from the oven, wrapped in a green leaf. The smell made Rowan’s stomach growl loud enough for both of them to hear.
“Happy Harvest Festival, troublemaker,” she said, placing it in his hands.
Rowan accepted the honey bun as if it were a royal gift.
“One day, you’ll owe me a real story,” the baker’s wife replied, tapping his forehead with the tip of her wooden spoon.
“Deal,” he said through a mouthful. The honey bun was still warm from the oven, golden and soft, its honey-saffron sweetness curling through the air. A faint floral note followed, melting on his tongue like sunlight dripping through amber.
Rowan slipped behind a stack of wooden crates and glanced upward to his favorite rooftop in all of Zyranth. Perched above the spice merchant’s crooked shop and tucked in the shadow of the towering clocktower, its sloping tiles dipped toward the village square like the sail of a ship leaning into the wind.
He set his hands on the ivy-covered trellis, as it groaned softly under his weight, but Rowan knew every safe foothold and every sturdy grip. He climbed fast, dodging loose stones and brittle leaves. A startled pigeon burst skyward with a flurry of flapping. Once he reached the top, he swung his legs over the ledge and landed on the sun-warmed tiles with a light tap.
And there she was, stretched across the rooftop like it belonged to her. One boot dangled lazily over the edge, the other tucked under her knee. A stick of candied ginger rested in the corner of her mouth, its sugar flickering in the light. Beside her, a royal cloak lay in a careless heap.
Elyndra, the Princess of Zyranth.
Daughter of King Elyndor.
Heir to the crown, though she had little interest in wearing it.
Trained in the elegance of ballroom turns and the precision of battle plans.
Raised on tea ceremonies, ancient prophecies, and endless expectations.
And right now? She was doing none of those things. She was watching the slow drift of clouds, her eyes distant and calm, waiting for Rowan to arrive.
“You’re late,” Elyndra said, still watching the clouds.
“You’re early,” Rowan replied, dropping onto his back beside her with a soft thump.
“I’ve been here twenty minutes.”
“You live in the palace. That’s not fair.”
At that, Elyndra finally turned her head. The last streaks of sunlight caught in her golden hair, setting it ablaze like a crown of fire. One eyebrow arched, graceful and sharp, the kind of expression only a lifetime of royal tutors could perfect.
“You should’ve seen Meryl’s face when I jumped her fence,” Rowan said, smiling from ear to ear. “Feathers went flying everywhere.”
A quick snort escaped her before she could stop it. She straightened immediately, rolling her shoulders back and clearing her throat with the drama of someone announcing a royal decree.
“One of these days,” she said, “You’re going to trip over a cow, and everyone will remember you in song for all the wrong reasons.”
“Better than showing up late to your own royal banquet,” Rowan teased, giving her arm a light nudge with his shoulder.
Elyndra rolled her eyes. “I was barely late.”
Their laughter faded into the evening breeze. The rooftop spread out around them like their own private world, high above Zyranth. Lanterns swayed gently on strings, spilling warm light over windows and doorways. Down near the pond, tiny bursts of fireworks snapped against the dark, scattering like runaway stars. The air carried the rich scent of roasted nuts and sweet baked apples, drifting up from the festival below. Above, the sky had deepened to a rich velvet blue. One by one, stars shimmered into view. Then, a single streak of light shot through the sky, and then, it was gone.
Elyndra reached behind her cloak and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped present. The silk was green, tied with a silver ribbon that caught the last light of day and shimmered like water.
“I brought you something,” she said.
Rowan was so surprised his eyes grew wide as he stared at the gift. “Wait, that’s for me?”
“Obviously.” She placed the present in his hands with a mock sigh. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“Why?” He asked as he held the neatly wrapped gift carefully, as if it might disappear into thin air.
Elyndra leaned back on her palms, aiming for casual, but her gaze stayed fixed on him. “Because I heard a little rumor.”
Rowan froze mid-breath. “What kind of rumor?”
She tilted her head, one eyebrow rising. “The kind where a certain someone is leaving to chase seven legendary Koro and crown himself King of Althoria.”
His eyes dropped to the gift resting in his lap. His fingers curled slightly against the silk. “I was going to tell you.”
“I figured,” she said softly. “Not exactly the best-kept secret. You’ve asked Marlow about travel cloaks four times this week.”
Rowan rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess I’m not as sneaky as I thought.”
“Or prepared.”
“Hey, that’s not fair!”
“You don’t have a map. You don’t have supplies. You don’t even have a naru.”
He straightened, puffing out his chest. “But I have boots.”
She gave him an unamused look.
Rowan grinned and lifted one leg, giving it an exaggerated shake.
Elyndra snorted before catching herself, then sighed like a queen tolerating the antics of a jester. “You’re unbelievable.”
He shrugged. “You know me, I’ll figure it out as I go. That’s kind of my style.”
They both laughed, but this time the sound lingered for only a moment before fading into the cool evening air.
Elyndra nudged the present with the tip of her boot. “Well? Open it already.”
Rowan slowly untied the ribbon, as though the present might vanish if he rushed. He peeled back the silk to reveal a deep emerald green cloak, smooth as river stone, with a weight like a single feather. Silver thread traced the seams in lines so fine they caught the lantern’s glowing light in flickers, like dew on a spider’s web. The fabric seemed to hum faintly under his fingers, not quite magic, but close.
“It’s enchanted,” Elyndra said, her voice quiet. “Old palace work. It changes with the weather, warm when it’s cold, and cool when it’s hot.”
Rowan held it up to the sky, and the wind rushed through, setting it billowing like a sail ready to carry him away. He took off his old, frayed cloak and pulled the new one on over his shoulders.
It settled over him perfectly, as if it had been waiting for him all along.
With a flourish, he turned to face her. “How do I look?”
“Like someone who’s going to lose that in a week,” she said, smirking.
“I will not,” Rowan declared. “In fact, I’ll wear it when they crown me King of Althoria.”
They laughed again, but the sound didn’t stay. It drifted up into the twilight like smoke, fading until the rooftop was quiet once more.
Elyndra shifted, her eyes sliding toward him. “So,” she asked gently, “when are you leaving?”
Rowan leaned back on his elbows and gazed at the stars. “First thing in the morning,” he said. “I’ll leave quietly, before anyone wakes up.”
Elyndra arched an eyebrow. “You? Quiet? That’ll be the day.”
“I’ll try,” he said with a grin. “But I’ll probably knock over a barrel. Or scare someone’s goats.”
He laughed, though the sound came out softer than he’d meant. Then he pushed himself upright again, just as the thump of drums began to roll through the rooftops.
Elyndra tilted her head. “Sounds like the Festival is starting.”
Below, the village square glowed like a lantern. Strings of light swayed over the crowd, casting soft golden halos on the villagers as they drifted toward the food stalls in small, happy clusters. Voices mingled with the clink of plates, and the scent of roasted vegetables and spiced bread curled upward into the cool night air.
“Want to go down there before we miss it?” Rowan asked, peering over the edge.
Elyndra brushed her hands against her cloak and nodded. Together they climbed down the ivy-wrapped trellis, boots tapping softly against the wood, and stepped into the warm, bustling heartbeat of the festival. Laughter rippled around them as a man piled a tall stack of logs and branches at the center of the square.
A torch sailed through the air and struck the base. With a deep whoosh, the bonfire roared to life. Sparks swirled into the night like a thousand golden fireflies, some popping overhead with tiny snaps.
Near the largest fire, a figure stepped onto the stone platform reserved for festival speeches and long-winded wedding toasts. Rowan squinted his eyes against the flicker of flames. The man’s coat was long and weathered, patched with scraps of fabric in mismatched colors, each stitched by hand.
Elyndra couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “That’s a Lorewalker.”
Rowan turned to her. “I thought Lorewalkers were just storytellers.”
“They’re more than that,” she said quietly. “My father met one once. They travel between kingdoms, collecting ancient relics, lost history, and sharing stories.”
Something in Rowan’s chest sparked to life. His legs moved before he’d decided to follow.
Elyndra groaned and went after him. “So much for a quiet evening.”
He flashed her a quick grin. “Maybe he’ll share something I need to hear before I leave tomorrow.”
They wove through the crowd, slipping past food stalls and ducking under strings of lanterns glowing like small fire-lit moons. Gradually, the plaza hushed. Musicians lowered their instruments and dancers stopped mid-step.
The Lorewalker stood beside the roaring fire. The flames painted restless shadows across his patched coat. He lifted a hand, not to command, but as if he were opening a door.
“I bring a common tale from the old world,” he said. “The story of a king who ruled for a thousand years and then vanished without a trace.”
“They called him the Great King of Althoria,” the man went on. “He ended the wars. He calmed the wildlands. He wore a crown, not of gold or jewels, but of seven ancient relics.”
“Unity Koro!” someone shouted from near the cider cart.
The Lorewalker stepped closer to the fire, and the light flared, revealing a jagged black crown stitched across the front of his coat.
“The King brought peace to every land,” he said. “Not with armies, but with understanding and compassion. Not with fear, but with courage. They say he could calm storms with a word and settle quarrels with a glance. Under his reign, the kingdom flourished.”
He paused, looking up at the stars. A breeze whispered through the square.
“And then,” he said, “he vanished. No farewell. No battle. No grave.”
The square held perfectly still. The fire popped once, scattering a brief rain of sparks into the night. All around, eyes stayed fixed on the Lorewalker, waiting for the next part of the story.
“All he left behind,” the Lorewalker said, “was a single line, carved deep into the throne: The crown shall belong to the one who unites the Seven Unity Koro.”
As the Lorewalker paused, the words seemed to hang in the air, curling through the night like smoke. Then, with a deep breath, he continued.
“They say whoever gathers all seven Unity Koro will shape the land to match their heart. Rivers will change their course, mountains will rise or fall, and even kingdoms will follow their command. To some, it is a promise of peace. To others, a shadow of ruin waiting to fall.”
His gaze drifted slowly over the crowd, farmers with hands calloused from the fields, merchants in aprons dusted with flour, children perched high on their parents’ shoulders. Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes stopped on Rowan.
And Rowan felt as if the Lorewalker could see straight through him, not just his face, not just his thoughts, but deeper. Down to the secret dreams he never dared say aloud. The ones that burned like embers in his chest.
“Of course, there are those who say the story’s only a bedtime tale,” the Lorewalker went on, his voice softening. “A legend for long winter nights. A dream for children who wish to be kings.”
He stepped fully into the firelight, the glow painting every fold of his patched coat. “But dreams,” he said, “are where all great journeys begin.”
With a shift of his cloak and a bow of his head, which felt more like a farewell than a performance, he turned away from the bonfire. “That is the story I carry tonight.”
And then he walked into the shadows. His boots made no sound on the stone. The plaza stayed frozen. No applause. No chatter. Even Rowan’s thoughts scattered like startled birds.
Beside him, Elyndra leaned in. “So,” she whispered, “still think this whole king thing will be easy?”
Rowan didn’t answer. Something inside him vibrated, tight and restless, like a storm trapped inside a glass jar. It wasn’t quite fear. It wasn’t quite excitement. It was more. Before he could stop himself, he was already on his feet. “I’m going to find the Unity Koro,” he shouted, “and become the next King of Althoria!”
Every head in the square turned. A child dropped their sweetbread with a soft plop. A woman nearby gasped so hard she lost her loaf of bread entirely. Even the fire gave a sudden pop. At the edge of the crowd, the Lorewalker stopped mid-step and slowly turned. His gaze settled on Rowan, who still had one arm raised awkwardly in the air.
“What do I do?” He thought, as his heart hammered so hard it rattled his chest.
Run?
Hide?
Make a clever joke?
Pretend I was stretching?
But it was too late; every pair of eyes in the crowd locked on him.
Elyndra groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, stars. Rowan. You didn’t.”
The silence stretched until somewhere in the back, an old farmer let out a chuckle. “Well, someone’s got guts.”
“He doesn’t even have a Naru yet, does he?” came a voice from the left.
“Maybe he’s hoping a Koro will fall out of the sky,” another joked.
Laughter rolled across the plaza, light and teasing. A woman clapped him on the shoulder as she passed. “Dream big, boy. But you’ll need better boots if you’re walking into legend.”
The Lorewalker didn’t join the laughter. He stood still and stared at Rowan. Then, with a single nod, he acknowledged him. The gesture struck Rowan like a spark to dry kindling. By the time he blinked, the Lorewalker was gone.