They stepped into the village square. The cobblestones, polished smooth by countless footsteps, gleamed faintly in the fading light. A wooden toy lay on its side near the well, one wheel hanging by a splinter. A faded scarf clung to a broken fencepost, its threads dancing in the breeze. On a windowsill, a chipped teacup brimmed with rainwater. Rowan blinked. He swore he caught the scent of tea steeping.

Then they noticed him.

Beneath the bell tower, on a bench soft with moss, a cloaked figure sat as still as stone. His robe was deep gray and frayed at the edges where autumn leaves had gathered. 

Rowan slowed to a stop, tugging on Bjorn’s sleeve.

“Uh… is he alive?” Rowan whispered.

Bjorn cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey! Old guy on the bench! You alive, or should we find a shovel?”

The man’s head turned toward them as the air seemed to hush around them.

“I am Elarion,” he said softly. “A Lore Walker. I wander to forgotten places to listen… to remember… and to keep their stories from vanishing.”

Rowan edged closer. “Did you… know this village?”

Elarion lifted his gaze. “Hollowmere,” he murmured. “Once, these streets glowed with lanterns. Laughter spilled from every doorway. People from all over Althoria, merchants from the rivers of Thalassia, woodcutters from Mossmere, messengers from Stonehaven’s peaks. They gathered here, sharing stories by firelight. Some stayed the night. Others stayed a lifetime.”

Bjorn’s boots scuffled the cobblestones. “So… where did they all go?”

Elarion raised a hand toward the empty cottages. “One morning, the fog came. When it cleared later that day, Hollowmere was silent. Meals sat waiting on tables. Fences half-built. Doors left ajar. No signs of struggle. No trail leading away.” His silver eyes darkened. “Some whisper the Shimmer opened too wide and swallowed them whole.”

DING!

The bell rang overhead, and both boys flinched.

“The bell still tolls at sunset,” Elarion whispered, “though no hand remains to pull the rope.”

Rowan’s throat tightened. “But, how do you know all this?”

Elarion studied him, gaze piercing, as though Rowan were a story he had already read. “Why have you come here, child of the wind?”

Rowan stiffened. “You know about my naru?”

“I know the air follows you,” Elarion said softly. “And the wind does not wander without purpose. Tell me, what is it you seek?”

A breeze curled past Rowan’s cloak, nudging him forward like an unseen hand.

Rowan’s chest swelled. “I want to become the King of Althoria.”

Elarion’s eyes flickered, but not with surprise. His expression darkened. “Then you must move swiftly. You are not the only ones searching.”

Rowan’s pulse skipped. “You’ve seen others?”

“Whispers carry far,” Elarion said. “There are those who seek the Unity Koro not to unite Althoria, but to tear it apart. To open the Shadowlands. To twist power into a weapon.”

Bjorn clenched his fists. “Then we’ll just have to find the stones first.”

Elarion’s voice dropped lower. “Only the one who gathers the stones will shape what comes next. And the North… the North does not wait kindly for those unprepared.”

Bjorn glanced toward the northern path. “That’s where we’re going. The road north. Do you know what’s waiting for us there?”

“The road north is no road at all,” Elarion said. “Once it led to farms and skywatch towers. Now? The forest has swallowed it. Trails lost to bramble. Wayposts hidden in fog. And worse than the land…” His voice grew heavy. “…are the ones who walk it.”

Bjorn’s hand drifted to his axe. “Bandits?”

Elarion nodded grimly. “Robbers. Scavengers. Hunters of Koro. Some roam in packs. Some stalk alone. And not all of them wear human faces.”

Rowan’s skin prickled.

“Go forward only if you’re ready,” Elarion’s cautious voice warned.

Rowan clutched his cloak tighter. His heart felt heavy and light all at once. He looked at Bjorn and swallowed. “We’re ready.” 

Elarion looked up at the bell tower. “Then may the wind carry your courage.”

DING!

The bell gave a single, hollow chime. Rowan lifted his eyes to the tower. A sudden breeze swept the square, whirling leaves in little circles around their boots.

When he looked back, the bench was empty.