The heavy wooden door groaned as it creaked open, its rusty hinges whining like a tired flute. The sound wandered into the dark beyond, echoing through the silence. Rowan peeked inside first, his fingers clutching the doorframe.
Bjorn leaned over Rowan’s shoulder. “You sure this is the place?”
Rowan swallowed hard. “Yep. Definitely the place. Well… probably. I think.”
Bjorn arched an eyebrow. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”
Rowan lowered his hood. “We came to find answers. Only one way to get ’em.”
Bjorn crossed his arms. “Then you go first. You’re the one with the wind power.”
Rowan shot him a look.“You’ve got the giant axe and the mighty warrior dreams. Shouldn’t you go first?”
Bjorn gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well played.”
They both stepped across the threshold. The instant their boots touched the floor inside, the door slammed shut with a BANG, and both boys spun around in surprise.
Bjorn gripped his axe tighter. “Well… no turning back now.”
The air inside was cool and carried the musty scent of old paper, mixed with the aroma of dried herbs. Above them, crooked chandeliers swayed faintly, their cobwebs trailing down like ghostly curtains. All around, towering shelves stretched toward the ceiling, crammed with scrolls, cracked leather books, and teetering stacks of journals that looked like they might come crashing down if someone so much as sneezed.
Above them, hundreds of wind chimes swayed as if stirred by an invisible breeze. Their soft notes overlapped in gentle harmony, filling the air with a sound like distant whispers drifting through the dark.
Bjorn shifted uneasily. “This place gives me the creeps.”
A candle flickered nearby, and he flinched. “Nope. Don’t like this one bit.”
Tap… tap… tap. Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed down the dark hallway, each one a little louder than the last.
Bjorn froze, his hand sliding toward the axe on his back. “Please tell me that’s just the building settling.”
Rowan swallowed hard, his whisper barely audible. “Nope. Those are footsteps.”
Both boys stood frozen in place, their eyes locked on the shadows ahead, waiting for whatever was about to step out.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. It didn’t walk so much as it glided. Feathers cloaked its body, glowing white that melted into soft blue, like frost catching moonlight. Its long neck curved with quiet grace, and in the flicker of candlelight, its eyes shone with a calm, gentle blue.
Rowan’s jaw dropped. “Wha, whoa…! What is that thing?” His voice wobbled between awe and panic, like his brain couldn’t pick a side.
Bjorn cleared his throat and stepped forward bravely. “Ahem. Uh… hey! Is this… Ashmere Hold?”
The creature’s feathers trailed behind it like ribbons of mist, swirling gently with every gliding step. Its shape was part crane, part ostrich, and part something far more otherworldly. It tilted its head in quiet study, glowing eyes resting on the boys. Then, without a sound, it turned and drifted deeper into the hall, as if beckoning them to follow.
Rowan leaned toward Bjorn. “I think it wants us to follow.”
Bjorn snorted. “Or maybe it wants to lure us into a giant monster’s stomach.”
Rowan smirked. “Guess I’ll save you again if that happens.”
Bjorn rolled his eyes and gave him a shove. “Fine. You first, your majesty.”
Rowan stumbled forward with a flail. “Hey! Heroes are supposed to get dramatic speeches, not a shove in the back!”
Bjorn grinned. “Consider it… motivational support.”
The creature paused mid-step, turned its long neck, and blinked slowly at them.
Rowan lit up with a grin. “See? Friendly!”
Bjorn let out a long sigh and adjusted his grip on his axe. “Fine. But if that thing turns into a shadow beast, I’m throwing you at it and running for the hills.”
Rowan’s grin vanished in an instant. “Wait, what?!”
The bird gave a gentle coo, almost like their bickering amused it, then glided ahead into the winding stone corridors. With each step of its talons, the floor bloomed with a faint shimmer of light, bright enough to guide their way forward, but fading back into shadow the moment they passed.
Rowan leaned closer, whispering, “What do you think it is?”
Bjorn stroked his chin, eyes narrowing in exaggerated thought. “Clearly… a ghost. A magical, feathery ghost with glowing feet.”
Rowan blinked. “That’s literally just the bird.”
Bjorn shrugged. “And yet, I remain correct.”
Rowan let out a shaky laugh, the sound scattering nervously against the stone walls. The bird came to a halt before a tall wooden door, its surface worn with age. Without a sound, the creature sidestepped, dipped its head low, and stood waiting, as if inviting them forward.
Rowan slowly shuffled forward, his hand hovering over the cold iron knob. The silence stretched so thin it felt ready to snap. Even the floorboards beneath him offered only the faintest creak. He tightened his grip and twisted. The door swung open with a long, weary groan, like an ancient tree bending under the wind.
The room beyond was perfectly round, its curved walls lined with shelves that sagged under the weight of scrolls and leather-bound books. Jars crammed with brittle quills and dried ink crowded every corner. The air smelled sharp. Like old paper and melted wax, cut with something sour, almost like onions left too long in the sun.
Bjorn stepped up beside him, his axe resting easily across his back. He quickly glanced around the room, then gave a short nod. “Alright… no skeletons. That’s already a win in my book.”
In the center of the room stood a lone figure with his back turned. A long gray cloak trailed just above the floor, swaying faintly in the draft. His shoulders curved forward as his hands moved with deliberate care, unrolling a sheet of parchment so old it looked as though it might crumble to dust beneath his fingers.
Rowan cleared his throat. “Um… hello?”
The man gave no sign he’d heard. His cloak hung still, shoulders bent over the fragile parchment.
Rowan shifted on his feet, then tried again, edging a little closer. “Sorry to, uh… interrupt. We didn’t mean to barge in.”
At last, the man set the scroll aside and turned. Deep lines marked his face, worn like weathered stone, and his beard flowed long and silver, catching the light like frost in winter. For a moment, he only regarded them in silence. Then, slowly, he dipped his head, as though greeting someone he had long expected.
“You arrived sooner than I expected,” the man said. His voice was quiet, carrying through the domed chamber like a whisper drifting on the wind.
Rowan blinked. “Wait… you know who I am?”
The man looked up. “Rowan of Zyranth. The wind carries more than leaves and clouds. Sometimes it carries names.”
Bjorn stepped forward, his hand hovering near the haft of his axe. “Yeah, well… that’s creepy. How do you know that?”
The man’s mouth curved with the faintest smile. “And you must be the warrior from Mossmere. Your footsteps are loud, but your heart is steady.”
Bjorn scowled. “Loud? I’m not loud.”
Rowan snorted. “Kind of are.”
“Am not,” Bjorn muttered, crossing his arms with a huff.
The man stepped away from the table, his cloak brushing lightly across the floor. He stopped just a few paces before them and dipped his head in a slow, respectful bow.
“I am Sorin,” he said. “Keeper of Ashmere’s memory and historian of forgotten things.”
He motioned toward the circle of cushions on a deep blue rug. “Come, sit. You must be tired after such a long journey.”
Rowan hesitated, but when Bjorn gave a careless shrug, they followed Sorin across the cool stone floor to the circle of cushions.
Just then, the bird that had led them appeared, gliding soundlessly into the chamber. Its feathers shifted between deep and brilliant blues, each step leaving a faint shimmer of light. At last, it perched near the wall behind Sorin, its calm eyes watching with quiet patience.
Rowan pointed. “What exactly is that?”
Sorin turned with a soft smile, the kind one gives to an old friend. “That is Tetra, a frost phoenix. One of the last of her kind.”
Bjorn’s jaw dropped. “A phoenix? But aren’t those supposed to be on fire?”
Sorin shook his head gently. “Tetra was born from snow and sky. Her flames are winter itself, made of cold light, soft wind, and ice older than the mountains.”
Rowan’s eyes widened in wonder. “She led us through the Hold, like she already knew where we had to go.”
“She did,” Sorin answered, his eyes warm with secret knowledge. “Tetra sees beyond what we can see. She shows the way to travelers who step onto forgotten paths.”
Tetra blinked slowly, then nestled her beak beneath her wing. A gentle coo drifted out, clear and light, like snow falling on a quiet morning.
Bjorn grinned, whispering, “Alright, I’ll admit it. That’s pretty awesome.”
Sorin’s expression softened. “Ashmere Hold was once a sanctuary for dreamers,” he said. “Scribes, seekers, and stargazers gathered here, chasing truth instead of treasure. Their voices may have faded with time, but the Hold still remembers.”
The words drifted through the chamber, then Sorin’s gaze settled on Rowan.
“I remember your father.”
Rowan gasped, his chest fluttering as his heart raced. “You… you knew my father?”
Sorin’s gaze deepened, his answer carrying the weight of memory. “I did. Eight years ago, he stood right where you are.”
His gaze drifted slowly across the chamber, as if old memories stirred in every shadow. “There was a fire in him,” Sorin said softly. “Not a wildfire that destroys, but a steady flame, alive with purpose. He came here on a storm-tossed night, rain pouring from his cloak, carrying nothing but a worn satchel.
Rowan sat forward, listening as if the world had gone silent around them.
“He stayed here three days,” Sorin said softly. “He read the old scrolls, wandered the halls, and asked about the Unity Koro. But it wasn’t power he sought. He was searching for something greater. He was searching for hope.”
Rowan’s eyes widened. “Hope?”
Sorin’s nod was slow, heavy with meaning. “He believed the Unity Koro held more than stories. He thought they carried the power to heal. To fix what others said could never be mended. He never said who he wished to save, only that someone he loved was fading, and time was slipping away.”
Rowan froze. His thoughts tumbled, scattered like leaves in a rushing storm.
That was why he left.
Not because he stopped caring.
Not because he gave up.
Because he was trying to save her.
It had never been for fame. It had never even been for himself. He had been trying desperately to save Mom.
The story Rowan had carried all these years, of a father chasing glory, crumbled to dust. His fingers curled tight in his lap. He had imagined his father in many ways: fearless explorer, daring seeker, a hero from the old tales. But now, the truth settled over him like a weight, quiet and unshakable.
He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, but the tears only smeared, turning the edges of his vision into shifting light.
Why hadn’t his father said goodbye?
Why had he gone alone?
Maybe he thought he had to.
Maybe he thought he’d come back.
Something stirred inside Rowan, faint but steady, like a spark flickering to life in the dark. His father had once believed the Unity Koro could mend what others had broken. And now, here he stood in the very same place, chasing the same crowns of legend. Yet the pull in his chest was different. He wasn’t only searching for answers anymore. He wanted to reunite Althoria.
For so long, he had imagined his father as only a shadow in a story. But now he could picture him, standing in this very room, reading these same scrolls, speaking with Sorin. It was as if a thread had been tied between them, pulling past and present together.
Beside him, Bjorn sat unusually quiet. For once, he didn’t break the moment with a joke. Instead, he shifted closer and placed a steady arm around Rowan’s shoulders. The simple weight of it grounded him, saying more than words ever could.
Sorin’s eyes grew distant. “He left before the fourth dawn,” he murmured. “Said the trail would vanish if he waited too long.” His voice softened, carrying the weight of years. “I watched him walk into the mist, heading west, and I never saw him again.”
Rowan’s hand clenched tighter. “Do you think…” His voice caught, then steadied. “Do you think he found one of the Unity Koro?”
Sorin sighed through his nose. “I cannot say for certain. But I told him then what I will tell you now. I believe the Unity Koro of Ardentia rests at the very top of the Stormreach Peaks.”
Bjorn sat up straighter. “Stormreach?” His brow furrowed as he tried to recall the stories. “Isn’t that place cursed or something?”
Sorin smiled. “Not cursed. Only misunderstood. The storms there never rest, and the wind howls like a living thing. Few dare to climb it, and fewer still return. But the old texts speak of something waiting at the summit, something old that stirs when the wind calls.”
Bjorn groaned and folded his arms tight. “Of course. Why can’t these things ever be waiting in a meadow or on a sunny hilltop?”
Rowan shot him a sideways look. “You don’t have to come, you know.”
Bjorn lifted one brow. “What? And let you get blown off a cliff without me? Not happening. I don’t care about magical crowns or spooky wind spirits, but I’m not letting you go alone.”
Rowan’s smile came easily this time, and a quiet warmth spread through his chest. “Thanks, Bjorn.”
Bjorn rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get mushy. I’ve already fought flying shadow monsters. Might as well add ‘freezing mountaintop adventure’ to my growing list of bad ideas. But hey, maybe I’ll finally rack up enough experience to become a proper warrior.”
From the corner, Tetra let out a soft, bell-like hoot, almost like she was chuckling at them. Sorin rose, brushing the dust from his sleeves. “You have both come far, and your journey is only just beginning. But even heroes travel better on a full stomach. Come, let us find you something warm to eat.”