Bjorn charged down the trail, his boots thudding hard against the dirt. “Come on!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Rowan sprinted after him, lungs burning as the forest blurred past. Morning light scattered through the branches in flashes of gold and green. The path narrowed into twists and dips, forcing them into a single file. Then came another shout.

“Was that… a monster?” Rowan called, his voice ragged.

Bjorn didn’t answer. He only ran harder, as if chasing the sound.

The path dipped suddenly, and the trees gave way to a wide clearing. There, three tall figures circled a more petite figure. A girl stood at the center, gripping a wooden staff with both hands. Her fiery red hair fanned around her face, tied back with a faded bandana. A long green coat whipped at her legs, frayed and dusty at the edges. 

The men around her looked anything but friendly. One wore a cloak snagged with thorns. Another had a floppy hat stuffed with crooked feathers. The last leaned lazily on a bent staff, eyelids drooping like he might fall asleep where he stood.

Rowan skidded to a stop at the treeline. “Uh… maybe we should think this through?”

“Hey!” Bjorn stomped into the clearing, his voice booming like a challenge. “Pick on someone your own size!”

Rowan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, perfect. Who needs to think things through anyway?”

The bandits froze. Feather Hat spun around with a squeak in his voice, brandishing a rusty sword that looked better for chopping onions than fighting. “Well, well. More forest pests. You’re interruptin’ a very delicate operation, boys. Best turn around before things get messy.”

The girl didn’t flinch, though her arms trembled as she held her staff high.

Behind her, the big bandit stretched in a cavernous yawn. “Can we just grab the herbs and go? I skipped breakfast.”

“You always skip breakfast!” Feather Hat snapped. “Then you steal mine!”

“Borrow,” the big one corrected, scratching his belly with a sleepy grin.

Meanwhile, Thorn-Cloak slunk through the brush, leaves trailing along his ragged cloak. “Shoulda stayed quiet,” he muttered. “Now we’ve got two nosy brats in the woods.”

Rowan’s eyes darted between them. These weren’t ordinary bandits.

Bjorn planted his feet, his axe catching a ray of sunlight as he raised it. “Let her go. Now.”

Feather Hat gasped mockingly. “Oh-ho! Is that a threat, little axe-boy?”

Bjorn’s grip tightened, his voice increasing with intensity. “Not a threat. A promise.”

Then, with a dramatic whirl, Feather Hat threw out his arms. “Alright, boys! Time to show these woodland weeds what it means to cross the Banditleaf Trio!”

Rowan blinked. “Banditleaf… Trio?”

“I thought we were the Thornback Gang,” Thorn-Cloak mumbled.

“We talked about this!” Feather Hat snapped. “Banditleaf sounds cooler!”

“I liked Thornback,” the big one yawned.

“Quiet, Crumble!” Feather Hat barked. “Focus!”

With a wild yell, the trio charged.

The girl dove behind a mossy rock as Bjorn stormed forward. He barreled into Feather Hat, shoulder-first, and sent him tumbling headfirst into a bush with a satisfying whump!

Crumble lumbered up next, swinging his bent staff in a heavy arc.

Bjorn ducked, spun, and swept the giant’s legs out from under him. Crumble toppled with a ground-shaking thud.

“Too slow!” Bjorn teased.

From the side, Thorn-Cloak suddenly hurled a net of tangled vines. It cracked through the air with a sharp swish, but Bjorn rolled under and came up swinging his axe in a wide arc.

At the treeline, Rowan stayed frozen. His hands trembled, and then, he felt a faint pulse vibrate through his wrist and into his chest. The air curled around his fingers, brushing his skin as though the wind was waiting.

He raised his palm. “Alright… let’s give this a try.”

Rowan focused, reaching for that quiet pull he had sensed back in Ashmere, the hidden presence humming in the breeze. He thrust his arm forward, and a sudden burst of wind spiraled from his hand.

Leaves exploded skyward like startled birds. Twigs and petals whirled across the clearing in a dazzling spray, spinning faster and faster until the air seemed to come alive.

“Who started a leaf storm?!” Feather Hat sputtered, coughing as a twig stuck between his teeth.

“Not me!” Crumble shouted. “It’s the other kid!”

“Ya, it was him!” Thorncoat squeaked, pointing straight at Rowan.

Bjorn glanced over, his grin splitting wide. “Nice blast!”

“Duck!” Rowan shouted.

Bjorn dropped flat just as a marble zipped past his ear with a sharp crack, splintering into a tree trunk.

Feather Hat dove behind a fallen log, twirling his chipped sword with theatrical flair. “Alright, boys. No more fooling around. Time to mop these kids up!”

“I want a nap first,” Crumble groaned.

“No naps!” Thorncoat and Feather Hat barked in unison.

Bjorn lunged forward again. Roots snapped up across his path, but he jumped over them, rebounding off a tree trunk to swing back in at an angle. Feather Hat slashed in a wide arc, sparks flying as Bjorn’s axe clashed against the rusty blade.

The two staggered apart, glaring daggers, until Thorncoat whipped another net straight toward Bjorn.

Bjorn snatched a thick branch from the ground and smashed the net aside in a single swing. Then, he spun and slammed his shoulder into Crumble’s chest. The giant toppled into a mound of leaves with a heavy crash.

Rowan stepped into the clearing, eyes locking on Crumble as the big man staggered upright. He tossed a sack over his shoulder, muttering something about breakfast.

“Okay,” Rowan whispered. “This time… aim.”

He steadied his hand. The breeze gathered, curling tight like a bowstring pulled back, then snapped forward like a slingshot set free.

Whoooosh!

The gust slammed into Crumble’s chest and lifted him clean off his feet. He sailed backward like a startled goose and smacked into a tree with a rattling thump. The sack popped loose, bursting open in a shower of roots and herbs.

“Uuugh… my everything…” Crumble groaned.

Rowan’s jaw dropped. He had actually done it. The wind had listened.

“He’s a Windnaru!” Thorncoat gasped, pointing with both hands.

Feather Hat’s eyes bulged wide. “You didn’t tell me he had powers!”

“I didn’t know!” Crumble wheezed from the ground.

Bjorn slammed the handle of his axe into the dirt, his voice ringing across the clearing. “Still want to fight?”

The Banditleaf Trio froze, eyes darting nervously at one another.

“Retreat!” Feather Hat squealed. “Tactical retreat!”

They spun on their heels and bolted, only to trip over the same mossy log. All three went sprawling into a thorn bush.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow!” Their voices tangled together in a clumsy chorus. Finally, they scrambled out, limping and yelping as Feather Hat shouted over his shoulder, “We’ll be baaaaack!”

The clearing fell quiet again. Rowan lowered his hand. The last wisps of air faded from his fingertips as he stared at his palm, then at the tree where Crumble had landed.

Bjorn ran over, grinning ear to ear. “You did it! That last blast was perfect!”

Rowan exhaled slowly. A smile crept across his face. “I think… I actually aimed that one.”

“You did more than aim,” Bjorn said, giving Rowan a hearty slap on the shoulder. “You sent him flying.”

Rowan laughed. “Guess the Banditleaf Trio shouldn’t mess with a King and a Warrior.”

The bandits’ shouts had already faded into the trees, leaving only the rustle of branches and the cry of a distant bird. The clearing felt calm again, except for the girl crouched beside a mossy boulder, her wooden staff half-buried beneath a pile of leaves.

“Hey,” Rowan called softly. “Are you alright?”

She lifted her head, brushing a strand of fiery hair from her face. Dirt smudged her cheeks, and a tear split the elbow of her green coat, but her eyes glimmered with bold determination.

Bjorn stepped forward and offered a hand. She clasped it without hesitation, springing to her feet in one quick, graceful motion.

With a grunt, she slapped the dust from her coat. “By the tides, I owe ye both a mighty thankin’. Thought I was about to be forest stew if those blokes came any closer.”

Before either boy could reply, she marched right up to Rowan and pinched his chin between her fingers.

“Oi, hold still, lad. Just makin’ sure yer face didn’t turn inside out.”

Rowan blinked, startled. “Wait… what?”

“Bit o’ bruisin’ here,” she muttered, tilting his head from side to side. “Ye took a tumble, didn’t ye?”

Then she spun toward Bjorn, squinting at his arm. “And you. Scratch right there.”

Bjorn raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be fine.”

“Fine now, but not when it starts smellin’ like a crab trap,” she shot back briskly. Without waiting, she swung her worn leather satchel forward and began rummaging inside. 

She pulled out a squat green bottle, popped the cork with her teeth, and a foul wave of sour kelp, hot pepper, and something very much like old laundry puffed into the air.

Rowan gagged. “Ugh! What is that?”

“Healin’ brew,” she said brightly. “Bit o’ mint, pinch o’ sea-ash, splash o’ jellyroot. Smells like the bottom of a ship, aye, but it’ll fix what ails ye.”

Bjorn threw up both hands. “No thanks. I’m good.”

“Suit yerselves,” she replied, tucking the bottle back into her satchel. “But don’t come cryin’ when yer bones start squeakin’ like soggy driftwood.”

Rowan tilted his head, still trying to catch up. “Who are you, anyway?”

The girl straightened, then struck a dramatic pose. One hand on her hip, the other raised high as if she were about to cast a spell.

“Name’s Lyra. Healer, storm-hopper, seeker o’ rare greens. Born on the waves, raised by the wind, and loyal to no land but the Lark.”

“The Lark?” Rowan echoed.

Bjorn scratched his head. “What’s that supposed to be? A town?”

Lyra’s grin widened, her eyes gleaming. “Aye, the never-endin’ Lark. Sometimes it’s a sea, sometimes a lake, dependin’ on its mood. Sail for a season and ye still might not find the far shore. Me da always said it was a world all its own.”

She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Some days it’s calm as a catnap. Other days it’ll toss ye like a pancake on dragon day.”

“You grew up there?” Rowan asked.

“Right aboard the Wander’s Wish,” Lyra declared proudly. “Me ma brewed potions, me da sang to the waves, and I caught me first fish ‘fore I could even walk.”

Her gaze swept the towering trees and mossy stones around them. “Never seen woods so thick. Feels like wanderin’ through a kraken’s beard.”

Rowan laughed. “Yeah… you’re definitely not from around here.”

Lyra winked. “Not unless the Lark grew legs and hiked into the hills.”

Bjorn crossed his arms, giving her a long look. “So what were you doing out here all alone?”

“Huntin’ stormroot,” she replied, patting the satchel at her side. “Rare herb. Only grows where the wind’s thrown a tantrum. Good for fevers and for spirits that won’t sit still.”

She tilted her head back, her eyes focusing as if listening to something above the treetops. “Sailors say it sprouts where the air’s been wild. Heard whispers it grew in these woods, so I followed the breeze.”

Rowan looked down at his palm, remembering the rush of wind that had answered him. “The breeze…” he murmured.

Lyra’s gaze was already on him. Her brow arched, sharp and curious, as though she saw more than just a boy with messy hair and muddy boots. Slowly, she nodded toward the trees. “Didn’t expect to find a Windnaru tangled up with bandits.”

Bjorn grinned. “Well, he handled himself pretty well.”

“With a bit o’ help,” Lyra added, nudging Rowan’s shoulder. “That was a mighty fine gust, wind-boy.”

Rowan’s cheeks warmed as the three of them started down the winding path out of the clearing. He walked beside Lyra, his head buzzing with questions.

“So… what’s the Lark really like?” he asked.

Lyra arched a brow. “Didn’t I just tell ye?”

“You told me about sea dragons and stormroot,” Rowan said quickly. “But what’s it really like? Can people actually live on the water? Are the ships huge?”

Lyra laughed, scooping up a pinecone and tossing it into the brush. “Ye don’t describe the Lark, lad. Ye feel it. Like standin’ on a dock with the whole sky fillin’ your lungs.”

Rowan fell quiet, picturing it as they walked. After a moment, he pulled the compass out from his pocket and held it in both hands. The needle spun once, then steadied firmly west. “Still pointing west,” he murmured.

Lyra tilted her head. “And what’s this, then?”

“Oh, this?” Rowan held the compass out for her to see. “It came from a man named Sorin. He’s a historian at Ashmere Hold. Said it might help us find something.”

Lyra didn’t take it, but leaned close, her eyes fixed on the brass. Her fingers hovered just above it, as if it might whisper secrets if she touched it. “Me da had one just like this,” she said softly. “Before the sea turned mean.”

Rowan blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “What do you mean?”

“Lost it in a storm,” she said, waving her hand as though brushing the memory aside. “Didn’t think any were still floatin’ about. But that mark there…” She pointed to a faint scratch along the rim. “Same as his.”

Rowan turned the compass slowly in his palm. The notch was there, clear as day. He had never noticed it before. “You think this was really his?”

“Could be,” Lyra murmured. “Or maybe the sea’s just playin’ tricks again.” Her voice lifted as her gaze fixed on him. “But tell me this, lad. What are ye really doin’ out here? Just wanderin’ with the wind?”

Rowan glanced at Bjorn, who gave a sheepish grin.

“I’m looking for something,” Rowan said.

Bjorn chuckled. “More like a lot of somethings.”

Rowan’s voice steadied. “I’m searching for the Unity Koro. There are seven of them, one in each region of Althoria. Sorin believes one lies hidden in the Stormreach Peaks.”

Lyra whistled, her eyes bright with wonder. “Now that’s a tale worth singin’.”

Bjorn tilted his head toward her. “You should come with us. We could use a healer.”

Lyra let out a quick laugh. “Temptin’ offer, but I’ve got crooked paths to walk. Roots to gather. Folks waitin’ back home on me brews.”

She reached out and tapped the compass in Rowan’s hand. “This part of the story’s yours, wind-boy.”

With a final grin, Lyra turned and slipped into the trees. A ray of sunlight caught her fiery hair, flashing like a spark before the forest closed around her. A light, playful whistle drifted back through the branches, twining with the rustle of leaves until it faded into silence. Rowan stood listening, as if the forest had swallowed her song. Bjorn gave him a nudge and a grin, and together the boys pressed on.