Departing Ardellon

The first morning after Baroness Lethia’s execution arrived without the toll of bells. Ardellon stood in silence, nursing its wounds beneath crumbling walls and shattered towers. Yet amid the ruins, life stirred again.

The children rescued from Lethia's secret prison emerged toward the morning sun. Its light rested on their wan faces—but now they walked without fear. In the square, Niran and Therran coordinated departures: some would return north to their villages, others would head west. Villagers remaining in Ardellon quietly prepared wagons, supplies, and arrangements. There was no festivity—only a resolute, shared purpose.

Lyselle observed from the steps of the ruined castle. The Nethra crystal that once hung at her throat now rested in a cloth pouch—its cracks irreparable. Still, she felt no emptiness. A deeper strength had grown within those broken fragments—steadfastness born of pain.

“This entire convoy sets out in an hour,” Therran said, approaching. “Some children will go north, others west. We’ve arranged escorts.”

Lyselle nodded. “You’re staying with them?”

“I’m no soldier,” he replied softly, “but they need someone they recognize. And… maybe I need time away from the shadows of Ardellon.”

Lyselle offered a wan smile. “You’ve done more than enough.”

Niran appeared from the old well, carrying water skins. Sweat dampened his brow, but his expression was light.

“I think this is the first time we’re leaving a place without being chased,” he said to Lyselle, smiling.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” she responded quietly. “We don’t know how long this peace will last.”

---

The journey back to the villages took two days. They passed through valleys once patrolled by Lethia’s guards—now empty, silent. The remnants of torture posts were torn down, burned, and replaced with white flags. The children softly sang as they walked—quiet melodies that pained and healed every heart in its path.

At the village gates, elders and parents greeted them with hugs, tears, and heavy silences. Some wept at their children's return. Others wept for those who did not come back.

Lyselle stood apart by a large tree near the home she once occupied before it all began. She watched the small village—leaving as an ordinary girl, returning as someone she could not yet define.

---

That night, a bonfire crackled in the village clearing. Not for celebration, but for remembrance. A gathering of grief and hope, a prayer for those lost—and for a future where no one must leave again.

Lyselle sat between Niran and Therran, speaking little and listening much. People approached, offering quiet words, small cakes, blankets, even handcrafted magical trinkets as tokens of gratitude. She accepted each with bowed head.

Yet her mind drifted.

She overheard whispers: talks of movement in the west, ominous signs from the Central Tower in Virelion, foreign forces camped near the capital, and rumors of magic beyond anything known.

“...they say this new magic can split time itself,” a man murmured.

“Not just time. Someone said it can seal a soul into a single stone,” a woman replied. “That’s no ordinary spell.”

Lyselle’s gaze sharpened.

Virelion—Baroness Lethia’s origin, the heart of the Tower’s power. If something was stirring there, then the chaos was far from over.

---

The next morning, before the sun rose high, Lyselle was ready. She wore a simple brown cloak that hid her battle scars, carried a small satchel, a short blade, and a modest staff—gifts from the children as keepsakes.

Niran approached quietly while she prepared provisions.

“You’re leaving?” he asked in a low, firm voice.

Lyselle nodded. “I don’t think it’s over yet.”

“You suspect Virelion?”

“Not just suspect—I’m certain. Lethia wasn’t the only one involved. The Tower won’t take long to fill the power void. And if they’re forging new magic… we must be the first to know.”

Niran took a breath. “You won’t return soon.”

“Not for a while,” Lyselle admitted.

“So who will—”

“You will, Niran,” she interrupted, meeting his eyes. “They will need someone who knows magic—and knows its limits. Someone not trapped by the old ways.”

Niran held his breath. “I’m still just a boy.”

“No,” she replied. “You’re one of the few who’ve lost everything and still choose to fight for others.”

---

Before she left, Lyselle stood in the village square as everyone gathered. She didn’t give a speech. She simply looked at the faces that witnessed suffering—and resilience. She bowed her head in mutual respect.

The children she’d saved ran forward, offering hand-carved stones inscribed:

“To the one who never gave up.”

Lyselle smiled, tucking one into her inner pocket.

Then she turned—and stepped forward.

Leaving the village. Leaving peace. Heading toward Virelion—the epicenter of power. Toward the hidden seat of magic that shaped the world from the shadows.

Her journey wasn’t over. But she no longer walked it as a frightened child. She walked as someone who challenged corrupt systems, rescued the unheard, and vowed to dismantle the injustices that remained.

From afar, the wind whispered. And that whisper carried a charge of change.

Lyselle was ready.