Not a Return, But a Beginning

Chapter 17 - Not a Return, But a Beginning

The morning sun in Elen’shade never really burned.

Light slipped through the gaps in the old wooden walls, falling at an angle on the floor, splitting the drifting dust in two. No bells, no crowing roosters. Just the soft groan of wood as the cold of night slowly yielded to morning warmth.

Martha had been awake for a while.
She stood by the small hearth, stirring reheated soup. Thin steam rose, carrying a simple aroma, boiled roots, a pinch of salt, leftover meat from last night. Nothing fancy, but enough. Always enough.

On the bed against the wall, Zio shifted.
Not fully awake yet. Only his breathing changed, eyelids fluttered briefly, then still again. His body was weak, but no longer empty. Something had settled there now.

Martha cast a quick glance, making sure his breathing stayed steady, then returned to her stirring.

Outside, the creak of wood and the snort of a horse reached them. Trod was checking the reins on the carriage, his face stiff, more focused on the task than small talk with Martha’s kin at the doorway.

Beside Trod, the man stood.
Neither helping nor intruding. Hands folded over his staff, eyes distant, as if this place was only a brief stop.

Martha broke the silence.
“The soup’s not too hot,” she said softly, noticing his stir.

Zio’s eyes finally opened.
It took a few seconds for them to clear. Wooden ceiling, old beams, the smell of soup. He blinked, then turned slowly.

“Morning,” said Martha.
Zio swallowed. “Morning…” His voice was hoarse. He tried to sit at the edge of the bed; his head no longer spun as violently as yesterday, but his legs felt heavy, unstable. He stared at his own hands.

“Zio, don’t push yourself,” Martha said, bringing the bowl closer.
“The carriage will be ready in half an hour,” Trod added.

Elen’shade’s air warmed gradually.
Trod entered the house, his heavy steps echoing on the wooden floor. He looked at Zio for a moment, then wordlessly bent and lifted him into his arms.

“Uncle, I can walk…” Zio muttered.
“Keep your strength for the journey,” Trod replied. His voice was gruff, but his grip was steady and careful.

They headed to the waiting carriage.
They carried little, one cloth bag, a thin blanket, a few provisions. Life rarely demanded more.

Martha’s relatives stood at the doorway. No long hugs, no tears. Just a slight nod.
“Thank you for everything,” Martha said.
“Take care,” her relative replied.
“We will,” she answered.

No promises of return.

Trod placed Zio carefully on a pile of blankets.
Martha climbed in after, sitting close, one hand on his shoulder. The man got in last.

Trod snapped the reins, and the carriage began moving, leaving the calm of Elen’shade for the open road to Greyhollow.

Martha gave Zio a brief, meaningful smile. A small nod or a light squeeze of the hand was enough to give him a sense of security. Zio turned, returning the smile with eyes slightly brighter than before. Without words, they agreed: no matter how hard this journey would be, they were not alone.

The village receded slowly.

The carriage cut through the remaining mist winding around tree roots. Gradually, the lush, magical green thinned, replaced by harsher, drier hills.

The air shifted from herbal sweetness to dry earth and distant smoke from burning wood.

Zio watched the change through the carriage flaps. The world outside felt vast, intimidating.

Until now, his life had revolved around Greyhollow and the forest where he trained. Now, he felt like a speck of dust pulled by currents beyond his control. He could hear the wood wheels groan over stone, a monotonous sound somehow echoing the turmoil in his chest.

Each jolt of the wheels struck like a hammer against a seal in his heart, resonating with a faint, internal heat.

In the cramped carriage, silence weighed, broken only by the wheels against stone.

After a while, the man spoke.
“First, I owe you both an apology,” he said, looking at Martha and Zio.
“I’ll be honest, because I trust you. My name is Zyon. I’ve walked this world for over a hundred years,” Zyon said, his voice as calm as the wind. He didn't look for awe, only understanding.

Martha and Zio exchanged a glance, slightly startled.

The air in the small carriage chilled subtly. Without realizing it, Martha hugged Zio’s shoulder tighter, feeling the subtle pressure emanating from Zyon. Not explosive magic, but the authority that comes only with a lifespan beyond normal human limits.

Every word carried the weight of history, making Zio realize this journey to Greyhollow was not a return, but the first step toward something unavoidable.

“I will tell you everything from the beginning…” Zyon continued.

The wheels kept turning. Horses moved steadily. Wind stirred dry leaves as their conversation continued.

Elsewhere, a thin mist lingered as the dwarf stopped his horse at a fork.
The steps of three horses behind him slowed, not hesitation, just habit.

The main road ran south, toward the city and their next contract. The northern path narrowed, the ground harder, rarely traveled.

“This is where I part ways,” he said.
No objections.
The second dwarf nodded. The elf glanced briefly, exhaling softly. The human only smiled.

“Greyhollow?”

“Yes,” he answered shortly.

“Be careful,” the three called as they rode on.

The dwarf brushed dust from his beard, feeling the remnants of soot from past battles cling stubbornly. He looked at his companions, a group who had shared dangerous contracts, and felt a pull he couldn’t quite explain. Usually, he’d be the first to order a beer at the nearest inn, but this time, there was an old tug in his gut.

Not fear, but an instinct dwarves have when something massive shifts beneath the earth. He thought of Trod, his stubborn relative, who had settled in Greyhollow. It had been too long since he’d heard from there.

Memories of old conversations about family and past floated up, suddenly more important than gold coins in Ravenhold. Without words, he turned his horse, letting the dust erase his sudden departure.

The carriage jolted lightly as the road changed. The conversation continued.
Trod adjusted the pace. “We’ll reach by late afternoon.”

Martha hugged Zio tighter.
A while passed before Zyon spoke again.

“Now, the choice is yours. Zio, all sentient races, on land or sky, are born with separate mana cores and pools. The pool is the source, the core is the distribution engine.”

“Usually, one is born with a single core. You’ve realized you’re different. The world treats it as normal magic, but you… you cannot.”

“You weren’t born flawed. Your core was sealed by accident. Whether that was fate or coincidence.”

Martha glanced at Zio’s pendant.
“Yes, that pendant. But its covering effect is temporary. Inside you are two unbalanced cores.”

“You have two options: I can reseal temporarily, risking your life without magic until it breaks again, or you struggle to control both cores yourself. It will not be easy.”
“Both paths are steep, Zio. One leads to a quiet life under a seal; the other, a struggle for control that could cost you everything."

The carriage fell silent again.

Greyhollow greeted them with the smell of coal and cold iron. No elf gardens here, only rows of rough stone buildings and clotheslines crisscrossing narrow alleys.

The carriage slowed as it turned into a familiar, narrow street. Zio leaned out, and there it was. The peeling paint on his front door was exactly as he remembered, a grounding realization that while his world had fractured, Greyhollow remained frozen in time.

Some villagers glanced at the carriage, neither suspicious nor friendly, just acknowledging Martha with a brief nod.
“Long time,” said an old woman by the shop.
“Yes,” Martha replied. No further questions.

Zio felt strange. Standing in a familiar place, yet remembering nothing. The stones underfoot looked foreign.

A boy carried a basket of vegetables across the street, a small dog at his heels, barking softly. The smell of bread from a corner shop reached Zio, reminding him of simple, real mornings, the world now so far from his old home.

Trod stopped the carriage in front of the modest house.
He helped Martha down, then lifted Zio gently.

The house was cold but clean. Light filtered through a small window. Dust danced lazily.
Zio was laid on the bed. His body felt heavy. The world shrank. Sounds faded.

Martha sat beside him.
“Rest,” she said.
Zio nodded, too tired to ask anything.

Zyon stood at the doorway, looking toward the road, one that would lead someone else to this village. Not now, but later.

The world didn’t stop.
Some journeys began unnoticed.
Greyhollow, like always, simply waited.