The Last Morning in Greyhollow

Chapter 19 - The Last Morning in Greyhollow

A thin mist draped Greyhollow, as if the world hadn’t fully awakened yet.

Sunlight had just begun to peek over the horizon, painting the sky with faint strokes of orange.

In front of a workshop, the rhythmic breaths of horses cut through the morning silence.

Teodor checked his final preparations, tugging at the saddle straps and tightening every buckle.

His leather-gloved hands moved with the precision of a seasoned adventurer. Occasionally, he patted his horse’s neck, communicating silently with his companion.

“Leaving now?” A deep voice came from behind.

Teodor glanced back. Trod stood with arms crossed, and Zio lingered slightly behind him, his calm gaze unreadable.

Teodor offered a polite, controlled smile.
“The road to Ravenhold is long. Best we leave while the air is still fresh.”

He stepped toward Zio, studying the boy with quiet respect. “Zio, I expect we’ll meet again.”

Zio simply nodded.

Turning to Trod, Teodor added, “Thanks for your hospitality. Don’t let your muscles stiffen from too much sitting.”

Trod grunted, his usual terse response. “Mind your horse. Don’t get lost at the crossroads.”

Teodor chuckled softly, the sound breaking the dawn’s stillness. With a fluid motion, he swung onto his horse. One tug of the reins, and they were moving.

He raised a hand in farewell before riding off, leaving a thin plume of dust that the mist swallowed almost immediately.

Greyhollow stirred. Life moved without urgency, yet in harmony. The rhythmic hammering from Trod’s forge echoed faintly, signaling metal meeting heat once more.

Hunters slung bows over their shoulders, stretching as they stepped into the dew-soaked grass. Farmers emerged onto the path, tools in hand, exchanging words about the weather and upcoming harvest.

Children’s laughter rang out from the yards, chasing each other or play-fencing with wooden swords in the muddy soil.

The world continued. But for Zio, this was the last quiet morning he would know for a long while.

The scent of dew evaporated, rising with the dust stirred by villagers. Sunlight grew warmer on exposed shoulders.

Inside Zio’s home, the room felt more crowded than usual. The aroma of Martha’s cooking filled the space, but tension hung over it.

Martha wrestled with a large pack, shoving in another bundle of dried bread.
“Auntie, it’s already too full,” Zio said finally.

“You don’t know how cold it is in the north, Zio!” Martha snapped without turning, folding extra woolen cloaks inside. “You’ll need energy.”

Zyon, seated silently in a corner, raised an eyebrow slightly, his presence filling the small room.
“He won’t starve, Martha. He’s strong. Trained. Probably more dangerous than the forest itself,” he said calmly.

Martha frowned but said nothing. She turned to Trod, who was sharpening a small dagger.
“Trod, won’t you tell him not to push too hard?”

Trod placed the dagger down firmly and met Zio’s gaze.
“Use your head. Don’t rely on muscle alone. If you hesitate, step back. If you are sure, don’t hesitate to strike.”

It was the longest advice Trod had ever given. Zio slid the dagger into his belt. “Understood, Uncle.”

Martha looked to Zyon with pleading eyes.
“May we escort him to your house at the foot of the mountain? I want to make sure his bed is suitable.”

Zyon shook his head silently.
“You may accompany us only to the edge of the northern Greyhollow forest. After that, the terrain will be too harsh for a carriage.”

Zio hoisted his pack, glancing around the house, sensing that this farewell would last a long time. Together, they stepped outside.

Trod’s horse-drawn carriage creaked along the rough path. Trod sat upfront as the driver, eyes scanning ahead. Martha fidgeted with her sleeves, glancing at Zio, her worry persistent despite his strength.

The village receded. Fields, gardens, and saplings gave way to tall, ancient trees. Only the creak of wheels and the pounding of hooves disturbed the silence. The forest grew colder, darker, and quieter. Sunlight pierced only in faint slivers.

The carriage halted. A massive tree root blocked the path, dense thickets ahead, impassable for wheels.

“This is as far as we go,” Trod said, pulling the brake.

Everyone dismounted. The forest’s edge pressed down around them. Mountain wind swept sharply, biting through their clothes.

“Zio…” Martha hugged him tightly. “Take care of yourself. Remember who you are.”

Zio returned the hug briefly. “Yes, Aunt.”

“He’s no longer a child. Almost thirteen,” Trod added, laying his rough hand on Zio’s shoulder. “Listen to your teacher. Ask little, produce much. Return whole.”

Zio nodded. “Understood, Uncle.”

Martha turned to Zyon.
“You’re going on foot? That could take weeks!”

Zyon’s gaze drifted to the snow-capped peak far above.
“I can teleport close to my home. It will save time.”

Martha’s eyes widened. “Then why not bring us too?”

“All magic has limits,” Zyon said firmly.
“Distance. Weight. Pre-marked locations. Only one person may travel with me.”

“How long until he is ready?” Martha asked, voice trembling.

Zyon studied Zio. “Depends on him. For a basic level, at least three to four years,” he exhaled. “If his body endures.”

Martha went silent, Trod sighed.

The carriage turned back toward Greyhollow. Martha’s tears dampened her cheeks.
“Farewell, Uncle… Aunt,” Zio called softly.

The shadows of the carriage dissolved into the forest’s hush. Zyon and Zio pressed onward.

A few steps in, Zyon slowed and stopped.
“Here.”

He placed his right hand on Zio’s shoulder. “Close your eyes.”

Zio nodded, adjusting his pack.

Zyon’s eyes glimmered with silver-gold patterns. A golden circle flared beneath them. The air trembled violently. Atmospheric pressure spiked, whipping dry leaves into a spiraling vortex. The light wrapped them both.

For Zio, the sensation was new, ear-piercing pressure, a world collapsing and reforming around him.

In an instant, they vanished, leaving only dust and the forest’s silence.

The sound of horse hooves and carriage wheels faded toward Greyhollow. Inside the carriage, Martha pressed a cloth to her face, wiping tears.

Trod held the reins firmly.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” he said quietly. “But this is Zio’s choice. We can’t take it from him.”

His eyes stayed on the road ahead.

“He was never meant to live without magic, or to spend his whole life in a workshop. One day, he’ll become something great... even if the world doesn’t realize it.”

Houses reappeared as Greyhollow returned to its usual rhythm. The forge roared to life again. Nearby, a wooden home remained quiet and closed, empty of children’s laughter.

A flash of light accompanied the two figures.

Zio’s feet hit the hard, icy ground. He staggered briefly, balancing. Opening his eyes, he froze.

The place was alien. The air was thin, sharp, cutting his lungs like countless fine shards of ice. Ahead stood a single, sturdy wooden cabin built against a towering cliff.

Ancient pines surrounded it, twisted by relentless snowstorms, and the only sound was the wailing mountain wind.

Zyon strode to the cabin door, his cloak flaring. He paused and looked back at Zio.
“Welcome, Zio. From today, your old world is gone. Here, you do not learn to live, you learn not to die.”

Zio gazed at the cabin, then the peak above. He felt no fear. Only a dark curiosity kindling in his chest.

He stepped forward, crossing the threshold of the cabin, leaving the first prints on the frozen ground.