Echoes of the Past

The mists had thickened outside, swirling above the rooftops of Vael, as if some ancient spirit sought to conceal the village from the gaze of the waking world. Inside the Elder’s stone hall, fire cracked and hissed in the hearth, and flickering light danced along blackened beams. Even gathered close, the villagers left a gap of respect around Eiran and Mira, as the two stood uncertain by the Elder’s side. The hush was held tight by fear—a new, raw thing that shivered in the voice of every child, and drew sharp lines into every adult’s face.

Elder Hamin, wrapped now in a heavy ochre cloak, peered over his circle of steepled fingers. The hollow of his cheeks seemed to gather shadow, but his eyes, keen as winter’s dawn, found Eiran first.

“Come,” Hamin croaked, gesturing towards the carved bench beside his fireside seat. Eiran obeyed, feeling the press of every watching gaze. Mira remained standing, back straight, hands clasped before her—a sentinel in traveling gear and purpose.

Somewhere outside the hall, the wind scoured at shutters and eaves. “Mira,” the Elder said, “You have crossed wild lands to bring news heavy as thunderheads. But it is the boy who dreams who holds the key. Sit, both of you. These walls know many things, and the fire will hide our words from the wind.”

With a nod, Mira settled on the bench, her thigh pressed against Eiran’s. He caught the scent of travel and cold metal. Hamin leaned forward, his voice lowering until it was an ember in the hush. “In Andarin’s beginning there was only darkness—a vastness, empty save for rumor and longing. The old tongue said the heavens first brought a star, wound in silver fire, to bind the chaos and seed hope. The Star of Andarin.”

He paused, as if weighing words too big for his narrow chest. “The star’s light shone so far and so deep that things that had no shape or memory bent themselves into land, river, tree, and bird. We are all—every one of us—descended from that first shining.”

The villagers drew closer. Tanelle clutched her apron, the twins stared agog. But Hamin’s words seemed for Eiran and Mira alone.

Hamin reached beneath his robe and drew forth a wrapped bundle—linen browned with age. He touched it reverently and, with trembling hands, unwrapped it: a tablet of black stone, etched in vortexes and sigils, glimmering where firelight kissed it. “Vael keeps this from the old times. My grandfather’s grandfather swore an oath to guard it.”

That stone felt cold in Eiran’s bones, centuries heavy. Eiran recognized one thing—the strange star shape, six-pointed and cracked, as in his vision. He shuddered.

“The Star was broken—by envy, by pride, by longing. Its shards fell. Some say each piece found a mark in mortal hearts.” Hamin’s knotted finger hovered over the star’s heart on the stone. “The cult you speak of, Mira, believes these pieces are keys. Tools to darken the world and remake it by their own will. But, before that, the prophecy says a child of two lines—star-marked and sorrow-born—shall dream true at the world’s waning.”

Silence pressed in close. Eiran stared at the floor, throat dry. Mira let her hand drop to rest lightly atop his.

The Elder’s gaze turned to her, as if he’d seen through every secret. “You have stories enough of your own, traveler. Now is the time for truth.”

Mira hesitated—long enough for fire to snap and shift. At last, she drew a small amulet from beneath her tunic: a shard of crystal, tinged faint blue, set into silver wire. It pulsed faintly, its light hidden from all but those who looked close.

“My name is Mira Asandi, of the House Asandi, once of Rhavanil,” she said, voice stripped bare. “I was sent to find the meaning of these fallen stars—and to find those who might stand against the coming dark.”

She fixed the council with determined, weary eyes. “I believe Eiran is star-marked. That the cult seeks him, or what he carries, or the dream in his blood. And that the rest of the shards—if any exist—must be found and kept safe. Or all is lost.”

A murmur, apprehensive, moved through the gathered villagers, but the Elder silenced it with a look.

He spoke then not as a frail man, but as Vael’s living memory. “Long have we kept the old ways. Now the time for hiding is past. Vael will give what aid it can. Eiran, Mira—seek out the paths of the old Star. Find a way to mend its light, if you can. There are yet those in the world who would help, and some who know more of these lost fragments. Go north by the hidden trails—seek the Forgotten Bridge. Beyond lies the library of Astryn, where the last lorekeepers dwell.”

The air in the hall grew thunderous with import. Eiran’s stomach twisted with both fear and strange relief. After a lifetime on the margin of every story—he suddenly stood at the heart of one.

“But—” Mira began, when sudden footsteps thundered at the doors. Marlo and two other men burst in, faces white as raw fat, eyes rolling.

“We found something.” Marlo panted, clutching an arm that bled dark between his fingers. “Down in the high wood, south edge—signs in the trees. Strange tracks—clawed, not wolf, not bear. A star—black—painted on three trunks.”

He paused, breath scraping frantic. “And voices—chanting. Not ours.”

The mood in the hall shifted from solemnity to a brittle panic. Parents pulled children close. Men looked for reassurance in Elder Hamin’s face.

Mira was the first to move. She crossed quickly to Marlo, drawing a clean cloth to bind his wound. “How close did you get?” she asked, and inspected the bruised, oddly puckered flesh where blood clotted too dark.

“Too close,” Marlo whispered. “Saw shapes… cloaked, so many. They were searching through the deadwood. Didn’t see us—we ran.”

The Elder’s jaw tightened. “It has begun then. The cult has come to our very doors.”

Mira’s eyes met Eiran’s—defiant, fierce. “There’s no more time. We must go—tonight, before dusk. If we wait, they’ll find what they’re looking for. If it’s Eiran… or something in Vael…”

Hamin pressed the ancient star stone into Eiran’s shaking palms. “You carry the hope of Andarin, boy. The world turns on choice, even more than on prophecy. Go—find those who will stand with you. Seek the truth before shadow swallows it whole.”

Eiran, trembling, nodded. His whole life had poured toward this moment. He felt the weight of prophecy, legend, and Mira’s unblinking faith—so sharp it almost cut through his fear.

The villagers, seeing their Elder’s resolve, stepped forward—offering food, spare cloaks, a bow from Talin the silent ranger, whose face wore old pain. “I know the north paths better than most. I will guide you as far as the woods allow,” he rumbled, breaking his silence.

Mira managed a half-smile, gratitude and tension bound together. The hall surged with sudden, fragile unity. The old world was ending. Duty, kinship, fear and battered hope all pressed together—demanding something more.

Outside, the wind no longer howled, but carried a new, sharper promise: the first step on a road no one had expected to walk. Eiran, staring into the fire’s embers, heard again the words threading through his mind: Find the shards. The world is breaking. But it has not broken yet.

As the dawn rose on Vael’s last day of peace, the promise of sacrifice and destiny hung unspoken in the air—heavy as starlight on the edge of the abyss.