The world before dawn was hushed, the silence so complete that even the faintest sound seemed sharpened, etched into the air. A cricket chirped once, then stopped as though silenced by the weight of what lingered. The grass bent heavy with dew, each blade dripping silver cold against Leo's boots as he shifted his weight. Mist curled low across the fields, clinging to the earth as if reluctant to release it to the day.
His pack was pitifully small, hard bread wrapped in cloth, a flask of water, a knife dulled from years of carving kindling and scraping hides. He had stood outside his hut far too long, staring at its crooked door as if it might swing open, as if the walls might draw him back in.
But the door never stirred. The hut stood mute, an empty shell.
The shard pulsed faintly beneath its bandages, not loud, not forceful, only a steady warmth, like a coal hidden under ash.
You don't need their walls, the whisper slid into his thoughts, silk over stone. The road will shape you. Power is a better home than straw and clay.
Leo's grip tightened on the strap of his pack until his knuckles whitened. "Shut up," he breathed.
And yet you listen.
A rustle. Footsteps, soft against wet grass. Leo turned sharply, heart clenching.
Mira stood a few paces away, her cloak thrown hastily over her nightdress. Her hair hung loose down her shoulders, catching droplets of mist. She carried a small bundle tied in cloth, clutched to her chest. Her eyes - bright, unflinching, caught the faint starlight, and for a heartbeat, Leo forgot to breathe.
"You're leaving already?" she whispered.
"They wanted me gone by dawn." His voice cracked with weariness. "Better to go before anyone wakes."
She stepped closer. The mist swirled around her as though parting for her presence. She pressed the bundle into his hands, her fingers trembling as they brushed his. "Dried meat. Some herbs. Father's flint. You'll need it." Her hand lingered a heartbeat too long before retreating quickly, as though she feared she had already given too much.
Leo swallowed, his throat tight. "Mira, I-"
"Don't." Her head shook sharply. "If you thank me, I'll break."
The silence that followed was heavier than any words. A bird gave its first tentative call from the ridge, a thin, lonely sound that seemed to pierce the hush. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, the scent of home slipping through his fingers.
"I don't care what the elders said," Mira whispered at last, her voice softer, fragile now. "You saved us. You're not cursed, Leo. Not to me."
His chest tightened until it hurt. He wanted, desperately, to believe her, to cling to those words and let them be enough. But beneath his skin, the shard stirred, warm and mocking.
She lies to herself. She will forget you by winter. I will not.
Leo closed his fist around the bundle she'd given him, knuckles pressing into the coarse cloth. "Mira… you should go back before they see you."
Her lip trembled. She nodded, but instead of leaving, she surged forward suddenly and wrapped her arms around him. The warmth of her body struck him like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She smelled of woodsmoke and wildflowers, a scent that lodged itself in his memory as if the world demanded he remember it.
"Don't let it take you," she murmured against his shoulder, voice muffled but fierce. "Promise me."
Leo's mouth opened. The word I promise ached on his tongue. He wanted to give her that comfort, wanted to be strong enough to make it true. But memory rose to meet him: the ox collapsing in the mud, the light searing through his hand, the elders' eyes filled with fear and condemnation.
The promise felt like a lie.
So, he stayed silent.
Mira pulled back, searching his face. When she found only silence, sorrow filled her gaze, drowning the flicker of anger that had sparked there. She stepped away, her cloak fluttering in the faint dawn breeze. The lanterns at the edge of the village glowed faintly through the mist, blurred and distant, like stars already beginning to fade.
She did not look back.
Leo stood there long after she had disappeared into the fog. Alone, he turned toward the horizon. The first veins of dawn split the sky, threads of silver unfurling across the pale east. The mountains loomed dark and vast in the distance, their ridges jagged as broken teeth, waiting for him.
He took his first step down the ridge. The grass was wet and cold beneath his soles, each blade brushing against his skin as though marking his passage. Behind him, far away, a dog barked once, sharp, accusing, before silence swallowed it.
He did not turn. He could not.
Forward, the shard whispered, warm as blood in his veins. Your story begins here.
Leo walked on. And the dawn broke behind him like the closing of a door.