Nearly two months had passed with overwhelming speed. The first floor of Edictus's house was almost complete. Dyan had restored decency to the fence, cleared the entire plot, and even prepared the soil to plant some vegetables to supplement his food. The second floor was progressing more slowly, but for a mage with scarce carpentry skills, it was almost miraculous.
The joy of Eunid's daughters, who often came to help him, had given him not only renewed energy but also knowledge of everyday matters he lacked. Even little Cadin knew things he didn't: she recognized plants and fungi he had never seen, or easily found animal tracks, something that was completely impossible for him without magic. The presence of the young girls had filled his life with a previously elusive spark, especially when Cadin ran around the backyard. She reminded him of Finia when she was little, though Eunid's daughter had a different kind of perceptiveness and, unlike Finia's unruly curls, Cadin's hair was almost supernaturally straight.
Frila and Casia had their own ways of disturbing his peace and, at the same time, entertaining him. Frila helped and also sought to marvel, to learn about the outside world, and occasionally, without words—but with a pleading look—she would ask him to do magic for her. A couple of times she had even leaned her head on his arm while they ate by the river, but he would simply gently stroke her head. She was a sweet and naive child, but eager to learn more than just farm matters. To her, he was the surprise, the wonder, the unknown.
Casia, on the other hand, was too curious and always hinted with a mischievous tone, something typical—Dyan told himself—of a hormonal girl her age. However, she was kind, and her jokes, always on the tip of her tongue, brought joy and spontaneity even when she ruined some ongoing repair with her meager carpentry or building skills.
Now that he had an almost sinful amount of free time, he had made significant progress in his research on spatial-temporal magic. Two weeks after creating the communication coins, he was already able to transport apples from the dining table to a wicker armchair by the window overlooking the backyard. Sometimes they arrived in halves, with a piece missing or damaged. One had even arrived in a state of putrefaction. Then he tried using the coin as a guide for transportation, and the results were superior, though he still needed to test it with something living, not just stones, fruits, or cups.
That morning he had been working on the experiment since sunrise, stopping only to eat a piece of rye bread and drink chamomile tea he had collected himself with Casia's help. To his surprise, the young woman was very skilled at foraging and knew the forest like the back of her hand, perhaps from having run away from household chores more than she dared to confess.
Soft but persistent knocks echoed at the front door. He was so engrossed in his experiment that he hadn't heard the gate bell. He hurried to open it, and as soon as he did, a small girl with restless eyes leaped onto him.
"Uncle Mage, Cadin came to play!"
Dyan smiled as he lifted her from the ground as if she weighed nothing.
"Did you tell your parents you were coming?"
Cadin nodded enthusiastically. "They said to have fun... and not to come back late."
The mage walked through the living room and sat Cadin on the wicker chair. Then, the coin he kept in his robe pocket began to vibrate and glow, even shining through his doublet. He quickly pulled it out. Finia's voice came through clearly:
"Two more days to arrive."
She sounded worried, tense.
Dyan held the coin between his fingers, searching for the right words. Cadin looked at him with wide eyes, surprised by the voice that had come from the metal.
"Rest before the last stretch," he said, imbuing arcane energy into his words.
He wished he could have told her more. The memory of the previous border incursion was still fresh, when they had had to run the last stretch in the middle of combat to reach the fort before nightfall.
He squeezed the coin tightly, hoping Finia would understand him.
"Uncle Dyan, are we going to make apples disappear again today?" Cadin said with genuine curiosity, oblivious to the tension of the imminent battle.
Dyan gently put the coin back in his pocket. "Do you like making things disappear? They're supposed to appear on the table," he replied, pointing to the counter across the room.
They spent the morning moving apples, cups, stones, empty jars, and other small objects from one side to the other using spatial-temporal magic. Cadin would toss them onto the parchment inscribed with arcane glyphs, and they would appear across the room, on another parchment with similar symbols. Each success was celebrated as a great victory, and she would run to fetch the object to repeat the feat. Sometimes, of course, things appeared with a piece missing.
At midday, they stopped to eat. There were still many adjustments to be made, but the progress was remarkable.
Cadin approached Dyan, raising her arms for him to pick her up.
"Uncle Dyan, let's go home to eat. Mom said you should come with Cadin."
He lifted her and gently stroked her head. "Alright, I suppose it's time."
The walk to the village was always pleasant. The sun set gracefully, squirrels peeked from among the branches, and the grazing cows nearby received new names each time. Cadin invented them with enthusiasm, as if they were new friends.
Entering the village, some miners were heading to the inn for lunch, while Melia, the baker, received sacks of flour from the miller's assistant. At the end of the street, Anidia awaited them on the threshold, scanning the horizon.
When they crossed the entrance of the house, Anidia greeted them with a teasing smile. "What are you doing in Dyan's arms, you scamp? Do you think you're a baby?"
Cadin hid her face in the mage's shoulder, laughing softly, knowing that, this time, her mischief had been well received.
Inside the house, the aroma of stew filled the air, and everyone's footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as they gathered around the table. Frila was the first to sit down, doing so with a quick gesture, placing her chair right next to Dyan's. She pretended it was just a coincidence, but the slight blush on her cheeks betrayed her.
Casia, who had just arrived from the kitchen with a tray of steaming bread, raised an eyebrow with a mischievous smile.
"Frila, if you get any closer, they'll think you already live with the mage."
Frila gave her a stern look, her brow furrowed and her cheeks now bright red, but said nothing.
Anidia, who had heard the comment from the kitchen, quickly approached, wiping her hands on her apron, and as she passed Casia, she whispered in her ear with a contained smile:
"Fool, you're the one who should be sitting next to the mage."
Casia's eyes widened in surprise, but before she could retort, a giggle interrupted the scene.
Cadin had gotten ahead of everyone, easily climbing onto Dyan's lap, as if it were the most natural place in the world for her.
"The food's better here," she said, settling in with a triumphant smile.
Dyan couldn't help but let out a low chuckle as he offered her a piece of bread.
From the head of the table, Eunid cleared his throat pointedly, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the insinuations. "Come, come, enough foolishness, and serve the food before it gets cold," he said, lightly tapping the table with his knuckles.
The women moved with agility, accustomed to the rhythm of the house. Within minutes, steaming plates covered the table. The bustle turned into laughter, crossed comments, some harmless teasing, and above all, a warmth that filled the room unexpectedly.
Dyan observed it all in silence at first, somewhat distant, as if he still couldn't believe that this life—so human, so simple—partially belonged to him. But when Frila offered him an extra portion, when Casia threw another joke accompanied by a frank smile, when Eunid served his plate without even asking what he preferred, as if he were already family... he understood that he was beginning to enjoy it.
And when Cadin wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, as calmly as if she had done it a thousand times, he knew that something deep inside him was softening.
Perhaps, he thought, it wasn't so bad to have lunch surrounded by voices, by hands sharing bread, and by laughter that filled the gaps in one's soul.
Lunch was over, with its laughter, the aroma of freshly baked bread, and the warmth of the house still lingering in memory. The sun began its slow descent, painting the village rooftops with a golden hue. Dyan bid farewell with his usual calm, picking up his cloak from the hanger by the door. Frila was the first to stand, ready to accompany him to the village entrance, but Anidia stopped her with a quiet smile and a gentle gesture.
"You go, Casia," she said naturally, as if there were no hidden agenda.
Frila pursed her lips but obeyed, resigned. Casia caught her mother's gaze and understood what she was after. She also understood that there was no point in arguing.
The walk to the village entrance was brief but peaceful. Their footsteps echoed on the dry earth, accompanied by the distant song of a bird and the whisper of the wind in the trees. Dyan walked with his hands behind his back, like a master strolling through a garden. Casia, more relaxed, swung her arms lightly, not breaking the silence that stretched between them like a soft, almost comfortable thread.
They stopped right where the path forked: to the left, towards the edge of the forest; to the right, towards Edictus's house. Casia watched the shadows lengthen, then looked at the man beside her.
"Have you noticed?" she asked, tilting her head with a half-smile.
"Noticed what?" he replied, though he already knew the answer.
"My mother's intentions," she said bluntly, crossing her arms.
Dyan let out a soft, deep, contained laugh, almost a sigh.
"Yes, I noticed," he nodded. "But you don't have to worry, Casia."
He glanced at her with that kindness that always enveloped him. "I could be your father. Or, at least, a rather young uncle," he added ironically.
Casia laughed, not offended. "A father so handsome? Well... I have to admit, you are handsome," she threw back with a smile. "But I prefer wild men. With mud on their boots, not books under their arm."
"Ah, then I don't stand a chance even in another century," he joked, relaxed.
They shared the laugh, soft and brief, like a breath of air on a windless day. For an instant, everything seemed to float between them: understanding, friendship, and something harder to name, deeper, though still formless.
Dyan gave a small bow with a hand on his chest, as he always did. "Thanks for the company."
And he began to walk away, his silhouette disappearing among the long shadows cast by the setting sun behind him. Casia watched him in silence, without moving. She didn't feel sadness, not entirely. It was something else. A slight weight, as if something inside her had shifted without warning. An absence before the goodbye. Something she wasn't sure she had felt before.
She stood there a moment longer, the wind caressing her hair, wondering what that quiet pang in her chest was. And why, for the first time, Dyan's distant affection hadn't been quite enough.
Night swiftly descended, and in Edictus's house, Dyan finally sat down to continue his research. He lit some candles and began reviewing his notes from the previous day, looking for any error in the inscriptions, any misplaced glyph, any indication that he had made a mistake. As always, with methodical attention, he retraced his steps. He went over what Edictus himself had left, and, after a couple of hours that passed in the blink of an eye, he suddenly stopped.
He had to complete that magic tonight.
He sighed.
In a corner of the desk were several unopened letters, all with the royal seal. Not Silvania's, but Eleanor's. He had refused to read them, still hurt by the last missive, which had arrived laden with more venom than he was willing to receive from someone he still loved so much. Not opening them stung his soul, but he had promised himself that he would not write to her again... and, similarly, that he would not read from her again. As if that gesture could close a wound that still festered.
He lied to himself.
During the long nights of experimentation, the temptation to open them grew stronger. But reading without responding felt like a dirty act, almost a sin. What if she said something that needed an answer? That thought gripped him, like a red-hot chain hanging from his neck. And every day, it felt heavier.
He picked up one of the letters and looked at it carefully. The red wax with the royal house seal seemed like an infamous obstacle. He held it up to the candlelight, trying to make out something inside, but only the outline of the sheet appeared.
How much rage would still remain in her words? Would she still hate him as much as on the first day?
He put the letter aside. It was not the time to betray his own convictions, especially the most recent ones. He resumed his work, and as soon as he began to write down some ideas, arcane sciences swept him away like a storm. He fully immersed himself in his practice, leaving all other thoughts behind. His eyes shone with renewed enthusiasm, as in his youth. The ideas were fresh, groundbreaking. Sometimes he found himself wanting to break schemas he himself had fiercely defended. Schemas that Edictus had emphasized as unchallengeable dogmas that no mage should question.
But now, free from any Tower or School, those dogmas seemed absurd to him.
He had already betrayed the love he swore to follow blindly, even if it meant losing himself... how could he not betray those arcane sacraments?
It was moments like that for which he had left everything behind: to find himself, the man and the mage. Because there was never a real separation between the two. He grew up as a mage, and the man merged with the sorcerer to survive. Now, he could unreservedly dedicate himself to fascinating research and, during the day, enjoy such mundane joys as the laughter of a child running through his house. That filled his heart like nothing before.
The only thing that still kept him from the peace he had promised himself upon leaving... was love. Or rather: the fact that he himself shunned it.
He drowned that possibility in his studies. In time with others. In wonderful things. But perhaps he did it with more fervor precisely so as not to feel. So as not to think. To pretend that everything in his heart was fine.
Time became deceptive when he immersed himself so passionately in his research. But always, on those sleepless nights, there was a moment when he stopped. A sacred instant, which represented a precious memory for him.
He stood up and went out to the backyard.
The night sky, carpeted with twinkling stars, covered the night with a silver halo. The damp earth under his feet and the aroma of mown grass from days ago permeated the air with a soft petrichor scent. He walked to the riverbank. The cool breeze stirred his silver hair, which spread over his shoulder like a net of fine, burnished steel strands.
He looked up at the stars. With a slight gesture of his hand, a lute appeared.
It had taken him years to find the time to learn to play it. But in the end, he did. For her. To accompany her voice and her flute. Because the lute knows how to accompany... as he had done for so many years.
He sat on a rock and began to strum the strings. First firmly, then delicately. The few smiles of Eleanor he kept in his memory emerged before him with painful clarity: the fire of her hair, the gravity of her gazes, the feverish tremor of their first kiss.
The first was for her. And the last one too.
He played one of the songs he had composed one autumn: a lute dawn. A romantic piece for lovers who meet in the night and part at dawn.
Here's a rhyming adaptation of the poem in English:
Autumn Slumber
Sleep, my dearest, softly sleep,
For silent now, I must retreat.
Sleep while I drift far away,
Wounded, lost, at close of day.
This is my lament, my plea:
To leave, though it breaks me.
This is who I am, it's true:
My love is what I give to you.
The warmth of your caress so dear,
Grows cold as I disappear.
I am the sin, the one who sinned,
The thunder's roar, the striking wind.
Sleep, my sun, as I depart,
Sleep until the spring takes heart.
Sleep while I kiss you, light and deep,
Sleep the love my soul will keep.
The wind carried the sounds softly, as if the world had stilled to listen to him. Dyan strummed the lute with fingers tempered by the cold, yet warm with emotion. The song he had composed years ago for Eleanor, "Autumn Slumber," flowed from the strings with a new tremor. It wasn't the same. It never would be.
The chords broke on certain notes, as if pain filtered through the melody. He sang the last verse in barely a whisper, and then fell silent.
The river flowed like an afterthought, distant and constant, oblivious to the man who, kneeling on a rock, gazed at the stars seeking answers he no longer expected to receive.
"Why isn't love enough?" he said, not knowing if he was speaking to her, to the world, or to himself.
And then, something changed.
The words hung in the air. Literally.
A faint trail, made of a grayish glow like mist at dawn, drew his sentence in the space around him. Curved, trembling letters, from an alphabet he hadn't written, but understood immediately: they were his. His voice, his pain, his guilt. His truth.
The lute fell silent. Dyan remained motionless, staring at those words suspended like smoke refusing to dissipate.
Why isn't love enough?
The phrase floated for a few more seconds, then seemed to dissipate with an exhalation, but not entirely: the humidity in the air, the riverbed, Dyan's very skin had changed. He felt it.
He had done something. Without formulas. Without glyphs. Without preparation. Only with raw emotion.
Not a spell. A confession the world had heard... and answered.
He felt something in his chest gently tear, as if he had let go of a piece of himself, one he could no longer reclaim. But it didn't hurt. Not like before.
"What was that...?" he murmured. And this time, vigilant, he said no more.
He didn't want to lose another memory unknowingly.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the lute. His entire body trembled, not from fear, but from a revelation so profound that even years in Scabia's Tower couldn't have prepared him to comprehend it.
A magic without runes.
A spell without a name.
A wound transformed into language.
He had crossed a threshold, and though he didn't know it yet, that night would mark the beginning of the Echoscript.