"The silence before the dawn remembers everything — grief, hope, and the names we no longer speak."
— From The Old Book of Hours, author unknown
The air was thin and still, as though the world was holding its breath with her.
Alara sat cross-legged in the clearing on the hill, hands buried in the damp grass, eyes tracing the dim outline of the horizon. The sun had yet to rise, but the sky was softening—purpling at the edges like a bruise healing. The hill stood, surrounded by foliage with a beautiful view of the sunrise, the river Midra flowing beneath. A hush clung to the space around her, deep and undisturbed. Exactly how she liked it.
She'd discovered it by accident years ago, back when her mother still held her wrist a little too tightly in crowds and watched her like she'd vanish if she blinked too long. Alara had slipped away once, drawn by a pull she couldn't explain, and wandered through the trees until she found this hollow where the light dripped slow and golden and the silence felt kind. She'd stayed too long that first time. When she returned, her mother had been frantic—fury laced with fear.
Roen had stepped in. He'd spoken softly to her mother, hand on her shoulder, and whatever he said must've worked. The next morning, she was allowed to return. This time with a warning and a whispered promise that she'd be trained to defend herself.
Roen always saw what others missed. Maybe that was why he agreed to teach her, even after turning so many others away.
Alara glanced upward. The light was changing.
The first breath of dawn spilled over the hills, brushing the sky with amber and lavender. It glinted on the dew pooling in the grass. She watched the colors shift slowly, feeling the ache in her chest loosen—just a little.
She took a breath. Closed her eyes.
And waited.
Not for the sun, though it was almost here.
But for the shift she'd begun to recognize—feel—in the air.
It came like it always did: steady, silent, and certain. A quiet ripple against her thoughts. Calm and contained, but familiar. She didn't need to turn.
"I still have time," she murmured, eyes still closed.
A soft chuckle came from the edge of the clearing. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to." She opened her eyes, a faint smile curling her lips.
Darian stepped forward, his dark hair pulled back into a simple tie. He had the easy gait of someone comfortable in his skin, sword at his back, boots barely making a sound. He didn't disturb the stillness. Somehow, he belonged to it.
Alara studied his aura again—cool blue at the edges with flickers of gold, like candlelight held steady in cupped hands.
She envied that steadiness.
He lowered himself onto the grass beside her, keeping a respectful distance. "I figured you'd be here."
"You always do."
They sat in silence, and she was grateful he didn't fill it with questions.
Darian knew today wasn't for talking. He didn't know the details—she'd never told him—but he knew enough. That it mattered. That she needed the quiet. And that this place, this hour, belonged to her.
A few heartbeats passed before he asked quietly, "Does it still hurt?"
Alara looked straight ahead. "It always will."
Another silence.
But this one was softer. Shared.
She noticed the wind moving through the trees—the way it touched the leaves gently, like it too was trying not to intrude. A small bird chirped once, then hushed again.
Alara tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Her features were sharp and fine—cheekbones carved high, lips set in a quiet line. Her eyes were her most striking feature—dark, almond-shaped, still. Not empty. Just… still, like water that hadn't been disturbed in years.
People said she looked like her mother, but Roen once told her she had her father's stare. "The kind that makes people uncomfortable," he'd said once, amused—then quickly took it back when he saw the look on her mother's face.
She wondered if her sister had looked like that too.
"I hope you didn't come empty-handed," she said without looking back.
"How did you know I was here? I could've sworn I was quiet. Even the deer can't tell I'm here," he said, frustrated. He'd been trying to sneak up on her for as long as she could remember.
She turned now to look at him.
Tall, a little lanky, with a full head of dark curls and startling blue eyes. A small stubble of growth shadowed his strong jaw. She could see why girls found him handsome.
"Of course I knew. You wouldn't understand. You lack my skills. That's why you had one job: bring bread."
"That didn't work anymore. I'm officially banned from the bakery."
He tossed her a hot bun. "So you better savor this. I almost lost an arm getting it."
"Oh, so Emily finally decided she was done with you? I always wondered how long it'd take her to cut you off."
"I'm just irresistible," he said with a cocky smile, dropping beside her, a little breathless.
At first, it had been her secret alone. But then came Darian, with his restless feet and curious questions. Now, he met her here nearly every morning, just after the sunrise. She knew he came mostly to reassure her mom, but she didn't mind. It was Darian. Her best friend. He understood things without needing explanations. He always had. He gave her at least an hour before showing up—he knew she needed the time alone to breathe.
"I had to sneak past my uncle again. If he catches me skipping morning prep—"
"You'll get another lecture about 'discipline' and 'upholding the family name.' I know."
Darian grinned. "You do listen."
She glanced sideways. "Occasionally."
They fell into silence again. The sun rose slow and sure, bleeding colors across the sky—golds, violets, flame.
"It always looks like magic," Darian said.
"Maybe it is," she said. "Or maybe it's what the world looks like when no one's looking."
He tilted his head. "That sounds like something Roen would say."
"No. Roen would say it's irrelevant and get back to sword angles."
They laughed.
Alara's features softened as the light hit her face. She was beautiful in the way the forest was beautiful—wild and watchful. Her skin was warm brown, kissed by sun and wind. Her eyes—too knowing for someone her age—carried the weight of too many secrets.
"You're doing it again," she said.
"Doing what?"
"Staring."
"I'm just appreciating the sunrise."
"Right."
Still, she didn't sound annoyed. She rarely did with Darian.
But today was different.
The wind shifted. The weight of the date settled on her chest.
She stood. "I have to go. It's the Eleventh."
He looked at her knowingly. "You'll be fine. I'm here, if you need help. Or a punching bag."
"I know."
She took one last look at the twin mountains across the river.
"Do you ever wonder what's out there?" she asked. "Beyond the mountains. Beyond all of this."
Darian squinted toward the horizon. "Sometimes. I think I'd like to see the capital. Maybe even the eastern sea. But my uncle says the world's more trouble than it's worth."
Alara didn't answer.
"I think you'll leave one day," Darian said.
She blinked. "What?"
"You don't belong here. Not forever. You're different."
She didn't ask what he meant.
"I used to come up here and pretend I was someone else. Somewhere else."
"And now I've ruined it?"
She smiled faintly. "You've made it tolerable."
"Glad to be of service."
The breeze stirred again.
Darian stood. "Come on. Roen will kill me if I'm late again."
"He says you're getting sloppy."
"He says that to keep me humble."
"You're only saying that because he favors me."
"Please. He made me do double footwork drills last week because you tripped once."
She laughed. "You probably deserved it."
"Cruel," he muttered. Then added, "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tell him you were meditating under the spirits of the east wind."
"He'll make me do extra drills again."
"Then don't be late."
She turned to go.
"Alara?"
She paused.
"The Eleventh isn't your burden alone," he said. "If you ever want to talk... I'm here."
Her chest tightened. "I know."
And then she walked away—toward the village, where her mother waited, and the past lingered like a ghost at the door.
Grief made shadows of people.
Sometimes, Alara wondered if she was living in her sister's outline.