The land you teleport to is nothing like the Demon Castle.
No looming towers.
No echoing halls.
No watchful eyes.
Just…
Gentle fields, gilded in soft gold under the late afternoon sun.
Whispering trees, swaying with lazy grace like they've never known war.
Distant birdsong, so light it sounds like a lullaby meant for no one in particular.
You're somewhere far, far from any known kingdom—deep in the western wilds, where the maps grow vague and names are forgotten. Magic is quiet here. Old. Unassuming. Not the kind that demands attention—just... exists. Like breath. Like memory.
You land on a soft hilltop, high enough to see a stretch of untouched wilderness. Below: endless meadows scattered with white-petaled flowers, an occasional cluster of trees, and a ribbon of smoke curling from some distant hearth.
The air is warm, tinged with the scent of grass and faint woodsmoke. It smells like peace. Like the first page of a forgotten story.
Grass brushes your ankles.
Your cloak—his cloak—ripples behind you in the wind.
You feel tired.
Not physically.
Soul-tired.
Like the part of you that used to dream has gone quiet.
But you're still standing.
You've been walking for hours now.
No destination.
No goal.
Just… away.
Away from expectations.
From grief.
From yourself.
Suddenly—
A voice.
Not threatening. Not cruel.
Just soft. Curious.
"...You okay there, stranger?"
You turn—
And see a girl about your age.
She's barefoot, balancing a basket of herbs on her hip, and wearing simple village clothes. Her hair's a tangle of leaves and chestnut curls, and her freckles catch the sunlight like specks of gold dust. Her green eyes blink at you—sharp, observant, but not unkind.
And for a flicker of a moment—
You forget how to breathe.
It's not love.
Not awe.
Just the ache of something alive interrupting your hollow silence.
She stands there like the world hasn't ended. Like she belongs to this land—rooted, present. You feel her mana, too—quiet, like the soil itself. Grounded. Gentle.
"You're either lost, cursed, or heartbreakingly lonely."
She tilts her head.
"Or all three."
The wind picks up—just slightly—tugging your hair and the hem of the cloak still far too big for you.
You smile.
Not the kind that hides pain.
Not quite a bright one either.
But real.
A little crooked. A little tired.
But it's there.
Because…
Dad wouldn't want me to be like that.
He wouldn't want the world to lose my smile, too.
You glance at her and say with a small chuckle:
"Hello. That's a very funny thing to say to a person you just met, haha."
She blinks.
Then grins—wide and unabashed.
"Isn't it? I like starting strong. It scares away boring people."
She drops her basket with a soft thump and plops down in the grass like it's the most natural thing in the world. No tension. No fear.
"Name's Maika. Herb witch in training. Kinda. Depends on the weather."
She squints at your clothes, eyes lingering on your worn boots, the oversized cloak, the look in your eyes that doesn't match your age.
"You're not from anywhere nearby, are you? You look like a storm cloud with legs. You got a name, Stormy?"
You chuckle—soft, real.
"Heh, Stormy it is then."
The name feels strange on your tongue.
But it's warm.
A little silly.
You quite like it.
You step forward—light on your feet again, the hill wind brushing against your back.
The land below unfurls like a painting: fields melting into fog-draped valleys, little cottages in the distance with roofs thatched in moss and love.
Somewhere, a bell chimes. Faint and steady. A village rhythm.
You twirl, arms out—just once—cloak spinning behind you.
"So, almighty weather-dependent herb witch…"
"…show this lost and lonely storm the way, please!"
You declare with mock-theatrical flourish, a grin tugging your lips upward.
Maika stares at you—brows raised, assessing if you're insane or just very tired in a poetic way.
Then—
She laughs.
"You're a weird one, Stormy."
She scoops up her basket and gestures down a narrow dirt trail with a dramatic sweep of her hand.
"C'mon. I'll take you to my village. We've got food, shelter, and a cat who thinks he's the mayor."
"Don't spook the old folks. They're still debating if the moon's haunted."
The trail winds through rows of tall sunflowers and mossy stones. Every so often, spirit lanterns dangle from tree branches, faintly glowing even in daylight. The air hums with low, old magic—content, not forgotten.
Maika leads the way. Her steps are light, skipping occasionally over puddles and roots like she's never once worried the world could hurt her.
---
The path Maika leads you down is narrow and winding—barely more than a deer trail, with wildflowers overtaking the edges and little glowing beetles flitting through the long grass.
The sunlight softens as you descend into the valley.Mist clings low between the trees like shy ghosts, curling at your ankles and receding from your steps.
Maika hums as she walks, an off-key little tune, her basket bouncing against her hip. She doesn't look back at you, but you can feel her mana glancing off yours—checking, noting, not pushing.
You stay a few paces behind her.
Not from distrust.
But because the peace here feels fragile, like the wrong word might crack it.
Then—
You see it.
Willowmere.
Nestled in the cradle of the valley like a secret too gentle to name.
Stone cottages with ivy crawling up their sides.Roofs thatched in moss, slate, or old bark.Windows aglow with spirit-lantern light, even in daytime.
There are no gates. No guards. No high walls or banners.
Just a winding footpath of soft earth, old runes etched into the rocks lining it. Runes you recognize—not for power, but blessing. Protection. Welcome.
You cross into the village, and your cloak catches the breeze—billowing behind you like shadow stitched to sunlight.
A dog barks in the distance. Chickens scatter from a garden gate. Somewhere, a flute plays a wandering melody—half-song, half-spell.
People glance up as you pass.
They don't stare.
But they do see you.
Old women knitting on porches. A man carving a spirit totem from driftwood. Children chasing one another with glowing pebbles that fizz when thrown.
Their eyes linger for a heartbeat longer than comfort.
But not in suspicion.
In curiosity. And something softer. Maybe… recognition?
Maika calls out to one of the older women—an apple-cheeked elder with smoke-colored hair and a shawl that looks older than the village.
"Got a stray," she says simply.
The old woman peers at you through clouded eyes.
Then smiles.
"Well. Storms always come here eventually."
You're not sure what that means.
But you feel it in your chest.
You're being seen—not as a threat, or a prophecy.Just… as someone.
Maika nudges you gently.
"You can breathe here, you know."
You hadn't realized you were holding your breath.
You cross a little bridge over a shallow stream. Beneath it, silverfish dart like tiny comets in the mossy water. Floating runestones mark the stream's edge—shaped like frogs and birds and stars.
The scent of fresh bread and damp soil hangs in the air.
Willowmere doesn't feel like a place.It feels like a memory someone never wanted to forget.
You pass an old well, carved with spiral sigils.A community square, no larger than a garden, with wind-chimes and woven charms fluttering in the breeze.
And at the center, an enormous willow tree.
Its trunk is so wide it could swallow a cottage.Its roots curl up from the ground like old bones.And from its branches hang dozens of lanterns—some glowing, some flickering, some gently dimmed.
You stop.
You don't know why.
But the air around the tree is thicker. Calmer.Like standing next to something listening.
Maika notices. She slows.
"That's the old tree," she says softly. "We don't pray to it. We just… thank it."
You nod, unsure if your words would come out steady.
You keep walking.
Maika's cottage is near the outskirts, past a narrow fern path and a few ramshackle herb beds with labels written in childlike handwriting.
"Home sweet explosion zone," she chirps, kicking the door open.
The scent hits you immediately—wild mint, crushed leaves, old woodsmoke, something floral and bitter.
The inside is a riot of color and mess—bundles of drying herbs hanging from the rafters, potion bottles stuffed into every shelf, a cauldron that may or may not be sentient, and one very fat orange cat asleep on the windowsill wearing what looks like a crown made of string and dandelions.
Maika drops her basket near the door and flops into a chair.
"Welcome to Willowmere, Stormy."
"Stay a day. Stay a year. The village won't mind either way."
You stand in the doorway for a long moment.
Not moving. Not talking.
Because something in your chest finally loosens.A tension you didn't know had a name until now.
No expectations. No questions.
Just a roof. A breeze.
And the faintest thought:
Maybe I can exist here… without breaking anything.
Maika opens one eye, watching you from her seat.
"Hey."
"You okay?"
You look at her.
And smile.
Tired. Real. A little crooked.
"Yeah."
"I think I am."