Doren reached the edge of his family's property, the last remnants of the cottage's warmth fading behind him. He stopped and looked back, taking in the familiar sight of the small home nestled amongst the hills.
Twenty years of his young life were contained in that simple picture—the quiet solitude, the hidden pain, and the fierce love of his family. He wasn't running away; he was leaving to protect the very place he was looking at.
With a final, resolute glance, he turned and started walking. He was heading for the nearest village, Havenport, a place he'd only visited a handful of times in his life.
The countryside that stretched out before him was a breathtaking, windswept expanse. It was a land of rolling green hills, a vibrant patchwork of emerald and moss. Jagged, gray mountains rose in the distance, their peaks shrouded in a perpetual mist, like sleeping giants. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
A network of ancient stone walls, built by generations past, crisscrossed the fields, a testament to the quiet, enduring strength of the people who lived there. The landscape was beautiful, but wild, a place of immense power that Doren was only just beginning to understand.
After walking for a few hours, the road to Havenport remained a quiet, winding trail through the hills. Doren had just crested a small rise when he saw the first signs of another traveler. In the distance, a lone figure was pulling a wagon. As he drew closer, he realized it wasn't a man, but a woman, her back bent with the effort of the pull. The creature harnessed to the wagon was unlike any he had ever read about in his father's journals. It was a beast of immense power, a quadrupedal creature that was built like a horse, but with a terrifying, primal edge.
Its feet were not hooves, but paws, with pads made of smooth, gray stone. Sharp, gleaming claws, a part of its bone structure, protruded from the ends of its paws. The creature's coarse mane was not hair, but a series of stiff, sharp bristles that stood on end. Its face was flat and broad, with a wide, gaping maw filled with razor-sharp teeth. Random, jagged spikes grew from its sides. The creature pulled the wagon with a quiet, menacing strength.
The woman pulling the wagon was dressed in a simple, worn tunic. Her face was smudged with dirt, but her eyes, a sharp and intelligent green, were fixed on the road ahead. She was a woman of the wilds, a woman who knew how to survive in the untamed countryside of Etern.
Doren decided to talk to the woman. He quickened his pace, closing the distance between them. The woman, hearing his footsteps on the gravel, stopped and turned to face him, her hand resting on a large, bone-handled knife at her belt. Her green eyes were wary.
"Hello," Doren said, trying to keep his voice steady. "My name is Doren. I'm on my way to Havenport."
The woman's gaze swept over him, her eyes lingering on his tattered clothes. She said nothing, her expression unreadable. Doren, feeling the weight of her scrutiny, gestured toward the creature harnessed to the wagon.
"What is that?" he asked, his voice filled with a genuine curiosity. "I've never seen anything like it."
A flicker of a smile touched the woman's lips. She looked at her beast, a strange and powerful creature of earth and muscle, with a gentle affection. "This is a Fenhoof," she said, her voice a low, rough murmur. "And her name is Macy."
Doren eyes were fixed on the powerful creature she called a Fenhoof. "Such a massive creature," he said, his voice filled with a genuine awe. "How did you tame it?"
The woman let out a short, rough laugh l. "Most Fenhoofs are tamed," she responded, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's a rare sight to see them in the wild." She gave a gentle pat to Macy's stony pads, and the creature, in a display of surprising gentleness, nudged its bristle-covered head against her hand.
"It's about trust," the woman continued, her voice a low, rumbling murmur. "You don't break them, you don't beat them. You earn their trust. And once you have it, you have a friend for life. They're a part of the earth, you see. They're strong, they're stubborn, but they're also loyal. It's usually an instant bond."
She looked at Doren, her gaze lingering on his face, "You seem to know a thing or two about that," she said, a new kind of curiosity in her voice.
"About what?" Doren asked, confusion lacing his voice.
The woman smiled, a knowing glint in her green eyes. "About that," she said, nodding toward the ground. Doren looked down, and saw that a small, rough stone, a piece of granite he hadn't even noticed, was floating in the air a few inches above the ground, a silent testament to his subconscious power. He quickly, with a surge of panic, made it fall back to the ground.
The woman simply watched him, a quiet curiosity on her face. "You have a connection to the earth," she said, her voice a low, knowing murmur, "A bond."
Doren felt a cold wave of panic wash over him. "Yeah," he said, forcing a nervous laugh. "I'm not a very strong earth elementalist. It's... it's a new thing for me."
The woman's smile didn't waver. She didn't press him, she didn't question his lie. She simply accepted it, as if she knew the truth was something he wasn't ready to share.
"My name is Varen," she said, her voice a low, friendly murmur. "And it's a long road to Havenport. You want a ride?" She gestured to the wagon, a simple, wooden cart filled with sacks of grain and various tools.
Doren looked at the wagon, at the monstrous but gentle Fenhoof, and at the kind, knowing eyes of the woman named Varen. In this moment, he felt a profound sense of trust, a sense that this woman, this Varen, was someone he could rely on. Doren felt a wave of relief wash over him.
"Yeah, sure," Doren said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "But you're not going to be pulling the wagon, are you? You'll join me in the wagon?"
Varen chuckled and looked at Macy, her green eyes seeming to communicate with the creature. The Fenhoof, in a display of surprising intelligence, gave a low, rumbling groan and a gentle nod of her massive head. It was a silent, powerful conversation that Doren was a stranger to.
"Yes, I will," Varen said, her voice filled with a quiet amusement. "Macy can handle it from here."
Varen and Doren climbed into the wagon, the sacks of grain and various tools and a soft, comfortable bed. Varen took the reins, a simple leather strap that was more of a suggestion than a command, and with a gentle cluck of her tongue, Macy began to pull the wagon.
The journey to Havenport was a quiet, comfortable ride. Varen didn't press him about his power, and Doren didn't offer any more information.
"Going to sell the grain in the village?" he asked, his voice casual.
"That's the plan, man," she responded, a sly grin on her face.
Varen looked at him, her eyes a mirror of her sly grin. "It's not a secret in these parts. The earth speaks to us." She made a subtle, almost imperceptible wave of her hand toward the roadside.
A small, jagged rock, a piece of granite he hadn't noticed, began to tremble. It then lifted into the air and, with a silent grace, began to flow alongside the wagon, following the path of an invisible stream. She then made a quick, deft movement, and the rock returned to its place on the roadside, a silent testament to her power.
"It tells us who is one of us, and who is an imposter. You have the scent of the earth on you, Doren. It's a scent of power, a scent of purpose. But it's also a scent of fear. You're afraid of your power, aren't you?"
Doren said nothing. He had spent his entire life in fear of his power. He had spent his entire life hiding, running from the truth of who he was. Now, he was a man who had to face that truth.
He took a deep breath, and with a voice that was both quiet and firm, he said, "To be honest, I just found out I had earth powers around eight months ago."
Varen looked at him, her green eyes filled with a new kind of understanding. She didn't press him, she didn't question his statement. She simply accepted it, as if she knew the truth was something he was only just beginning to accept himself.
"It's a gift," she said, her voice a low, friendly murmur. "A powerful gift. It's a part of you. You can't hide from it forever."
She then looked at the road ahead, a quiet determination on her face. "You're going to Havenport," she said, her voice filled with a new kind of purpose. "You're going to a new place. You're going to a new life. And you're going to a new destiny. You're a part of something bigger now. You're a part of the earth. You're a part of the family."
"I just sell grain so we can eat," she said, her voice a low, matter-of-fact murmur. "I got two younger brothers at home and a widow ma." Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, a silent understanding passing between them. "My old man died in the war, we were told."
Her words hung in the air, a silent mirror to his own family's pain. They were two people on a road, two people who had lost a father to a war they didn't understand. She was a woman who had to keep going, a woman who had to be a rock for her family.
"Do you know anything about that war?" Doren asked, his voice low and filled with a decade of unspoken questions.
Varen looked at him, her gaze unwavering. She didn't answer his question directly. Instead, she asked one of her own, a question that was both a challenge and a quiet, knowing observation.
"Why?" she asked, her voice a low, rough murmur. "Your dad go off to war too?"
The question hung in the air, a final, stunning blow to the fragile peace between them. She knew. She didn't know the whole story, but she knew the part that mattered.
"Yeah," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur. "Ten years ago. Almost eleven now."
Varen said nothing. She looked at the road ahead, her eyes filled with a new kind of understanding. She had asked her question, and he had given her his answer. The silent, knowing bond between them was now a strong, unbreakable chain.
"All I know is the king that rules this land, he is selfish," she whispered, her voice a low, bitter murmur. "He wanted trade from Frozetria and they declined. They're all self-sufficient, without the extra help." She looked at him, her gaze unwavering. "I bet our fathers are dead from his greed. Either that, or prisoners."
The words hung in the air, a final, stunning blow to the fragile peace between them. Doren's father, Sophron, was a master of the six elements. He was a king-maker. He was a man of power and purpose. But he was also a man who had gone to a war that was all a part of a selfish king's greed. His father was not a hero; he was a pawn.
The sun began its slow descent, painting the rolling hills in hues of orange and purple. The long shadows stretched across the fields, and Doren's stomach rumbled in protest. He had been so focused on his conversation with Varen, on the shocking truth of his father's disappearance, that he hadn't noticed how far they had traveled.
"We should stop soon," Varen said, her voice a low murmur. "It's a long way to Havenport, and we won't make it before nightfall." She steered Macy off the main road and into a small, secluded group of trees. The Fenhoof, with a quiet grunt of approval, began to graze on the thick, mossy ground.
They made a small fire, the crackling flames a comforting presence in the growing darkness. The stew they had for dinner was simple, but it filled the air with a warm, inviting aroma. As they ate, the silence between them was no longer awkward, but filled with a new kind of understanding.
"What you said," Doren began, his voice barely a whisper. "About the king... and Frozetria. Do you know anything else?"
Varen looked at him, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "Not much," she said, her voice a low, rough murmur. "The war was a long time ago. Most people just... moved on. They don't talk about it anymore. But there are still whispers. Whispers about a 'king-maker' and the power he possessed."
Doren said nothing. He looked at the Focal Stone in his hand, its smooth, gray surface reflecting the flickering firelight. He was a part of something bigger now, a part of a world he didn't understand yet.
The night air was cool, and the fire, a small, comforting presence, cast long, dancing shadows on the trees around them. Doren and Varen, two strangers who had shared a silent grief, were now allies on their journeys.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the last vestiges of twilight painted the western sky in deep purples and oranges. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
Doren and Varen moved with quiet purpose. From the back of the wagon, Varen pulled out two tightly rolled bedrolls made of thick, waterproof canvas and wool. She unrolled them side by side on a relatively flat patch of ground near the fire, positioning them so their feet faced the warmth of the dwindling flames.
Doren, meanwhile, began to gather more firewood, snapping off fallen branches and piling them near the crackling embers. He instinctively felt the subtle shifts in the earth around him, a low, comforting hum that had become a constant companion since he awakened his affinity. He didn't actively do anything with it, but the awareness gave him a quiet sense of security.
Varen then checked on Macy, the Fenhoof. She stroked the creature's powerful snout, murmuring softly. Macy nudged her hand, a low rumble emanating from her chest. Varen offered her a handful of dried oats from a pouch, and the Fenhoof munched.
Before settling down, Varen walked a slow perimeter around their small camp, her eyes scanning the shadows, her hand resting lightly on the dagger at her belt. It was a familiar, almost unconscious habit, born from years on the road.
With the bedrolls laid out and a fresh supply of wood beside the fire, they both shed their boots and settled down. The wool blankets were surprisingly warm against the chill of the night. Doren pulled his blanket closer, the Focal Stone still clutched in his hand beneath it.
"Try to get some rest, Doren," Varen said, her voice soft in the quiet night. "Tomorrow, we'll reach Havenport."
Doren nodded, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. The weariness of the day, coupled with the emotional weight of their conversation, finally began to pull at him. He closed his eyes, the image of the flickering fire imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, and drifted into a restless sleep, filled with new questions and the faint echo of whispers about a "king-maker."