The day of departure came too quickly.
From the first bell at dawn, Rionne was alive in a way Elira had never seen before. Banners of dyed cloth hung from doorways, rippling softly in the breeze. The baker lit his ovens long before sunrise, and the smell of warm bread spread through the streets like a blessing. Shepherds paused their flocks to watch, merchants set aside their wares, and children ran barefoot through the dust with shrieks of excitement.
Rionne had never known grandeur, but today it offered something far greater — its warmth.
At the heart of the square, Elira stood with her silver braid catching the sunlight, her blue eyes lowered beneath the weight of countless gazes. Rho clung to her side, crimson eyes shimmering though her lips trembled in a stubborn attempt not to cry.
The villagers pressed forward one by one.
A round loaf of bread, still steaming.
A pouch of dried berries, carefully wrapped.
A coil of wool spun from the shepherd's flock.
Even the carpenter's son slipped her a small wooden carving of a gryphon, shyly muttering, "For luck."
Farmers clapped her on the shoulder, rough palms steadying her like fathers she had never known. Merchants promised that one day, when her deeds reached the capital, they would boast that they had grown up beside her. Children too small to understand war shouted until their voices cracked:
"You'll be a knight, Elira!"
"Don't forget us when you're famous!"
Their laughter rang bright against the heaviness in her chest. She smiled for them, but her throat ached.
Rionne had raised her. Every face here had carried her in some small way. A loaf when she and Rho had gone hungry, firewood when their hearth grew cold, a mended cloak when winter winds threatened to bite. She wanted to speak, to thank them, but no words came.
The village bell tolled once, its somber note cutting through the cheer. The crowd fell silent. Slowly, they parted as the elder — bent with age yet sharp-eyed — stepped forward, his cane tapping against the stone. He raised one hand and beckoned.
"Come, child. Alone."
Elira's breath caught. She looked at Rho. Her sister frowned but nodded, releasing her hand with great reluctance. Elira squeezed it once before following the elder into the quiet shadow of his home.
The elder led her to a modest chamber. From beneath a table, he drew out a small chest worn smooth by years. With deliberate care, he lifted the lid.
Inside lay a necklace.
It was wrought of dark metal shaped like twin wings, unfurled as though in flight. In the center rested a gem the color of midnight, faintly clouded as if smoke lingered inside. On the back was carved a single letter, sharp and deep: E.
Elira's hand trembled as she reached for it. The metal was cool, heavier than she expected, its weight settling into her palm like a secret meant only for her.
"This," the elder said, his voice carrying the weight of memory, "was your father's. He left it in my care, with instructions that it be given to you when you were grown. It bears the mark of a guild older than any still remembered. Few alive would recognize it, and fewer still would dare speak its name."
Elira swallowed, her voice hoarse. "Why… why me?"
"Because it is yours by blood." The elder's eyes softened. "And because within it lies more than metal or memory. There is something inside it… something that will awaken when you are ready."
He closed her fingers around the pendant with a hand gnarled but firm. "Your father said it would protect you, and guide you when the world grew too dark."
Her throat tightened. For years she had known her parents only through whispers — heroes, warriors, the forge left silent. Now, for the first time, she held proof that they had left more behind than stories.
"What about Rho?" she asked, her voice unsteady.
The elder's gaze clouded, a shadow crossing his face. "Your mother left something as well. A keepsake that will belong to your sister, when the time is right. But that is not for today."
Elira's lips parted as though to protest, but she stopped herself. She knew enough to recognize when secrets were meant to wait.
The elder straightened, though his back remained bent with age. His voice grew firm, steady as stone. "Your parents were not ordinary. Nor are you. Do not forget that."
When Elira stepped back into the sunlight, the square erupted in cheers. She forced a smile and clutched the necklace to her chest, its cool weight anchoring her trembling hands.
Rho broke free of the crowd and ran to her, arms thrown around her waist. "Don't go!" she whispered fiercely, her crimson eyes wet with unshed tears.
Elira knelt, holding her sister tightly. "I'll come back," she murmured, her forehead pressing gently against Rho's. "I promise."
"You'd better." Rho tried to sound playful, but her voice cracked and betrayed her.
Elira memorized the warmth, the scent of smoke and herbs clinging to her sister's hair, the faint hitch in her breath. This, more than anything, was what she would carry into the unknown.
The crowd parted again. At the edge of the square, armored knights waited beside their gryphons, talons scraping stone in impatience. Sirena stood among them, her black hair drawn back, glaive strapped across her back. Her eyes flicked briefly to the pendant glinting against Elira's chest. If she recognized it, she gave no sign.
"Mount," she commanded, her voice like steel.
Elira pried herself gently from Rho's grasp and stepped forward. Her legs shook, but she did not falter. The gryphon lowered itself as she climbed into the saddle. Its feathers bristled, wings spreading wide until they blotted out the sun.
Voices rose behind her, a chorus of farewell:
"Go well, Elira!"
"Make us proud!"
"Come home!"
The gryphon leapt skyward with a thunderous beat of wings. The square dropped away, the villagers shrinking to motes of color, their cheers fading into whispers, then silence.
Rionne grew small beneath her — only smoke from chimneys, ribbons of fields, and the faint glimmer of the river winding away.
Elira pressed the pendant to her chest. Its weight was steady, but beneath the cold metal she felt something else — a faint pulse, slow but undeniable. Not hers. Not the gryphon's.
Something waiting. Watching.
She tightened her grip on the reins, silver hair whipping in the wind. The village, her sister, her childhood — all of it was behind her now.
Ahead lay the Sanctum. Ahead lay the Third Order.
And ahead lay the unknown path her parents had left for her to walk.