The road beyond Hollow Wind stretched beneath a restless sky. The air had changed — no longer gentle and still, but sharp with the scent of rain and warning. Amara felt it deep within her chest: something was coming. The peace they had found was only a pause before another storm.
For days, she and Lori walked through empty plains and lonely woods, following paths only he seemed to know. Sometimes, when the wind turned, she thought she heard footsteps — faint, distant, yet deliberate. One evening, as they rested by a shallow stream, Lori's eyes lifted suddenly. "They've found us," he murmured.
Amara's hand froze over the water skin. "Who?" she whispered.
"The ones sent by fear," he said softly.
Just after sunset, shadows appeared along the ridge — five riders, cloaked in gray, their torches flickering like dying stars. They bore no banner, but Amara recognized the symbol painted on their shields: the Temple of Mirana. At their head rode Elder Taren's envoy, a hard-faced man named Coren, once a scholar, now a hunter of heresy.
When they drew close, Coren called out, "Lori of no name, by the will of the temple you are summoned to answer for deception and blasphemy!"
Lori stood, calm as the wind before a storm. "Deception needs no defense when truth has no voice," he said.
Coren sneered. "You speak in riddles. You twist the minds of good people. Come willingly, or we will take you by force."
Amara stepped forward. "He saved lives! He brought water to Hollow Wind, healed the sick—"
Coren's eyes narrowed. "Magic always comes with a price. And when that price is blood, it's no gift — it's a curse."
Lori's gaze softened. "The only curse is the blindness that refuses to see light when it shines before it."
Coren's patience snapped. "Take him!"
The riders dismounted, blades flashing in the torchlight. Amara grabbed Lori's hand. "Run!" she whispered.
But Lori didn't move. Instead, he raised his palm toward the earth. A soft tremor rippled beneath their feet, and suddenly, a bright wall of light burst upward between them and the riders — blinding, silent, pure. The horses reared, men shouted, and the torches sputtered out as if swallowed by the night itself.
When the light faded, Lori and Amara were gone.
They ran until the moon rose high, entering a dense forest where silver mist curled between the trees. The world there felt ancient — untouched by fear or fire. Amara gasped for breath, clutching her side. "They'll keep coming," she said.
"They must," Lori replied quietly. "For only through pursuit will they learn what they're chasing."
She frowned. "You speak as if they're meant to follow you."
He turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Every shadow exists only because of light. Without one, the other cannot be seen."
They found shelter beneath a massive oak, its roots forming a hollow space large enough for them both. As Amara drifted into uneasy sleep, Lori remained awake, eyes fixed on the stars beyond the canopy. His body glowed faintly, like the last ember of a dying flame. He whispered to the night, though no one was near enough to hear: "The time is coming."
In her dreams, Amara saw a vast sea of light — endless, alive, and full of voices. From its heart, Lori stood, his body dissolving into radiance. She reached for him, but he smiled sadly, fading into the brilliance until only his voice remained. "Don't mourn the light when it leaves," he said. "It only goes where it's needed next."
She woke with tears on her face and the faint sound of hoofbeats far away.
By dawn, the riders had reached the forest's edge. Coren dismounted, studying the faint footprints in the mud. "They can't hide forever," he said.
One of his men, younger and uncertain, hesitated. "What if he speaks truth, sir? What if he's not what they say?"
Coren's jaw tightened. "Truth is decided by the temple. Not by wanderers."
But as he turned away, a shadow crossed his face — a flicker of doubt, gone almost as soon as it appeared. That night, he found Amara gathering water near a stream while Lori prayed nearby. He crept closer, bow drawn. Yet when he aimed, Lori looked up and met his gaze — calm, unafraid, even compassionate.
"Why do you hate what you don't understand?" Lori asked quietly.
Coren's hands trembled. "Because understanding means questioning — and questioning means losing everything I've been taught to believe."
Lori lowered his voice. "Then perhaps losing it is how you'll find what's real."
For a moment, Coren froze — then, with a cry, he dropped the bow and stumbled backward, vanishing into the forest shadows.
Amara ran to Lori. "You could have stopped him—"
"I did," Lori said softly. "But not with power. With mercy."
As dawn broke, Lori's strength faltered again. His steps grew slower, his light dimmer. Amara reached for him, frightened. "You're fading faster," she whispered.
He smiled faintly. "The closer light comes to its purpose, the shorter its shadow becomes."
"What is your purpose, Lori?" she asked.
He looked toward the rising sun. "To remind the world of what it forgot — that light was never meant to be worshiped, only shared."
But as the sun climbed higher, smoke appeared on the horizon — not from hearths, but from burning villages. The fear Elder Taren had spread was now devouring the land. And Lori knew: his journey was nearing its end.