"Come, sit with me," Elder Tovan said, his voice calm and steady.
Randall looked up at the old man, feeling the weight of his grief press heavily on his chest. He wanted to run, as he had done so many times before, to escape the pain that clung to him like a second skin. But something in Tovan's eyes, something gentle yet firm, made him pause.
"Tell me," the elder continued, "what bothers you?"
Randall shifted uncomfortably, unsure where to begin. How could he explain everything that had ever hurt him? How could he put into words a life defined by loss, rejection, and endless fear?
Tovan smiled faintly, sensing his hesitation. "You have a lot on your young mind," he said. "And may I remind you that a problem shared is a problem half solved. Sit, Speak. Let your heart unburden itself."
He tapped the space on the forest floor beside him, and Randall, trembling, slowly lowered himself to sit. His bare feet brushed against the cold earth, the smell of moss and damp leaves filling his senses.
At first, he said nothing. He just stared at the ground, his mind swirling with memories too heavy to name. Then, suddenly, the dam broke.
He began to cry.
He cried for his mother, Aria, who had died and left him in a world that seemed determined to crush him. He cried for a father who had loved him in secret but had been too afraid to defy a queen and the laws of Glandow. He cried for every insult he had endured, every punishment he had suffered, every moment when he had felt invisible and unwanted.
Elder Tovan put his hands on his shoulders, firm and reassuring. He patted him gently, grounding him, letting Randall know that this space was safe.
"Go on," Tovan said softly. "Tell me everything."
And Randall did.
He spoke in bursts between sobs, trembling with exhaustion and relief. He told Tovan about the palace, about Queen Noria's fury, and the day of the hunt that had left him imprisoned in the dungeon. He spoke of the guards, of Torbert's insults, and the bitter indifference of the nobles who had never seen him as more than a shadow. He spoke of the nights spent alone, hiding in barns, fleeing through forests, and of the fear that had become his constant companion.
Tovan listened silently, his eyes never leaving Randall's. He said nothing, not a single word, until the boy had finished. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, the rustle of leaves and the chirping of night creatures fading into quiet.
When Randall finally stopped, spent and exhausted, the elder leaned back slightly, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes, wise and kind, softened as he regarded the boy before him.
"We are your family," he said finally. "Look no further."
Randall blinked at him, unsure he understood.
"Here," Tovan continued, "we bow to no king or law except the rules of the spirits.
Most of the young men you see here," he said, nodding to the campfires where boys trained and moved with quiet purpose, "were abandoned, left for dead, or without any future. But they came to me. Through the guidance of the spirits, I helped shape them, taught them responsibility, honor, and strength."
Randall's throat tightened. He had never been told he could belong anywhere. He had never been told that he could be more than a shadow.
"You too can be a part of us," Tovan said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes intense. "It is up to you. You can keep running, hiding in the shadows, or you can choose to stay and learn. To grow. To be part of something greater than yourself. You have a choice."
Randall did not answer immediately. His mind was still reeling from the torrent of emotions, the memories of pain, and the strange, inexplicable guidance of the forest creature. He could not yet find the words.
Tovan smiled patiently, waiting.
"Tell me," the elder said finally, his voice gentle, "who were you speaking to in your sleep?"
Randall froze. His pulse quickened, and a shiver ran down his spine. He didn't know what the voice was, the light, the creature that had appeared to him when the darkness pressed too heavily on his heart. Yet now, faced with Tovan's calm curiosity, he felt he had no choice.
"I… I don't know," Randall admitted finally, his voice small. "Truly, I do not know what it is. It came to me in the forest, and I… I have been more confused than ever."
He swallowed, hesitating as the memories pressed in. "It… it radiates light all over its body. Its skin… it's scaly, but it doesn't have a tail. It's not even as tall as my knees, yet it… it speaks with wisdom, it proclaims truths and teaches proverbs." His voice trembled as he tried to describe the impossible.
Tovan's eyes narrowed, and he remained silent for a long moment. The firelight from the nearby campfire danced across his lined face, highlighting the furrows of age and thought. He did not speak, yset Randall could feel the weight of his gaze pressing down, waiting for him to continue.
"It… it talks," Randall whispered. "And it calls me a warrior, even when I feel nothing but fear and weakness. I do not understand why it is here. I… I am not worthy of it, I think. Not yet."
The elder nodded slowly, absorbing every word. His hands rested lightly on his knees, and he seemed to weigh the boy's story carefully against something unseen.
Finally, after a long silence, Tovan leaned back slightly and spoke, his voice low and deliberate.
"What are you," he said, his gaze locking onto Randall's, "that the Chomike, the Guardian of Destinies, would come for you?"