The fire crackled softly under a moonless sky, its glow dancing in the hollows of shattered stone. Seraphina Vale watched the boy sleeping beside it, curled beneath her cloak, hands tucked under his chin like a cat chasing warmth. Elliot Blackthorn. Or so he claimed.
She didn't believe for a second that he was just some orphan who happened to be alone in assassin-infested ruins. But she hadn't pressed him. Not yet.
The stars above were pale tonight—smeared across the heavens like fingerprints on glass. Her eyes traced them absently, half-listening to the whispers of leaves, the settling of ash, the quiet breath of a child who had no right to be this quiet in his sleep.
She sighed. "What in all nine hells have I gotten myself into?"
The journey began at dawn.
The woods were thick here, wet with dew and morning mist. Elliot trailed behind Seraphina, gripping the walking stick she'd carved for him. It wasn't much, but it made him feel like he had purpose.
"Stay close," she said without looking back.
"I am," he answered, half-jogging to keep up.
She stopped suddenly, turned, and crouched. "And watch your footing. The ground here's soft. One wrong step and you'll tumble down the ridge like a sack of flour."
Elliot looked at the moss-covered slope beside him and nodded quickly. "Okay."
She watched him a moment longer, then stood and kept walking.
By midday, she passed him a waterskin. He took it gratefully, then hesitated.
"Where are we going?" he asked, wiping his mouth.
Seraphina kept walking. "North. My homeland. It's safer than these roads."
"Is it far?"
"Far enough," she said. "But we've both walked farther than most people ever should."
Elliot didn't reply, but something about her tone gave him the strength to keep walking.
---
That evening, after they set up camp beneath a leaning pine, she handed him a branch.
"Time you learned something useful," she said.
He blinked. "A stick?"
"A sword," she corrected. "Pretend it's a sword, at least. Your arms are too small for a real one, and I don't fancy you chopping your foot off."
He tried holding it like he'd seen her do — firm grip, shoulders square. But he wobbled, his hands too high, his legs too stiff. She watched without laughing this time, only adjusting his grip when he fumbled.
"You're stiff as a frostbitten goat," she muttered.
"I've never seen a goat," Elliot said quietly.
Seraphina paused. "Really? Huh. Well, you're missing out. Terrible creatures."
That earned a small smile from the boy. He tried again. And again.
By the time the stars rose, his arms trembled with the effort.
---
Over the next days, their rhythm became steady. Walk at dawn. Train at dusk. In between, Seraphina began teaching him in quiet doses.
On one night, she crouched beside him by the fire and opened a tightly folded piece of parchment. The edges were worn and stained, but the lines drawn in charcoal and ink still held shape.
Elliot leaned closer. "What's that?"
"A map," she said, smoothing it over a flat stone. "You're going to learn the shape of the world."
It was hand-drawn and weathered, covered in strange symbols and looping script. She tapped a corner with her gloved finger.
"This is where we are. The western edge of Velthar—my homeland."
Elliot leaned closer, his eyes wide. "What's Velthar like?"
Seraphina's expression softened. "Cold. Wild. Honest. We're a nation of ridges and wind, of people who speak little and bleed plenty. You'll like it."
"And the rest?" he asked, pointing to the other shapes.
She nodded. "You'll learn them all."
She lit another twig to give the map more light, shadows dancing on her face as she spoke.
"There are three continents that shape our world. The scholars say they were once one—before the gods argued and split it like glass beneath a hammer."
Velthar, she began, was the oldest continent, home to forgotten empires and ancient swords buried in ice. The wind sang there with voices that had no mouths.
Cyvalen, she said, was a sea of sand and glass, where cities bloomed along rivers and gold was traded like bread. "That's where Kareth is," she added. "They float their cities on sand, stubborn bastards."
Erisfall was younger, wilder. A continent of shattered kingdoms and new beginnings, where freedom and anarchy were often the same thing.
She pointed to each nation, naming them carefully.
Valewind, her home, bound by oaths and iron.
Kareth, merchant republic of endless ambition.
Drastelheim, snow-wrapped and war-forged.
Ashelor, land of seers and starlight.
Nirath, the silent land of shadows and spies.
Orrinfall, where beasts and men spoke as one.
Tir Calen, serene coastal realm ruled by whispers.
Ulmarra, the metal island, where even dreams were forged.
Haskra, the wind-scarred steppe, once an empire, now just dust.
And Veradun — the unknown. "Some say no one lives there. Others say it lives by itself."
Elliot sat still, drinking in every name like it was a story.
"Can we go to all of them?" he asked.
Seraphina smiled faintly. "Someday. If we live long enough."
"You'll learn more," Seraphina said. "This is just the surface. But you've got the spark, I think."
He beamed at the praise.
---
Hunting was harder.
Seraphina showed him snares, how to mask scent, how to move silently. Elliot tried. Oh, how he tried. But his feet always snapped a twig. His hands trembled too much when tying knots. Once, he sneezed right as a rabbit approached.
Seraphina buried her face in her palm. "The gods test me."
"I'm sorry…" Elliot muttered.
She knelt beside him. "Don't be. You're trying. And that's more than most ever do."
Later, when he finally caught a squirrel — barely — she let him clean it, gut it, and roast it, even though it came out half raw and burnt.
He was proud.
She let him be.
A week passed.
He failed more often than he succeeded. His arms ached. His hands blistered. But he never stopped trying.
Seraphina noticed. She didn't say anything. But she stopped calling him "deadweight."
---
Each night they sat under stars, and Seraphina told stories — not fairytales, but histories: betrayals that split kingdoms, lovers that burned down cities, children who became monsters or saints.
And Elliot listened. Every time, he asked the same question: "Was it true?"
And each time, Seraphina replied: "True enough."
---
One night, Elliot woke from a nightmare. He didn't cry. He just sat up, shivering.
Seraphina noticed and wordlessly patted the cloak beside her.
He hesitated, then curled up next to her.
"What did you see?" she asked after a while.
"Fire," he whispered. "A scream I couldn't stop."
She didn't press.
Instead, she wrapped her arm around him and held him close.
"I don't know what you lost, Elliot," she said quietly. "But I know what you still have."
He looked up at her.
"You have breath. You have hands. You have the stars. And you have me."
He blinked fast, then buried his face in her cloak.
"I'll take care of you," she whispered. "I swear it."
---
Two weeks passed like that.
Slowly, Elliot's grip became stronger. He could swing without falling now. He could name all ten nations from memory. He could track small animals, light a fire, and read stars for direction.
He still stumbled. He still failed. But he never gave up.
And that, more than anything, made Seraphina believe in him.
---
At last, they crested a hill.
Below them lay a quiet village nestled in a valley — stone homes, thatched roofs, a crooked chapel. The air was still. Too still.
Elliot smiled. "We're here
Seraphina stopped.
Elliot peered around her. "Is this your home?"
"No," she said slowly. "But we'll rest here."
He took a step forward. She didn't follow.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Because something was wrong.
The town was too still. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was listening. And from the edge of the chapel's crooked spire, something glinted in the light — a shimmer, like an eye watching from the shadows.
"Stay close," she whispered. Her voice was steel again.
Elliot obeyed.
And the stars above, now sharp and piercing, offered no comfort.