The ruins were silent, save for the low hiss of wind through fractured stone. Moonlight touched the shattered remnants of a keep long devoured by time. And in the midst of it, alone as ever, stood her.
Eira Tarn.
Cloaked in shadows, sharp-eyed, and colder than the stone beneath her boots.
I had crossed this world—not by path, but by pull—searching for something I didn’t fully understand. Until now.
I saw her.
And I knew.
I reached out, not with words, but essence. A whisper of presence. The weight of attention no mortal could ignore.
She froze mid-step, every muscle coiled.
“Who’s there?” she asked. Low, but firm. Not afraid. Just ready.
No answer from the ruins. Only me.
“You are not alone, Eira Tarn.”
Her hand darted to her side. Blade half-drawn.
“Speak again and I swear I’ll gut whatever trickster is playing at spirits.”
“I’m not a trickster. I’m not a ghost.”
“Then what are you?” she spat. “Some leftover magic? A curse? One of those lunatics who claims to hear voices from the stars?”
I paused. Carefully.
“A voice, yes. But not imagined. You heard me not with your ears but with your soul.”
She scowled, backing into the moonlight, just enough to see the shadows clearly.
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“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Too many ‘souls’ whispering these days. And none of them have answers. Gods died before magic came. Or they never existed at all.”
“Maybe. Or maybe no one ever listened closely enough.”
“Don’t quote me riddles,” she snapped. “You want something? Say it.”
I let silence answer first. Then:
“Not a prayer. Not worship. Just a moment. Let me stay. Let me witness you.”
She narrowed her eyes, mistrust thick in every breath.
“Why me? Why now?”
---
Eira stood in the chamber again. Stone walls, golden banners, and the cold echo of judgment in the air.
Her father knelt with dignity still clinging to his posture. Her mother, silent but trembling. And before them, robed in gold-trimmed outfit, stood the Duke. Surrounded by clowns that calls themselves "nobles".
“But we are your loyal subjects,” her father reasoned, voice firm but calm. “We have done nothing to betray you.”
The Duke's gaze was steel.
“You may not have betrayed me directly. But you’ve harbored outlaws in your house. That alone is dangerous to me and to my realm.”
“Those outlaws you spoke of,” her father continued, “they’ve helped the land. You’ve benefited from them. If left alone, yes, they may do harm. But under guidance—under your rule—we could take them in. Use their talents to serve, not destroy.”
A murmur rose through the hall. Nobles shifting in their seats. Some nodded slightly, others leaned back with smug smiles, hungry for downfall. Eira remembered the whispers. They were of half support, half poison.
But more than the sounds, she remembered the look in the Duke’s eyes. Absolute. Distant. A gaze of someone who has decided.
“Silence!” he shouted, and the chamber froze.
“For disrespecting myself, my family, and my land... For amassing a group of unidentified and unregistered mages under your roof... You and your household are hereby sentenced to death.”
Eira screamed.
She didn’t remember doing it, but her throat burned. She ran, but something rough wrapped around her head. A sack, maybe. She never saw them fall. Only darkness is what she saw.
She awoke quite normally, with closed eyes and hands clutching her chest. Yes, for her, that is normal.
Her fingers curled into her cloak, fists trembling.
Was it longing?
Regret?
She didn’t care.
She didn't want to do anything today. Not to move. Not to think. Just to let the silence take her again.
---
Eira returned just as the sun took its last peek at the edge of the horizon, casting golden hues through the cracks of the ruined structure. Her arms cradles a bag. It is part forest herbs, and part goods—waxed paper and jerkies. Likely from a town nearby, or a camp, or stolen. It didn’t matter.
Not to her and neither to you.
She passed through the crumbling archways and beams until she reached that room, one of the few still intact. The door creaked softly as she entered, and the single window across from it filtered the last light of day, casting the room in half-shadow. A cleaned space, or one that is recently cleaned, though dust still hang in corners.
Without a word, she set the bag down and began her quiet activity.
Organizing, shelving, and lining up herbs in small bundles. Setting down salvaged goods with deliberate care on makeshift shelves— a bundle of creation by hers truly from broken wood and iron nails bent back into place that she found in the ruins yesterday.
When she finished, she stepped back. Eyes taking in the small space. There was still debris in the outer hallway, but this room… it was hers now.
Then she smiled, just a little, and it was real. Just as her mouth curved upward, she heard a sound. It was faint, almost nothing. Eira froze and turned.
The light from the door stretched long across the stone floor. Shadows painted themselves across her feet. Fingers of dusk slowly creeping closer. Yet even with the mysterious display, she watched.
There it was again. A sound. A whisper. Not a breeze. Not an echo. A whisper, too quiet to decipher, too strange to ignore.
Her breath hitched, and she reached instinctively for the dagger at her belt.
But when she glanced toward the window a cat was there. Black as soot. Small. Perched neatly on the stone ledge.
It sat with composure, grooming one paw with slow licks. Its fur shimmered subtly in the golden light, and when it paused to stare at her a pair of yellow eyes locked onto hers.
Eira didn’t move. She couldn’t. That eye gripped her, not in fear, not in magic, but something deeper.
Her heart beat once. Twice. The whisper came again. It is still quiet. Still indistinct. But this time… it wasn’t outside. It was inside her mind.
Info Dump #2:
- "God's died before magic came" suggests that magic only came recently.