CHAPTER 110: CHAPTER 109 - EMBERS IN THE WIND

Two days passed.

The grove remained quiet. The small group packed slowly, without urgency. Caliste helped repair the wagon’s axle. Mora showed the child how to sharpen a tool without cutting his thumb. In the mornings, mist clung to the grass until the sun lifted it. In the evenings, the stars returned—uncurated, imperfect, scattered like memory.

But peace, Caliste had learned, was not a lasting thing.

It was a pause.

And pauses always ended.

On the third evening, the rider came.

Dust cloaked his coat. His horse bore the lean look of distance. At first glance, there was nothing to mark him as different from any other traveler—no armor, no sigils. But Caliste saw it in his hands: the way they twitched slightly, like a man used to drawing steel. Not to fight.

To survive.

He dismounted without words.

Mora stepped forward, nodding with guarded calm. "Looking for shelter?"

The man’s eyes flicked over the group—lingered on Caliste for a moment too long.

"No," he said. His voice was rasped by distance. "Looking for truth."

The words felt heavier than they should have.

Mora tilted her head. "We don’t sell prophecy here, stranger."

"I heard the earth broke open in the valley. That the sky turned black for a full minute. That something older than kings died in fire."

He didn’t raise his voice.

But every ear in the grove turned toward him.

Caliste stayed still.

The rider’s gaze didn’t leave him.

"And I heard," he said softly, "that someone walked away."

No one moved.

Mora glanced at Caliste.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The rider took a slow breath.

"You don’t have to say anything," he murmured. "Just know the wind is carrying your name again. East to the capital. South to the hollow courts. West, even, to the spire kingdoms."

He turned slightly—one hand brushing his horse’s mane.

"And where names travel, so do questions."

He left not long after.

Didn’t stay the night.

Didn’t need to.

The grove didn’t speak for hours.

And Caliste, that night, did not sleep.

He sat with his back to a tree, his sword resting across his knees, and stared at the fire until morning.

Because somewhere, out in the wide world, the embers were catching.

And soon...

The flames would return.

***

The fire had burned low by the time the stars wheeled fully overhead.

The others had retreated into sleep one by one. Even Mora, ever vigilant, had nodded off beneath her cloak, her blade resting near but untouched. The child snored softly, curled beneath the wagon with the doll clutched to his chest. Somewhere in the trees, an owl cried once, then fell silent.

But Caliste remained awake.

Not from fear.

From instinct.

It had been too long since someone had spoken his name with that weight.

And the rider had not carried idle rumors. No, he’d spoken like a scout. Someone sent to see if the impossible had happened. Which meant someone, somewhere, had known that it could.

Caliste shifted slightly, keeping his sword balanced across his lap.

He stared not at the fire, but at the sky—at the scattered stars, free from illusion. The same sky he had looked up to as a child, long before any of this. Before the sanctum. Before Alek. Before the burden of memory had ever settled onto his shoulders.

He wondered how long it would take before another one came.

The rider wouldn’t be the last.

He knew how these things moved. Truth had a pulse, but rumor had wings. And those wings were already circling the old capitals, whispering through court chambers and sanctuaries alike.

There would be letters.

Agents.

Perhaps blades.

He did not fear them.

But he pitied them.

Because they would come expecting a broken man who had slain a tyrant.

They wouldn’t understand that what he had killed was more than a man.

It had been an idea.

And those don’t die quietly.

A breeze stirred the embers, sending sparks curling into the night air.

Caliste closed his eyes, just for a moment.

And remembered.

Not war.

Not vengeance.

A field of golden grass, swaying in a warm wind.

A voice calling his name—not in fear, not in praise.

Just calling.

He opened his eyes again.

Tomorrow, he would leave.

Not because he was hunted.

But because he still had something left to do.

He didn’t know what it was.

Not yet.

But he felt it in his bones.

A thread tugging at him through the weave of fate.

The wind changed.

And he looked toward the east.

***

Dawn broke without ceremony.

Caliste rose before the sun breached the horizon. The grove was still asleep behind him—blankets pulled tight, boots resting beside tired feet, embers sighing in the fire pit. He didn’t wake anyone.

Mora would understand.

He left the piece of bread she had given him untouched beside the kindling stones. A quiet thank-you. A parting note.

The river hummed beside him as he followed its curve eastward.

No road marked his path. Only instinct, and something deeper than memory. A pull that spoke without language. A thread that hadn’t yet shown its source.

The wind rose higher as he climbed out of the valley, picking up voices from trees and ruins. Birds stirred in the canopy. Distant thunder rolled across unseen mountains.

By midday, he crossed a ridge and saw the first sign of the old world returning: a broken waystone, half-buried in moss. It bore no markings—not anymore. But the way the ground was worn, the curve of nearby roots, the pattern of stone beneath soil—it told a story.

This was once a border.

And someone had erased it.

Deliberately.

He crouched, ran a hand along the stone’s edge.

Faint warmth.

Old magic.

Not active, but aware.

A warning or a witness.

He stood again and moved on.

Near dusk, as the trees thinned and gave way to open field, he saw it—small at first. A silhouette against the golden sky. A banner.

Torn.

Bleached nearly white.

But it was there.

And beneath it, a carriage. Unmarked, flanked by three horses and a single rider. No escort. No caravan.

Too small to be military.

Too calm to be lost.

He didn’t approach right away.

He circled through the brush, silent as wind, until he was close enough to hear voices.

"...he’ll pass through this way. That’s what they said."

The speaker was a woman. Refined voice. Not from the grove.

A noble?

No.

Sharper than that.

"I don’t trust the report," said another—a man this time. "If he’s alive, he’s not going to let himself be found."

"He doesn’t need to be found. He needs to see."

Caliste narrowed his eyes.

The woman stepped from the carriage.

In her hand—sealed parchment.

Not royal wax.

Older.

The sigil of the First Flame.

A name buried so deep even most scholars thought it myth.

But Caliste knew it.

And now, he knew why he had been pulled east.

Not by chance.

By invitation.

***

Caliste didn’t move right away.

He stayed low, fingers pressed to the earth, watching the scene unfold like an echo of a memory he hadn’t earned. The parchment in the woman’s hand was too precise, too carefully guarded, for her to be a simple courier.

She was waiting.

Not just for him—but for something he would recognize.

That made it more dangerous.

He stepped out of the brush without drawing his blade.

The man near the horses reacted first, hand going to the hilt at his hip, but the woman lifted a single hand and stopped him cold.

Her eyes met Caliste’s.

No fear.

Only certainty.

"You’re earlier than expected," she said.

Caliste approached slowly. "I wasn’t trying to be."

Up close, the woman looked older than her voice suggested. Early forties, perhaps, but weathered by something deeper than age. Her eyes were the color of old parchment—soft, yellowed, but unreadable. She held the scroll out, but didn’t step closer.

"I was told to give this to the one who walks with the sword of memory."

Caliste raised an eyebrow.

"That what they’re calling it now?"

The woman didn’t smile. "Names change. Meaning doesn’t."

He took the scroll.

The seal was intact—an old sigil, ringed in concentric flame. Not gold. Not silver. Ashen. As if it had been sealed in fire and cooled by time. He cracked the wax and opened the parchment slowly, bracing for glyphs or traps.

But it wasn’t magic.

Not in the conventional sense.

It was a map.

A single location, marked with a glyph he hadn’t seen in years—etched in the margins of old records beneath the Sanctum’s deeper archives.

He felt the pull in his chest immediately.

"I don’t suppose you’re going to explain why this came to me now," he said.

The woman’s eyes didn’t waver.

"Because you burned the lie. And now the truth has no choice but to rise."

He folded the map.

Looked east again.

Then back at the woman.

"If this is a summons, it’s a dangerous one."

"Everything real is."

She turned back toward the carriage.

The rider mounted without a word.

No request for escort.

No demand for answer.

Just a delivery.

Just a thread.

And now, Caliste had to decide if he would follow it.

The wind shifted.

And the ash-sigil in his hand felt suddenly very, very warm.