In the eastern reaches of Zarion, where the sun cast its first breath of light across the sleeping land, a village clung quietly to the edge of forgotten maps. Here, morning did not arrive with birdsong or joy, but with a sigh — as though even time had grown tired of this place.
Inside a crumbling wooden home, its walls etched with cracks and the floorboards bowed from years of wear, Lyra stirred awake beneath a thin blanket. The scent of rot clung to everything — wood too old to hold itself upright, memories too heavy to let go.
She sat up, brushing the strands of sleep-tangled hair from her face. Dust floated in golden shafts of light through a broken windowpane. Her eyes lingered on the ceiling, then dropped to the small form curled up beside her.
A soft smile touched her lips.
She reached out and gently nudged the bundle.
"Morning, Miya. Time to get up."
A muffled groan escaped from under the blanket. "Already? I didn't sleep at all… this dust is going to kill me," Miya muttered, yawning so wide she nearly fell sideways.
Lyra chuckled under her breath. "Blame the window. Father said there's a man in the village who can fix it — cheap, too. But we both know how that story ends."
Miya perked up at that. "Wait. Did you say we're leaving today?" She shot up like a bolt of lightning and scrambled out of bed, feet hitting the splintered floor with a thud.
Lyra watched her with a mix of amusement and sorrow. She reached for the scarf folded neatly on a wooden stool — her mother's scarf. A faded lavender hue, its scent still clinging: soft perfume and something floral, like dried lilacs. She held it to her face.
The scent hit harder than she expected.
Her throat tightened. The pain was old, but not dulled. The grief, still raw beneath the surface.
She tied it around her neck carefully — as if to protect both the scarf and the memory it carried — and blinked away the tears.
Downstairs, a loud knock echoed through the fragile home.
Then came a voice, rough but familiar:
"Open up! It's me. And I'm starving!"
The door creaked open to reveal a soldier, cloaked in white — mud-caked boots, armor scuffed from work, and an enchanted blade strapped across his back.
"Dad!" Miya beamed, running straight into his arms.
Marlic Solomere laughed as he caught both daughters in a bear hug. "Ahhh, my girls! I missed you more than sleep itself."
Lyra squirmed out of his grip with a grimace. "You stink like a goat pit."
"Can't help it," he said with a wink, wiping sweat off his brow. "Long patrol shift. River watch. Some poor bastard got dragged out of his boat a few nights ago."
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "So, we are under attack."
"Eh… maybe. But don't worry about it." He fished into his pocket and tossed a small pouch to Lyra. "Five thousand soling. Should keep us breathing for a bit."
"Just breathing," Lyra muttered.
The family gathered around what once was a proud dining table. Now, cobwebs danced in the corners of its legs, and the wood groaned with every shift of weight. Breakfast was meager — a heel of hardened bread, split in thirds.
But it was more than most in the village had.
Miya bit into her share and asked, "Dad… what happened to the supplies from the capital? We used to get deliveries every ten days."
Marlic stiffened, eyes distant.
"They've stopped… indefinitely."
"Because of the river?" Lyra asked, tone sharp.
He met her gaze. "Smart as ever. That's my girl."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then stood, stretching his sore limbs. "Now, you two head out. I need to rinse the battlefield off me before the next shift."
Lyra and Miya nodded, rising from their chairs. As they reached the door, Marlic called out, "And don't go near the center! Got it?"
But the wind had already carried his words down an empty hallway.
The road outside was rough, pitted with muddy patches and dry cracks. Ash from last night's fires drifted through the morning air, mingling with the scent of wet hay and smoldering wood.
Lyra and Miya walked side by side, a woven basket between them, half-filled with rags and empty coin pouches.
The village was slowly coming alive — if one could call it that. Farmers shuffled toward goat pens. Chickens scattered before the sweep of brooms. The air buzzed with resignation.
An old man sat beneath a gnarled tree, sharpening a chipped axe with slow, deliberate movements. He squinted at them through cloudy eyes.
"Morning, girls. Off to town again?"
Lyra nodded. "Just groceries. We'll be back before noon."
"Tell your father we still need that east fence mended. Wood's splitting like my back."
"We'll let him know," Miya chirped.
As they walked, they passed a cluster of armed men gathered near a broken-down cottage. Soldiers — easily identifiable by the sun-stitched emblem of Zarion on their sleeves — were in quiet confrontation with two hunched, red-eyed figures guarding a door. The tension in the air was heavy, like a held breath.
"What's happening over there?" Miya whispered, clutching Lyra's wrist.
"Don't know. They've been here for days now," Lyra said, slowing slightly.
"Is it the tax collector again?"
A younger officer glanced over and raised a hand in greeting, eyes lingering on Lyra.
Lyra looked away. "Ignore them. We don't need attention."
The officer's smile faded, hand falling awkwardly to his side.
They pressed on.
The path wound through dying fields and thickets of sharp bramble before finally giving way to the sprawl of the outer town — vibrant and pulsing with strange life. Arcane lanterns floated above rooftops. Creatures of different races bartered in sharp voices. Magic danced across signs and chimneys. The air, thick with unfamiliar energy, was intoxicating.
To Miya, it was dazzling.
To Lyra, it was dangerous.
Yet neither of them realized something had already begun to unravel.
The first thread had loosened from the seam.
The world — woven tightly for so long — was beginning to come apart.
And their part in it was only just beginning.