Allan blinked against the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, unsure whether it was morning or evening. A profound stillness blanketed the grove—the same grove where he and Canya had once spent the night, sheltered by the hush of ancient trees and the looming presence of the five stone pillars. The air was crisp, scented faintly with moss and the passage of untold time.
The five pillars stood as they always had—worn smooth by eons, pale grey and imposing, arranged in a rough circle like forgotten sentinels. But something felt different. He couldn't tell how many days had passed. He felt no hunger, no weariness. It was as if time itself had thinned here, stretched and become translucent.
At his feet lay his backpack. Inside, his familiar belongings: a few changes of clothes, his precious brushes, his paints, and tightly rolled canvases. His easel rested beside it, still cleverly collapsed to resemble a walking stick. Even his small pouch of money remained untouched.
And beside it all—Canya's satchel.
He froze.
Canya.
Her absence roared in his chest like an avalanche, a sudden, crushing weight of realization. His first thought was to call her name, to shout it into the quiet grove, but something stopped him—an instinct that silence mattered here, that sound might break a delicate balance. He scanned the grove again, a desperate hope fluttering.
Then, from between two of the pillars, a woman stepped into the clearing. She looked to be in her early thirties, cloaked in a flowing garment the color of birch bark. Her face struck him as vaguely familiar, a fleeting impression he couldn't quite grasp, but he couldn't place her. There was something about her eyes—a glint of recognition not entirely her own, as if they held borrowed sight.
"You have succeeded," she said with a calm, unreadable smile.
Allan stared at her, still reeling from Canya's missing satchel. "Succeeded in what?"
"In breaking the Circle," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "You passed through the threshold. Few ever do. I did not think you would."
"The Circle?" Allan repeated, taking a step forward, his mind struggling to reconcile her words with his recent experiences. "What does that even mean? Was all of that—Henry, the scroll, the illusions—was it real?"
The woman nodded slowly. "It wasn't illusion, not in the way you mean it. It was… a shaped reality. A spell, crafted by the old ones of Woodland. You were tested, guided. Not deceived."
Her voice was gentle, admiring even, with a soft cadence. "And you proved to be more than I expected. Woodland will need someone like you."
But Allan's jaw tensed, his attention fixed on a single, vital question. "Where's Canya?"
That was all he cared about. The woman's accolades and cryptic explanations meant nothing if Canya wasn't safe, wasn't here with him.
"She is—nowhere, and somewhere," the woman said slowly, her gaze thoughtful.
He stepped forward again, menace tightening his shoulders, a protective instinct overriding his caution. "Where is she? Tell me."
The woman raised a calming hand. "I did not take her. She's still here—trapped in the Circle, on the inside."
She waved her hand, and the air shimmered with invisible energy. Between the pillars, just past the edge of the physical circle they formed, Canya appeared—translucent and distant, like a figure seen behind misted glass. She stood still, clutching a folded hide to her chest, turning slowly from one direction to another, her expression confused and silent.
Allan took a step toward her, a desperate urge to reach out, but his foot hit an invisible barrier with a muffled thud. A ripple of faint blue energy bloomed outward from the air where he had tried to pass, a silent warning.
"You can't reach her that way," the woman said. "Not until Mashahl is tamed."
"Mashahl," Allan repeated, the name resonating with a new, unsettling understanding. "You're telling me one of these stones… is Mashahl?"
The woman turned her gaze toward the ancient pillars, her eyes seeing more than just stone. "Yes. Not all of them are what they seem. Three are just stones, remnants of an older magic. Two hold consciousness. One of those—Mashahl—is powerful, alive, wild. It is what keeps the Circle breathing, maintains its hold."
"How do I find it?" Allan asked, his gaze sweeping over the imposing grey monoliths.
"You must feel them. One is like the wind, restless, shifting. The other—Mashahl—is like fire bound in stone, a contained fury. You must not only find it. You must bend it to your will."
Allan shook his head, a knot forming in his stomach. "Bend it how?"
"By being true," the woman said simply, her gaze direct, unwavering. "To yourself. To your purpose. Mashahl responds only to those who know who they are, who can offer him a new direction."
That sentence echoed inside him, resonating with a truth he was only just beginning to grasp.
With no further questions, only a burgeoning sense of destiny, Allan approached the first stone. He placed his palm on its weathered surface and closed his eyes. He let his mind go still, reaching—not with thought or intention, but with pure feeling. But there was nothing. Just cold, ancient silence.
He moved to the second. As his fingers grazed its rough exterior, a shiver passed through him. Something familiar stirred within its depths, a presence he recognized.
"Henry," he whispered, a name he hadn't truly connected to a physical form until now.
And then he felt the resistance—an immediate, throbbing push against his senses, like a presence trying to force him out, to repel him. The stone pulsed with a kind of defiance, a raw, stubborn will. But Allan didn't retreat.
Instead, he inhaled deeply, centering himself, drawing on the quiet strength he'd found in the field of flowers.
In his mind, he painted.
He imagined the chaos he'd known with Henry—twisted truths, concealed daggers, the relentless pursuit. But he painted it as something dissolving, fading away like a bad dream. He saw himself washing it away with color: vibrant crimson for truth, deep cobalt for unwavering resolve, shimmering gold for newfound freedom. In his inner eye, the image took shape and sharpened, becoming more potent, more real than the stone itself, until the pillar before him could no longer resist the sheer force of his artistic will.
The surface began to tremble. Cracks splintered across the pillar like miniature lightning bolts, spreading rapidly across its grey facade. Then, with a sudden, expelled breath of wind, the entire stone disintegrated into fine dust, scattering across the mossy earth.
At its core, left lying on the damp ground, was a glowing blue stone, smooth and humming with quiet power.
Allan stooped, picked it up, and felt it pulse gently in his hand, a soft, reassuring beat.
The woman watched, her expression unreadable, a faint smile playing on her lips.
He turned toward the third pillar, his heart now more focused, more alert, filled with a strange new confidence.
This time, as his fingers brushed the stone, he felt something strange—warmth, but not resistance. It was like touching a stone that remembered summer, that held warmth within its core. There was something alive here, a deep consciousness, but not hostile. Curious, maybe. Wary.
"This one?" he asked quietly, not expecting an answer from the stone itself.
No direct answer came.
He closed his eyes again, preparing to paint.
But nothing rose in his mind. No image. No memory of Mashahl's malice. His artistic impulse, usually so clear, was silent.
Instead, he heard a faint whisper—not from the stone, but from deep inside him, a voice of quiet clarity.
Do not paint this one. Show it your truth.
Allan opened his eyes. "Who am I?" he murmured aloud, the question a revelation in itself.
That question, once unclear, a source of torment, was beginning to answer itself.
He was an artist, yes. A man who had failed and tried again. He wasn't like Henry, bending facts to his will. He wasn't like the old sorcerers, wielding power to dominate. Power didn't bend to him; it flowed through him only when it had purpose, when it aligned with his core.
He dropped the glowing blue stone at the base of the pillar, placing it carefully on the moss. Then he stepped back and bowed—not in submission, but in acknowledgment, a profound gesture of respect.
The wind stirred through the grove, a soft sigh.
A low hum thrummed from deep within the pillar, a sound that resonated in the air like a distant song finally remembered, finally found.