The morning air in Yldrahollow was unusually crisp, as though the village itself sensed something was changing. Eliakim stood at the village's edge, Codex of Imreth hanging at his side, Skyling perched silently on his shoulder, and Gideon beside him. The dirt road leading east glistened faintly with dew, and already a few villagers had gathered to see them off.
Eliakim had spent the better part of the morning going door to door, offering farewells to every household that had once shaped his childhood. To the old baker who had given him scraps as a boy; to the candle-maker whose soft-spoken lessons on light and wax had kindled his love for detail; to the twins who once dared him to climb the tallest pine. Each farewell carried the weight of memory.
"You've grown, Eliakim," said Old Merra, placing a wrinkled hand on his cheek. "Your father would be proud."
He bowed gently. "Thank you for always looking out for me."
Even the usually stern woodcutter, Harveth, clasped his shoulder with a rare smile. "Keep your head low and your eyes sharp. Forests out there aren't as kind as ours."
The children who had once played with him surrounded him, offering trinkets—a feather, a carved rock, a bit of ribbon. He took each with reverence, tucking them into the folds of his satchel like sacred gifts.
Then, standing near the old well, Jora, Mareth, and Lanrick waited with downcast expressions. Jora looked like he had been holding back tears all morning. Mareth forced a crooked smile, and Lanrick simply stared at the ground.
"So... you're really going," Mareth said.
"Guess we'll have to get into trouble without you," Jora added with a laugh that cracked at the end.
Eliakim stepped forward and embraced them one by one.
"Take care of the village for me," he said.
"You better come back stronger," Lanrick muttered, finally looking up. "Or I'll come drag you home myself."
Eliakim grinned. "Deal."
At last, they came to the Darkmoor residence.
Seraphine stood waiting by the gate, her hair braided with lavender sprigs, her hands clasped tightly before her. She smiled, but her eyes brimmed with sorrow. Eliakim stopped before her, suddenly feeling younger than he had in years.
"So this is it," she said, voice trembling. "You're truly leaving."
He nodded. "I have to know what lies beyond this place, Mother. I have to find him."
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him tightly. He returned the embrace with a fierce, silent grip.
"Here," she said, pulling something from her shawl. It was a scarf—dyed in deep forest green and dusk blue, stitched with the sigil of the Darkmoor family: a rising star enclosed in a circle. "It'll shield you from sun and snow alike. Wear it until we meet again."
Eliakim wrapped it around his neck slowly, reverently. It smelled of her, of home.
"I will. Every day."
Seraphine placed her hand on Gideon's shoulder. "And you, Gideon Ravenscar. Take care of my son."
Gideon lowered his head. "With my life, ma'am."
Just then, the village blacksmith stepped forward—a massive man with soot-stained hands and a thoughtful brow. In his arms, wrapped in cloth, was a weapon: a pair of silver axes, etched with family runes and bound together by a leather strap.
"I heard Gideon's going out there without a weapon," he said gruffly. "This belonged to my grandfather. A twin axe—made for precision, not brute force. My gift to the boy who saved us, passed to the one who follows him."
He handed it to Eliakim. Without a word, Eliakim turned and offered it to Gideon.
"These are yours now."
Gideon took them gently, his hands trembling slightly. The polished silver gleamed in the sunlight.
"I will wield them in your honor," he said. "In our journey."
The crowd of villagers had grown, a sea of familiar faces watching with mixed expressions of pride, sorrow, and awe. Eliakim took a final look at them all.
"Thank you," he said, his voice strong. "For raising me, guiding me, and for trusting me. I'll carry Yldrahollow with me wherever I go."
With that, he turned east, toward the uncertain path.
Seraphine wiped her eyes with a trembling hand. "Go well, my son."
Skyling let out a low, soft trill, and the two boys began their walk.
But waiting at the edge of the path was a simple cart drawn by a weathered brown horse. Tied to the rear axle sat the merchant, bound at the wrists and still fuming with quiet resentment. Though he had been stripped of his power and belongings, the terms of his exile still required him to be escorted safely to the nearest city.
Eliakim climbed onto the cart's driver seat, taking the reins. Gideon climbed beside him, twin axes strapped to his back. The merchant sat in the back, muttering under his breath.
To any passerby, they would look like a small merchant caravan—with a master and his two guards. But those who looked closer would see the truth in their eyes: the master had become the prisoner, and the guards were not there to serve—but to see justice carried through.
The road stretched ahead like a promise, the village behind them like a dream fading in the light of morning.