Dawn had not yet broken when Kiaria stirred from his meditation. The faint glow of moonlight still lingered through the window, falling across Diala, who sat curled in the corner of his chamber, half-asleep. Her face was pale and swollen from crying, her hands clutching her father's old bracelet as if letting go would erase him entirely.
Kiaria rose silently, drawing his cloak around his shoulders. "We leave before sunrise," he said quietly.
She blinked awake, confusion clouding her eyes. "So soon? We just returned."
"The longer we stay here, the heavier grief grows," he said, fastening his sash. "And grief… is a chain. The world outside may still offer air to breathe."
Diala hesitated, then nodded. Her heart was still raw, but there was something in Kiaria's tone–steady, sure, like the first light before dawn–that gave her enough strength to move.
They walked out of the sect as the horizon began to blush. Mist veiled the mountain path, the wind carrying the distant echo of temple bells. For a while, neither spoke. The rhythm of their steps was soft, uneven–the sound of two children walking away from the ashes of yesterday.
But Diala's silence was not peace. Her thoughts churned, dark and relentless. Why me? Why is he still kind to me? He belongs to the heavens, I to the dust. He is the son of the Imperial Preceptor, a disciple of the greatest sect under the sky–and I… I have no name that matters.
Her eyes dimmed. I shouldn't be beside him. I shouldn't be a burden he has to carry.
"Diala," Kiaria said suddenly, his voice soft but firm. "Your footsteps falter."
She froze. "I…"
"You think too much," he continued, turning to her. "I know what you are thinking." His gaze was neither cold nor gentle–it was steady, like water reflecting the sky. "You compare worth where there is none to measure. Look forward. The road doesn't care who walks it–it only remembers who leaves a mark."
She looked down, trembling. "But I am nothing. My father's gone, my name forgotten. I don't even know where I belong."
Kiaria smiled faintly. "Then belong here, beside me. Until you find your place, I will be your path. Don't forget, your father trusted you to me to protect with all of my might. Do you wish me to fail him?"
The words hung between them, quiet yet vast. Diala's throat closed with emotion; tears welled up again, but this time, they didn't fall from sorrow.
They walked on. The forest thinned, giving way to a narrow stream that glimmered under the rising sun. Kiaria stopped beside it, kneeling.
"We haven't eaten," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's fix that before the next climb."
Diala blinked. "You're going to cook?"
Kiaria's lips curved. "I know enough not to starve."
Before she could reply, he stepped lightly onto the stream. His feet didn't break the surface–each step landed soft as a feather. Ripples formed but vanished before spreading, as though even the water hesitated to disturb him. With a motion swift as light, he drew his hand through the current. Four fish leapt free, silver arcs glinting in the dawn.
He caught them with ease, then crouched again, looking down at the stream's reflection.
"I'm sorry," he murmured to the stream. "Four lives for two. I'll repay this debt to the river someday."
Diala stared, puzzled. "You… apologize to stream and fish?"
He looked up. "All life listens, even when we don't. Maybe others cannot feel that, but as the bearer of Fairy Nature Essence, I can feel it."
She wanted to laugh, but something in his tone stopped her. Instead, she smiled. "Then let me cook them properly. Otherwise, you'll ruin breakfast."
He raised a brow, amused. "You can cook?"
"Better than you," she said with mock pride. "Father taught me."
They gathered wood and kindled a small flame. Diala moved quickly, crushing wild herbs she found nearby, grinding them between smooth stones until their scent filled the air. She cut neat scars into the fish and pressed the herbs inside, wrapping them in broad green leaves. The fire hissed gently as she hung them above it.
Soon, the aroma drifted through the trees–smoky, earthy, rich with spice.
Kiaria's stomach growled. "That smells great, my hunger is raising."
She laughed quietly. "It's just fish."
When they ate, it was slow and wordless. For the first time since the tragedy, Diala's laughter was soft and real. Kiaria didn't say it aloud, but her smile lightened something inside him too.
After cleaning the place spotless, they continued their journey. Hours passed; the sun climbed high. The land ahead flattened into pale cliffs and hollow ridges. A stone archway came into view–its carvings old and faint, but the name still legible.
Valley of Rituals.
"The forbidden path…" Diala whispered.
"Today, we break that rule," Kiaria said. "Let's see what's beyond the boundary everyone fears."
The air changed as they stepped inside. The valley was filled with faint murmurs, like voices too old to form words. Diala shivered.
"Something's… wrong here."
"Stay close," Kiaria said, his voice calm.
They reached the village by dusk. Narrow paths twisted between crooked wooden houses. People stopped and stared–some in curiosity, others in mistrust. Two children traveling alone was not a common sight here.
Kiaria led Diala to an inn. "We'll rest here."
The innkeeper frowned when he saw them. "Children? Where are your parents?"
Diala looked down, flustered. Kiaria's eyes cooled. "Call them if you wish," he said, producing his sect token.
The moment the man saw the Enlightenment Sect's Inner Disciple token, his entire demeanor shifted. He bowed deeply, trembling. "Forgive me, young master! Please–this way!"
He led them to the finest chamber, his voice shaking with apologies.
From a dark corner of the inn, a drunkard chuckled. "Lucky little lords," he muttered before downing another cup.
Kiaria ignored him. Diala only clutched her sleeves tighter.
They rested through the night, the valley's strange murmurs echoing faintly beyond the walls.
At dawn, when they came down to leave, the innkeeper was already kneeling by the door. "Please forgive my rudeness yesterday," he begged.
"It's unnecessary," Kiaria said. "The matter is past."
The man bowed again, tears in his eyes. "Your mercy will be remembered."
As they stepped outside, Kiaria noticed the same drunkard from the previous evening, slumped over his table. Yet his eyes–half-lidded, unreadable–followed them sharply.
"Hey, kid," the man said suddenly. "Watch your steps."
Kiaria paused. There was a depth in his tone that did not belong to drunks.
Before Kiaria could respond, the man called out to a servant. "Oi, bring me a jar of wine!"
The servant hurried forward with a large clay jar. The man caught it, grinned–and tossed it toward Kiaria.
Startled, Diala gasped. Kiaria caught it easily, though its weight surprised him. It was light… too light for its size.
"The wine here is strong," the man said, his voice lowering, suddenly clear of intoxication. "If trouble finds you, drop that jar. I'll come."
Kiaria's gaze sharpened. He could sense a hidden power in the man, something faint but vast, cloaked beneath that lazy demeanor.
He nodded slowly. "Understood."
The man laughed again, but his eyes turned distant. "Clever boy. Keep that wit alive. You'll need it."
As they walked away, Diala looked back. "Who was that man?"
Kiaria glanced once over his shoulder. The drunkard was gone. Only the empty chair and an untouched cup remained.
"Someone," he murmured, "who's not what he seems."
They left the valley behind, the wind howling faintly through the stones like a whisper of warning.
And though Kiaria said nothing, the jar of wine in his hand felt heavier than it should–like the weight of an unseen promise.