Chapter 16 : Sepandārmazgān

  The clearing pulsed with life, every heartbeat of the village echoing in laughter and music. The sun had not shifted—but the light felt warmer now, more alive.

  Auren, still holding Darien’s hand, wove through the crowd and guided them into the center.

  They danced.

  Slow at first. Awkward. Her steps uncertain, his grip a touch too tight. But the moment stretched. Unfolded. Something stirred in her limbs, something deeper than grace. Her feet moved before she could think, her body flowing with strange ease. She hadn’t learned this.

  Yet somehow, she knew exactly what to do.

  And that unsettled her.

  Still, she danced.

  Around them, petals swirled. Children darted between the dancers, weaving like streams around stones. Lira twirled with a ribbon wand, scattering laughter in her wake. Brenna clapped in time, a proud grin lighting her face. Old Meris tapped his foot near the cider table, while Sera and Emrin spun clumsily nearby, giggling like children themselves. Mara and Farros were there too—Mara laughing freely, and Farros smiling.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Farros smile.

  The music was lively—a stumbling, cheerful tune of pipe and drum that lifted spirits as easily as bread rising in a warm oven. The villagers joined in one by one, drawn in by joy. Even the shyest among them couldn’t resist. Someone shouted a challenge across the clearing. Another pair attempted a twirl too fancy and collapsed laughing into the grass. Two children rode on their older brother’s feet, arms outstretched like birds.

  They danced and danced and danced.

  They moved like there was no tomorrow—like this moment was the last they’d ever have to feel all they carried inside. To laugh. To live.

  They danced until some could no longer move from exhaustion, sweat rolling down their faces, until the children drifted off to sit beneath trees, cheeks flushed and laughter quieted.

  Auren let herself be pulled deeper into it. Her heartbeat matched the drum. Her breath rose and fell with the flutes. She smiled—genuine, full.

  This was happiness. Real. Shared.

  The tune shifted. A second wave of instruments layered over the first—a gentle harmony, like wind moving through trees. Couples drew together. The circle loosened into pairs.

  Darien reached for her hand again. She took it.

  The tempo slowed.

  They swayed.

  His hand found the small of her back. Her fingers curled lightly at his shoulder. Their steps were small, quiet. Her dress brushed the grass with each movement, and flower petals clung to the hem like they didn’t want to leave her.

  For a moment, the world faded. Time stopped moving, as if even it was reluctant to break the stillness.

  Auren could feel his heartbeat through his chest—the steadiness of it, the warmth. The nearness of something kind.

  "You know," he said softly, his voice low and unsure, "I never thought you’d say yes. I still feel like I’m dreaming."

  She looked up at him. "It does feel like a dream, doesn’t it?"

  He smiled. "If it is… I hope it never ends."

  She laughed gently, and the sound rose from her like sunlight breaking over still water. "Me too. It... wasn’t easy to come here. But now, I’m glad I did."

  "I’m glad too."

  They swayed like that for a while, quiet and content.

  Then he leaned back just a little—enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  And said:

  "I love the way the light gathers in your eyes just before you smile."

  She froze.

  It was not his voice.

  It was deeper than oceans, older than time. A weight behind the words that didn’t belong to a boy from Soliris. It rang through her like a bell, soft but undeniable.

  She pulled back. Her voice shook.

  "What... did you say?"

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  Darien blinked, startled. "I… I said your eyes looked bright. Like the light was trapped in them. It was a compliment. I swear!"

  No. No, that hadn't been it. She was sure. The voice—it belonged to the man. The same man she kept seeing at the edge of her vision. She didn't know how she knew, but she did.

  The moment had shifted. The warmth of the clearing dulled. The music, still playing, felt farther away.

  Her breath came shallow. Her chest tightened.

  "I need a moment," she said softly.

  Darien took a step after her. "Auren? Wait! Did I—"

  She didn’t answer.

  She turned and walked from the circle, petals trailing in her wake.

  And for the first time that day, the light felt heavy.

  She walked.

  Past the music, past the tables and laughter. Past Lira’s crown tossed on the grass. Past Darien’s voice fading behind her. She did not know where her feet were going, only that they must keep moving.

  The sun burned above—unchanging, ever-present—and the farther she went, the brighter it seemed to blaze. The golden light that once comforted now pressed against her skin like heat through glass.

  The forest deepened. Shadows tangled around her feet.

  The trees stretched overhead, tall and unmoving, their branches clawing at the sky. Where before the leaves had shimmered softly, now they whispered in tones too low and too long. She passed a bird perched on a branch—its call warped, like it had forgotten the shape of song. The bushes rustled with things that did not quite step or slither.

  Still, she walked.

  Something pulled her. Not a voice. Not a memory. A pressure in the back of her soul, guiding her deeper.

  She caught glimpses—always just at the edge of her vision. A tall figure among the trees. A glint of pale hair. Eyes watching. Each time she turned, there was nothing.

  Again. Again. Again.

  Branches scraped her shoulders. The ground turned soft beneath her feet, moss and earth swallowing sound. Her breath came in shallow bursts. The forest no longer welcomed her. It watched.

  Then, suddenly, she stopped.

  The silence snapped.

  "Who are you?!" she screamed, voice cracking. "Show yourself! Why won’t you leave me alone?!"

  The echo rolled through the trees, but nothing answered.

  Her knees buckled.

  She fell to the ground, hands curling in the dirt. Her forehead pressed against the soil. Her shoulders shook.

  Tears came without warning—not loud, not sudden, but deep. Old. As if she were mourning something she didn’t remember losing. A grief with no name.

  Betrayal bloomed in her chest. Raw. Unformed. She did not even know who had betrayed her. Only that something had wounded her. Badly.

  And then:

  A voice.

  Not distant.

  Familiar.

  Her own.

  "Keep walking, and you will remember."

  Her head snapped up.

  The trees loomed around her, silent. Still.

  No one was there.

  Only the sun, burning overhead.

  Only her breath, shaking in her throat.

  Only the ache in her chest—deeper than sorrow. Older than memory.

  She stayed there for some time, unmoving. Her arms curled beneath her. Her cheek pressed to the earth. Breath slowing. The ache did not pass. But the silence wrapped around her like a second skin.

  Finally, she rose.

  Her legs trembled. Her skirt clung with dirt and dew. Her hands were scratched. But she stood.

  "I can’t keep doing this," she whispered aloud, voice small. "I can’t keep hiding. Whatever fate is waiting for me out there... it has to be better than this."

  So... she walked.

  The sun above flared hotter. The trees grew thicker, their branches arching toward her like limbs of reaching things. The birds no longer sang. The underbrush grew quieter.

  She did not know how far she had gone.

  It felt like she had been walking for eons. Not in distance, but in weight. Every step pressed deeper into time, into something older than roots, older than names. The trees no longer looked like trees. They were silhouettes, tall and watching, bending toward her as if they, too, were waiting.

  But then the forest fell away.

  She stepped into a clearing unlike anything she had ever seen.

  At its center stood a tree. No—not a tree. A colossus of bark and leaf and silence, rising so high the sky vanished into its canopy. Its branches spread wide and layered, so many they seemed to paint the heavens in green. She could not see its top. She could not imagine it.

  A tree like this should have been visible across the entire Life Realm.

  And yet, here it stood, hidden.

  At its base, nestled deep into its trunk, was a strange object. Light flickered from it—not natural light, not golden, not warm. A light that bent as it moved, shimmered where it shouldn’t, too bright in some places, too dim in others.

  Auren stepped forward, slowly. The air shifted. The hair on the back of her neck rose.

  The object was a broken sphere—a crystal-like orb half-embedded in the wood, cracked down its center. Around it, the bark rippled in quiet metamorphosis. Flowers bloomed, died, and bloomed again in the space of seconds. Colors shifted. Leaves unfurled and withered before they could be named.

  And then she heard it again.

  The voice.

  Her voice.

  Clearer this time.

  "Touch the fragment."

  Her hand hovered at her side, trembling. The fragment pulsed in the tree like a heartbeat made of light. Every instinct in her screamed to run, to turn back, to forget she'd ever come here. But deeper than that—beneath fear, beneath doubt—was something else. A pull. Not desire. Not even curiosity. A need.

  What if this was the answer? What if this fixed her. Made the hollow feeling that she didn’t belong, that this was all an illusion, go away?

  Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled. She shook her head once, softly.

  "I don’t want to be afraid anymore," she whispered. "Not of myself. Not of what I am.

  I want to be able to truly feel."

  She took a deep breath and Slowly, reluctantly, she brought her hand up—and touched the fragment.

  Pain exploded through her.

  She burned. Her blood turned to fire. Her bones screamed. Her eyes flew wide and her mouth opened in a ragged, raw scream that tore through the clearing.

  The trees shuddered. Their branches twisted, becoming like claws.

  The animals in the forest cried out—howling, screeching, fleeing. Birds burst into flight. Insects hissed. The earth cracked beneath her feet.

  The grass blackened. Burned. Then grew again, faster than nature should allow. They burst upward—bright, unnatural green. Flowers unfolded from ash. Mushrooms bloomed in spirals. Moss painted the rocks and roots in slick, fevered growth. Flowers and greenery covered every surface there was to see.

  And in the midst of it—the agony, the burning, the break—she became aware.

  Of everything.

  The trees. The moss. The animals. The insects in the soil. The roots threading below the surface. She felt them all. Felt their presence as if they were nerves in her own body. Their confusion. Their terror. Their wonder. It pressed into her mind with such force she nearly collapsed.

  She could see through their eyes, feel through their skin, hear what they heard: the thrum of growth, the ache of transformation, the ancient instinct to flee.

  It was too much. Too much. She wasn’t meant to hold this.

  And still she screamed.