“The wind remembers even what fire tries to erase.”
The wind carried ash and silence through the broken streets of Crotchet.
Themis wandered among the charred ruins, his boots crunching over shattered tiles and splintered wood.
The silence felt wrong—too heavy, too deliberate.
It pressed against his ears like a held breath, as though the city itself refused to speak.
Now and then, the wind slipped through the hollow frames of houses, and for a heartbeat, he thought he heard laughter—children chasing each other through the square, merchants calling out prices, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer.
But the echoes faded, leaving only the rasp of dust and the faint creak of a sign swaying on a broken hinge.
His gaze drifted to the cracked stone wall where Shilol used to draw birds with chalk.
The faint outlines were still there, half-buried beneath soot.
A small, crooked sparrow.
A pair of wings.
A faint smile crossed his lips—quickly swallowed by the hollow ache in his chest.
He knelt beside the remnants of a toy sword—Heathcliff’s.
The weight of absence pressed heavier than any battlefield.
He remembered the boy’s grin, the way he’d swing the wooden blade too wide, laughing when Themis corrected his stance.
Now, only splinters remained.
Rising, Themis walked deeper into the ruins until he reached the old willow tree at the edge of the square.
Its branches hung low, their tips brushing the scorched earth.
He rested a hand against the trunk, the bark rough beneath his fingers.
The silence here was different—gentler, almost reverent.
The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying the faint scent of smoke and earth.
The warmth of the sun filtered through the branches, touching his face like a memory.
A memory stirred—soft, fragile, alive.
“Promise me you’ll come back safe, Themis.”
Her voice cracked—barely louder than the wind.
“No matter what happens.”
He had smiled then, reaching into his cloak.
“I almost forgot,” he said softly.
From his palm, he revealed a small pendant—silver, shaped like a teardrop of light.
The metal caught the dying sun, glowing faintly in his hand.
“I found this in Alto’s market,” he said. “The stallkeeper told me it’s a charm of return. They say it guides lost travelers home.”
He smiled faintly, almost shyly.
“I thought you might like it.”
Her breath caught as he placed it in her hand.
The pendant was simple, but warm—its edges smooth from countless hands before hers.
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“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“Then keep it,” he said. “Until I come back.”
The memory faded like mist.
Themis’s hand fell from the willow.
He had come back—just as he promised.
But Shilol was the one who was gone.
The wind shifted.
“It’s already dark, you shouldn’t be here,” a woman’s voice said softly behind him.
Startled, Themis turned—and for a breathless moment, he thought it was her.
“Shilol—?”
He surged forward, arms wrapping around her before his mind could catch up.
But as she gently pulled away, his heart sank.
The features were different.
Familiar, yet not.
“I’m not her,” the woman said with a calm, almost sad smile. “My name is Isolde… Isolde Naristhal.”
She was tall, with long, ocean-blue hair that shimmered like water in moonlight.
Her eyes—deep, unreadable—held stories unspoken, but her gaze softened as if she, too, carried a wound not yet healed.
The faint scent of sea salt clung to her cloak, and on her gloves, a small symbol was stitched in silver thread—a sun entwined with a wave.
Her voice carried a tone that didn’t belong to this region—lilting and melodic, like a song from faraway shores.
“I need a bodyguard,” she said plainly. “I’m heading west—to the Town of Chord. Maybe the Tower of Moon… or Melodia Castle.”
Themis blinked.
“Why me? For what?”
Isolde tilted her head.
“Because I’m looking for someone—and I think you’re looking for someone too, aren’t you? Maybe a friend.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“What do you know about my friend?”
She didn’t answer—just smiled, as if she already knew how the story would unfold.
“My service is not free,” he said. “How much are you paying for it?”
Isolde reached into her pouch and dropped a single gold coin into his palm—along with a smooth stone that shimmered faintly, etched with an unfamiliar symbol.
“You’ll find it worth more than it looks,” she said.
“So it’s a deal… See you at the plaza tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.”
Themis glanced down at the stone.
It felt warm—alive, almost—as if something within it called to him.
He stood alone in the ruins, the wind swirling around him, carrying away the last of the ash.
For the first time in days, he felt the faintest pull of hope—fragile, but real.
Tomorrow, he would follow.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint shimmer of a single pendant swaying in the still air.
The sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere unseen, each drop marking time in the silence.
A faint hum lingered beneath it—low, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.
Shilol sat on the cold stone floor, her golden hair catching the dim light like threads of dawn.
Her honey-colored eyes reflected the pendant’s glow—the same teardrop of silver Themis had placed in her hand beneath the willow.
She turned it slowly between her fingers, the metal warm against her skin.
Beyond the barred window, a sliver of moonlight cut through the darkness, painting her face in pale silver.
Somewhere beyond the door, footsteps passed—slow, deliberate.
A shadow lingered for a moment, then moved on.
Shilol’s lips parted, her voice barely a whisper.
“Themis…”
The pendant flickered once, as if answering her.
“I will keep on waiting. I know you’ll find me,” she whispered, though no one was there to hear.
The hum deepened, and the light steadied—soft, unwavering,
like a promise that refused to fade.
Role: The Light of the Hero
Affinity: Light
Age: 19
Birthday: July 15
Weapon Specialty: Twin Tonfa
Description / Personality:
Cheerful yet unshakably loyal, Shilol is the morning sun to Themis’ dusk. Her laughter dispels fear on the battlefield, and when she fights, her light dances like dawn across a thousand blades.
Next File: Isolde Naristhal — The Mysterious Water Mage
I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for reading and supporting Arcana Wars: The Sacred Stone. Your comments and reactions truly keep me going. ??
two chapters a day to one. I’ll still make sure each release is worth your time.