Dawn came late to Graythorn.

  The light that crept over the rooftops felt thin, reluctant, like it would rather have slipped past the village entirely.

  Joren stood at the northern gate long before first light, pack already slung over his shoulder. It felt too light. A spare shirt, some dried meat, a waterskin, a few coins, a small knife, his sword. That was all his life fit into.

  He rested both hands on the worn wood of the gate bar and stared through the narrow crack between the doors at the dark outline of the trees beyond.

  Footsteps approached behind him.

  “You’re early,” Rowan said.

  “I didn’t sleep,” Joren replied without turning.

  Rowan came to stand beside him. In the half-light, the elder looked older than Joren ever remembered—each crease deeper, shoulders more stooped.

  “I could tell,” Rowan said. “The walls get quiet when certain hearts don’t rest.”

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  The village murmured awake behind them: distant doors opening, a baby’s cry, a low cough.

  “They’re afraid of me,” Joren said quietly.

  Rowan didn’t pretend otherwise. “They’re afraid of what they don’t understand. There is a difference.”

  “Does it matter?” Joren asked.

  “Yes,” Rowan said. “Fear can become hatred. Or it can become respect. Which path it takes often depends on time… and distance.”

  Joren swallowed. His hand tightened on the bar.

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  “You’re certain I should go,” he said.

  “I am certain you should not stay,” Rowan replied.

  He reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded parchment sealed with wax. The crest stamped into it was faint, the edges worn, like it had been kept for a long time and never used.

  “This is for the Ophoran frontier outpost,” Rowan said. “It requests training for you and recommends caution to anyone who reads it.”

  Joren took it carefully. “Will they listen?”

  “They will listen to Aelric Vael,” Rowan said. “If he reaches you first.”

  Joren frowned. “You think he’s coming?”

  Rowan exhaled. “A Revenant died in our woods. A boy walked out of the forest surrounded by impossible Aether. Ophora will not ignore that.”

  Silence again.

  Rowan’s gaze shifted to Joren’s chest.

  “Do they still speak to you?” he asked.

  The Echoes stirred under Joren’s ribs. Bran’s warmth. Lira’s sharpness. Sera’s gentle concern. Tyren’s restless spark.

  “…Sometimes,” Joren said. “Less than before. It’s quieter. They… let me think.”

  “Good,” Rowan said softly. “Let them rest. Let yourself rest. There is a difference between carrying the dead and dragging them.”

  “I don’t want to drag anyone,” Joren murmured.

  “That is why I’m less afraid of you than others might be,” Rowan replied.

  He stepped forward and rested a hand on the gate.

  “When you walk through this,” he said, “you are not just leaving Graythorn. You are leaving who you were allowed to be here.”

  Joren looked at the village over his shoulder one last time: the crooked chimney he’d once fallen off of; the inn sign Tyren had tried to climb; the roof where Lira used to sit to watch storms; the healers’ hut Sera had practically lived in.

  He swallowed.

  “I’m ready,” he lied.

  Rowan’s lips twitched in something like a smile. “No one ever is,” he said. “That is why we go anyway.”

  He lifted the bar.

  The gate swung inward with a long groan.

  The world outside was grey with morning, the path leading between trees and out to a future he couldn’t see.

  “Joren,” Rowan murmured.

  He stopped in the threshold.

  “Whatever you become,” Rowan said, “do not let others decide what that means. Not demons. Not captains. Not kings.”

  Joren nodded once, because if he tried to speak his voice might break.

  He stepped out.

  He didn’t look back.

  As the gate closed behind him, something inside his chest pressed gently outward—a wordless warmth, four presences leaning toward him at once.

  We’re here, Bran’s steady comfort.

  Always, Sera’s soft echo.

  Try not to do anything too stupid, Lira’s dry murmur.

  He’s definitely going to do something stupid, Tyren said. Just… make it epic.

  Joren huffed a tiny, broken laugh.

  Then he walked into the trees.

  The boy of Graythorn was behind him.

  Whatever waited ahead did not know his name yet.