Twenty days.
That was all the time Aren Vale had left.
The realization settled into him quietly, without panic at first. It came not as a sudden blow, but as a slow tightening—like a string being drawn back inch by inch until there was nowhere left to retreat.
The old woman had not announced it dramatically. She never did.
"You should prepare," she said one morning, her voice calm as she adjusted the position of his feet. "You won't have much time soon."
Aren had paused mid-breath. "Prepare for what?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she circled him, her staff tapping lightly against the ground, eyes scanning him with the same sharp attention she gave to flaws in posture or breath.
"For being without me," she said at last.
The words struck harder than Aren expected.
He lowered the broken relic slowly. "Are you leaving?"
The old woman studied him for a long moment. Then she turned away, facing the river.
"Everyone does," she replied.
From that day onward, everything changed—subtly, but undeniably.
Training did not lessen. If anything, it intensified.
The old woman no longer corrected him immediately. She watched longer. Waited. Let him fail before intervening. When she spoke, her instructions were shorter, more precise, stripped of anything unnecessary.
"Again."
"Slower."
"Listen."
She began to ask questions as well—questions without clear answers.
"What do you do when the relic refuses you?"
"What do you rely on when nothing responds?"
"What remains when sound itself turns away?"
Aren struggled with those more than any physical exercise.
At night, he lay awake replaying her words, his fingers resting on the broken strings. Sometimes he thought he felt something stir beneath his touch. Other times, there was only the familiar ache of effort unanswered.
Still, progress came.
Not dramatic. Not obvious.
But real.
The vibration he sensed no longer vanished instantly. It lingered like a breath held just a moment longer than comfort allowed. When he focused correctly—when his breathing aligned, when his thoughts quieted instead of forcing clarity—the pressure in his chest softened instead of tightening.
"You're learning restraint," the old woman said once. "Most never do."
Aren didn't reply. He was too busy trying not to lose the fragile state he'd reached.
One afternoon, as clouds rolled low over the river and the air grew heavy with impending rain, the old woman finally spoke of what awaited him beyond the forest.
"You will face people who see only what's broken," she said, walking beside him. "They will judge you by sound alone."
Aren nodded. He already knew that.
"They will tell you what you cannot become."
Her gaze sharpened. "Do not argue with them."
Aren looked up. "Then what should I do?"
She stopped walking.
"Outlast them."
The word lodged itself deep inside him.
Outlast.
That night, she handed him a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
"Food," she said. "And this."
She unwrapped it to reveal a thin, worn journal. The pages were yellowed, the writing cramped and uneven.
"What is it?" Aren asked.
"Observations," she replied. "Not instructions. Not answers."
He hesitated before taking it. "Yours?"
"Some," she said. "Some not."
He met her eyes. "Will I see you again?"
For a moment—just a moment—something unreadable flickered across her expression.
"That depends," she said quietly, "on whether you learn to listen without me."
The final days passed too quickly.
Training continued until the very last morning. There were no ceremonies. No final lesson. No dramatic revelation. They stood by the river as the sun rose, mist curling over the water. Aren bowed deeply, holding the relic close to his chest.
"Thank you," he said. The words felt insufficient.
The old woman regarded him for a long time.
"You were never mine to shape," she said at last. "Only to steady."
Then she turned away.
Aren watched her disappear into the trees, her figure dissolving into shadow and light until there was nothing left but rustling leaves.
He returned the next day.
And the day after that.
The hut was gone.
Not abandoned. Not collapsed.
Gone.
The clearing where it had stood was untouched, as if nothing had ever been there at all. No fire pit. No footprints. No sign of habitation.
Aren stood there for a long time, unmoving.
He did not shout her name.
He did not search the forest.
Somewhere deep inside, he understood.
That night, as he packed his things for the journey ahead, his hands shook for the first time in years.
His parents watched him quietly.
His mother said nothing, only straightened his collar with careful, gentle hands—once, twice, a third time—before pulling him into a tight embrace. His father placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady, saying little, but staying there longer than necessary.
When Aren finally lay down to sleep, exhaustion pulled him under quickly. Yet even in his dreams, he stood by the river. The broken relic rested in his hands. This time, when he listened, the silence answered back—not with sound, but with presence. A single vibration, faint but undeniable, brushed against his awareness. Aren's breath caught. The strings did not move. But somewhere far away, something listened in return.
And for the first time since the old woman vanished, a single tear slid from the corner of his eye—not from grief alone, but from understanding.
The path ahead would be walked alone.
But he was no longer unprepared.