Morning came softly.
Not with urgency, not with spectacle—but with the slow return of light through thin curtains and the distant sounds of the village stirring awake. Aren lay still for a long while, staring at the ceiling, listening to his own breathing.
For the first time in years, there was no expectation waiting for him beyond the door.
No footsteps approaching from the river path.
No staff tapping against stone.
No sharp voice correcting his stance before he even realized it was wrong.
The absence pressed down heavier than any command ever had.
He rose quietly and dressed without hurry. The broken relic rested where he had placed it the night before, wrapped carefully in cloth. His fingers lingered on it for a moment longer than necessary before he slung it over his shoulder.
The old woman was gone.
That truth had settled during the night, not as shock, but as something colder and deeper—acceptance edged with uncertainty. He did not know where she had gone. Whether she still lived. Whether she watched from somewhere unseen.
He only knew that she had left when she believed her role was finished.
Aren stepped outside.
The village looked the same as it always had—stone paths worn smooth by time, familiar rooftops catching the morning light, neighbours moving about their routines. Life continued, indifferent to personal turning points.
His mother was already awake.
She stood near the hearth, hands busy with preparations that had little to do with necessity and everything to do with nerves. When she noticed him, her movements slowed.
"You didn't sleep much," she said gently.
Aren nodded. "Enough."
She studied him closely, eyes lingering on his face, then on the relic at his side. She didn't ask questions. She never pressed when he wasn't ready.
Instead, she poured him tea and set it in his hands.
Warm. Steady.
"Your father's making arrangements today," she said. "For the road."
The word carried weight.
Aren lowered his gaze. "I know."
They sat together in silence for a while. It was the comfortable kind—worn smooth by years of shared hardship and quiet understanding. Eventually, his mother spoke again.
"She meant something to you."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Aren replied. "More than I expected."
She nodded. "Some people enter our lives only to prepare us for leaving them."
Aren looked up, surprised.
She smiled faintly. "My grandmother used to say that."
Later that day, his father returned home earlier than usual.
Edrin Vale looked tired—not from labor, but from thought. He set his pack aside and motioned for Aren to sit with him.
"The carriage will be ready in two days," he said. "It won't take you far. Just to the edge of the main road."
Aren nodded. That much he already knew.
Edrin hesitated, then continued. "After that, the journey will be yours."
The unspoken concern hung between them.
"I'll manage," Aren said quietly.
His father studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp despite the fatigue etched into his face.
"I know," he said. "That's what worries me."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a small pouch, placing it on the table between them.
"Connections," he explained. "Favors owed. Supplies. Enough to see you through the early days."
Aren swallowed. "You didn't have to—"
"I did," Edrin cut in firmly. Then his tone softened. "Not because I doubt you. Because you're my son."
That night, Aren sat alone in his room.
The journal the old woman had given him lay open beside the relic. He traced the uneven handwriting, the fragmented notes—observations of resonance, silence, failed attempts, moments of quiet clarity.
No instructions.
No shortcuts.
Only lived experience.
He closed the book and rested his hand on the broken strings.
Nothing stirred.
And yet—he didn't feel disappointment.
Two days passed quickly.
When the carriage arrived, it felt final in a way Aren hadn't anticipated.
His mother knelt before him, straightening his collar with soft, careful hands. She had already done it twice.
"You'll write," she said.
"I will."
"You'll eat properly."
"I'll try."
She pulled him into a fierce embrace then, holding on longer than she usually allowed herself.
His father stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back. When Aren stepped toward him, Edrin placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"You don't owe the world anything," he said quietly. "Remember that."
Aren nodded, throat tight.
When the carriage door opened, the sound cut through the moment like a blade. Wood creaked. Harnesses chimed faintly with embedded Resonance.
Finally.
Aren climbed aboard without turning back.
The road stretched ahead, winding beyond the village, beyond familiarity.
As the carriage began to move, Aren closed his eyes.
Images surfaced unbidden—the river mist at dawn, the old woman's watchful gaze, the faint vibration that should not have been possible.
Somewhere deep within the relic, something waited.
Not awakened.
Not silent.
Waiting.
And as the distance between him and home grew, Aren Vale did not feel fear.
Only resolve.