The Remeberabce of The Past
The transition into the deeper stretches of Zone A was a grueling trial of endurance. George and Siri moved through a vast, suffocating marshland where the air hung heavy with the scent of peat and stagnant water. Every step was a battle; the lush undergrowth hid treacherous bogs that threatened to swallow them whole, and the terrain was infested with the forest's restless guardians.
They fought with a rhythmic, desperate efficiency. George's wind magic carved through the lumbering forms of Wood Golems—massive, creaking entities of rot-resistant oak—while Siri watched with wide, inquisitive eyes, occasionally offering tactical observations that seemed far beyond her six and a half years.
They navigated the territorial ambushes of Swamp Monsters and the deceptive, water-bound lunges of Vodyanoys, the malevolent spirits of the muck. Yet, despite the constant threat, George felt a strange, burgeoning confidence. He found himself slipping into a state of mind he hadn't accessed since his childhood. As they learned to live off the land—gathering edible tubers, trapping small game, and identifying the clean streams that bypassed the sulfurous bogs—George felt as if he were truly in his element.
The survival skills weren't just academic; they were a legacy. He remembered the long, sun-drenched months spent with his grandfather, Henry. He recalled the feeling of dust on his clothes and the permanent scent of rich earth in his hair. In those days, when the work on the outskirts was done, Henry would teach him the ancient rhythms of the world. They had fished along riverbanks at dusk, the water reflecting the bleeding colors of the sunset. They would sit in a silence so profound the current seemed to whisper secrets as it passed.
"Feel the pull, George," Henry would say, his voice like worn leather. "Life is a teacher. A shift in the wind, a ripple in the silt. And always give thanks for what the land provides."
At night, beneath skies so open they felt like an ocean of stars, Henry spoke of the old legends—figures George admired. He told tales of Solomon the Wiser, whose intellect could bind the very elements; Paul the Agent of Change, who reshaped nations; and Abraham, Father of Time, whose deeds were etched into history like runes carved in eternal stone. George would listen, his emerald eyes wide with wonder, imagining himself standing among their ranks.
A Meal Between Worlds
One crisp evening, as the marsh gave way to a slightly firmer grove of weeping willows, George and Siri sat beside a crackling fire. The smell of roasted rabbit mingled with the sweet, tart aroma of wild berries they had scavenged. George gazed up at the stars, the same stars his grandfather had used to navigate the old world. Siri sat across from him, her reddish-purple eyes reflecting the dancing orange flames. Her dark, double-breasted dress was smudged with mud, but she still maintained an air of regal poise.
"You're staring at the sky again, George," Siri observed, popping a berry into her mouth. "Are you counting the lights?"
George smiled, a genuine warmth reaching his eyes. "No, not really. Just remembering someone dear to me. My grandfather."
"He sounds like a wonderful person," Siri mused, her head tilting. "I wonder if he was like my father. Does he have a vast army?"
"No," George laughed softly, tearing off a piece of the rabbit. "He had a fishing pole and a lot of patience. But he knew things, Siri. Hes the one who tought me how to listen to the land. That's why we're not hungry tonight."
Siri giggled, a crystalline sound that seemed to chase away the gloom of the marsh. "I suppose that is a type of strength. Father says the strongest are those who can command others, but you... you command the wind, yet you thank the dirt. It is terribly confusing, but I find it quite splendid."
As the days turned into a blur of travel, the two shared stories and laughter that served as a shield against the darkness of the forest. George realized that while he was searching for Arthur, Nana, and Kayn, he was also finding a version of himself he thought he had left behind in the dust of the Academy—a boy who knew how to feel the pull before the strike.