Chapter 28 — The Golden Shore

The salt stung my eyes as we broke the last of the waves. The sea, at my back, was heavy with memory—each step toward shore dragged not just water, but years. I held my armor above my head, arms aching, the sword tied tight across my pack, steel heavy with the weight of blood I swore not to spill again.

Beside me, Flame cut through the surf with ease, a glimmering streak of gold. Her ears were slicked back, eyes fixed on the horizon, tail like a rudder. She leapt through the shallows and reached the beach before me, shaking herself free of seawater in a spray that shimmered under the sun.

My boots found sand. Warm. Yielding. Clean.

I stood a moment in silence, water dripping from my body, gaze turned inland.

The wind here didn’t carry the scent of death or steel. Only citrus trees further up the hills. Wildflowers in bloom. Dust. Sunlight.

I breathed in.

The shore was radiant—blinding, even—and empty of menace. No sails behind us. No shadows on the cliffs. Just sky and surf and the hush of something beginning again.

Flame glanced back, ears pricked. She was already on the move, pacing ahead, ever restless. I smiled, the corner of my mouth cracking like old leather. She had never been one for staying still.

I slung the armor onto my back. The plates clanked softly against each other, like the memory of battle.

We left the golden sand behind, stepping into tall grasses and inland wind.

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The land changed quickly—first low dunes, then thickets of brush and juniper. We walked for hours, maybe days. Time blurred. I welcomed the ache in my legs, the burn in my shoulders. Pain meant I was still in my body. Still real.

We skirted the known roads, moving like hunted things. Not because we were chased—but because the old instincts die slow.

Hills rose around us, carpeted in purple heather that glowed at dusk like embers beneath frost. We crossed a narrow stream, then a wider one. I carried Flame once, when the current ran too fast. She clawed me for it. Ungrateful cat.

Each night, we slept under open stars. I kept my hand on the sword’s hilt even then. But nothing came.

Birdsong returned. At first just one call—then another answered. It was strange. I hadn't heard birds in years, not truly. The Tower silenced such things. Magic does that. Wars too.

But this place still had life. Still had its secrets.

On the fourth morning, the fog clung low, and I almost didn’t see it.

But there—on the hill that rose from the valley floor like a buried god's shoulder—stood the ruins of a windmill. Its bones crooked against the sky, one sail hanging by a stubborn thread. Moss curled along its stone base. Barley grass waved in the wind like memory.

Something in me cracked open.

It looked nothing like Myrrenstead. But it felt like home.

I stopped walking.

Flame stopped too, as if sensing the change in my breath.

“I think this is the place,” I said aloud.

The words surprised me. They tasted final. Like the turning of a page.

The cat said nothing. She turned and padded up the hill without waiting for me.

I followed her.

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