Chapter 4: Reflections
The road southward stretched before Kalo, a ribbon of earth winding through the expansive heath, but his steps felt heavy, weighed down by the lingering effects of the encounter with the highwaymen. The sky had shifted to dusk, and the golden light of the day began to fade, casting long shadows over the fields. Kalo walked in silence, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, though his thoughts were a swirl of conflicting emotions.
Lukan walked beside him, occasionally glancing over with a furrowed brow, as if he, too, could feel the tension hanging in the air between them. Sprig had resumed his perch on Kalo's shoulder, coiling lazily around his neck, but there was an unease in the little green asp's movements, as though it sensed something Kalo had yet to fully acknowledge.
"That was... something," Lukan finally broke the silence, his voice low, measured. "You were quick to act. I’m not sure what to make of it, but I suppose it worked."
Kalo didn’t answer immediately. The words felt like an echo, a distant murmur in his mind. He had never before displayed such force—so sudden, so unyielding. The vines had moved at his command, far more aggressively than he had ever willed them to before. His hand still tingled from the magic, as if it had a life of its own, thrumming with the raw power he had so recently unlocked.
“I know,” Kalo replied at last, his voice distant. “It wasn’t like me.”
Lukan nodded, his expression softening with understanding, though Kalo could see the flicker of concern in his eyes. “You’ve changed, Kalo. It’s clear now.”
The words landed heavy on Kalo’s chest. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, hadn’t meant to become something different from the person he had once been. The memories of the dam, of losing so much, were still fresh, like open wounds beneath his skin. But he had trained. He had studied. He had grown stronger—too strong, perhaps, for his own good. The road to power had a way of blurring the lines, making it harder to see where strength ended and cruelty began.
“I don’t want to be like them,” Kalo muttered, more to himself than to Lukan. “The highwaymen... I don't want to be anything like them.”
Lukan’s footsteps slowed for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. “It’s not about being like them, Kalo. You’re not a thief or a bandit. What happened today was different—it was... necessary. But I can see the strain in you. You’re fighting something inside. Don’t lose yourself in it.”
Kalo clenched his fists at his sides, the memory of the foxes hanging by the vines flashing in his mind. The way their faces had turned pale, their struggles slowly dying in the air... he couldn’t shake it. Even if they were criminals, even if they had deserved punishment, that wasn’t the way he had envisioned himself exacting justice. He had always prided himself on being measured, thoughtful in his actions. But now, that Kalo felt distant, replaced by someone capable of such harsh retribution.
As they walked deeper into the night, Kalo's reflection turned inward. He thought about what Lukan had said—how he wasn’t a bandit, how he had acted out of necessity. But Kalo couldn’t help but wonder if his newfound power was becoming too much for him to control. Was this the start of something darker within him? Was he becoming something he could no longer return from?
The night grew colder as they approached a small clearing, and Kalo slowed his pace, allowing the thoughts to settle for a moment. He stared into the distance, where the first twinkling stars began to emerge in the darkening sky. The stars were so far away, yet so constant in their gleaming, an endless reminder that there was always something greater to look toward.
Lukan’s voice broke the silence again, softer now, more contemplative. “Kalo... whatever happens, we’ll face it together. But you don’t have to carry all of this alone. Not everything has to be handled with magic. Sometimes, the hardest battles are the ones within.”
Kalo turned to face his old friend, gratitude in his eyes. Lukan had always been there, even when Kalo had been lost in the aftermath of the dam. It was Lukan who had helped him rediscover the joy of their old days—when their adventures had been simple, before the weight of power had clouded everything.
Kalo took a deep breath, feeling the tension in his chest begin to loosen. “Thank you, Lukan. I... I just need to remember who I am. And who I want to be.”
Lukan smiled, a familiar, reassuring smile. “You’ll find your way. I have no doubt about that.”
As they continued walking, Lukan stepped closer, his voice dropping into a whisper as he leaned toward Kalo’s ear. “Remember who you are, Prince.”
Kalo stopped, the words settling like a weight in his chest, filling the space between them with something deeper, something forgotten. His breath caught for a moment. Prince.
It had been so long since he had heard those words, so long since he had dared to think of himself in such a way. He had buried that part of himself long ago, lost in the storm of grief and the pursuit of power. But now, hearing them again, something inside him stirred—an old fire, an old purpose he had set aside.
For a moment, Kalo could only nod, the flickering hope of his past self reigniting.
Together, they walked on, the night feeling just a little less heavy. There was still much ahead of them—unseen dangers, mysterious lands, and perhaps more battles, both external and within. But for the first time in a while, Kalo felt the faintest spark of hope that, no matter what lay ahead, he would not face it alone.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 5: The Travelers
It had been a week since they’d left the Grove where Kalo had faced the highwaymen. The road to the south stretched endlessly before them, a winding path through the heath, its golden grasses brushing against the ankles of travelers. Lukan and Kalo had long since fallen into a quiet rhythm. The peacefulness of the heath should have calmed Kalo’s troubled thoughts, but each step felt heavier, as if the earth itself was pulling him down.
On the eighth day, they came upon something unexpected: a circle of traveler caravans. The road opened up into a small clearing, where several brightly colored wagons were drawn in a loose ring, surrounded by the soft glow of lanterns. The scent of cooked food and the sound of music filled the air. A campfire crackled in the center, its flames dancing high into the evening sky.
Lukan grinned, his eyes scanning the bustling camp. “Looks like we’ve stumbled upon something good.”
They were welcomed with open arms by the travelers, a nomadic band of gypsy folk from the southern heath. From Grimthorn Hollow, they had traveled the roads for years, but their crystal ball, once a trusted guide and a source of wisdom, had grown dark and gone to sleep. They would call on the ball when their path grew unclear or when danger loomed, but now, it lay silent, its magic long gone. The hobgoblin who had once tended to the ball’s magic had disappeared from the southern lands, leaving only whispers of his absence and the fading power of the crystal.
Kalo and Lukan were invited to join the feast, and the mood quickly lifted. Laughter and music echoed through the camp as the travelers played their instruments—fiddles, flutes, and drums joining in harmonious melody. The firelight flickered on their faces as they danced around it, a whirl of movement and color. The air was alive with stories—of old places, forgotten paths, and legendary creatures that roamed the heath.
The warmth of the festivities, the food, the camaraderie—Kalo felt his worries slip away with every bite and every note of music. The strange unease that had settled in him since their departure seemed to dissipate as he watched the travelers laugh, sharing in the simple joy of the open road. These people, these creatures—human, vole, hedgehog, badger, even an ancient koopling with long, snowy hair and a thick, braided beard—were different. They had an understanding of the land and the journey that Kalo and Lukan had yet to fully grasp.
The koopling, with his eyes sharp despite his age, had watched Kalo closely. He observed him as he trained away from the caravan one morning, his heatherblade gleaming in the early light. He never said a word, but his gaze carried something unspoken, a quiet knowing.
Days passed, and the travelers made Kalo and Lukan feel as though they were among their own. Kalo was given a caravan to rest in for the next several nights. It was small but cozy, with soft pillows and blankets, and he slept soundly, free of nightmares. The soothing presence of the travelers and their love for the open road brought him a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed. They were the heath’s heartbeat, its lifeblood—the people who lived in harmony with the land, who reveled in its vastness, its beauty, and its mystery.
But it was on the final night that Kalo would experience something that would stay with him forever.
As the fire crackled one last time in the center of the camp, the travelers gathered around it, singing and eating, celebrating their shared journey. Kalo sat on the edge of the circle, his thoughts quiet for the first time in days. He could feel the weight of the past week lifting from his shoulders, the burdens of his memories momentarily forgotten.
The old koopling, who had been watching him from afar all this time, approached silently. He sat down beside Kalo without a word, stretching his hands toward the fire.
“The heath is kind tonight,” the koopling murmured after a long pause, his voice like dry leaves shifting in the wind.
Kalo nodded but said nothing.
“I remember the last days of House White Heather,” the koopling continued, his gaze never leaving the flames. “Not as a warrior, nor as a scholar. Just as a man passing through, as we always do.”
Kalo’s grip tightened against his knee.
“They built their halls in harmony with the land,” the koopling mused. “Pale stone and white flowers, standing against time itself. There was beauty in that, even in the end.”
Kalo remained silent.
The koopling chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “But the heath remains. It does not weep for kings. It sings for the wind, for the wanderer, for those who do not ask for a home but find one wherever their feet take them.”
For a time, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled, the music in the background softened. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the koopling gestured toward the blade resting against Kalo’s side.
“A fine thing,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Silver like moonlight. A blade like that belongs to history.”
Kalo shifted, his fingers brushing the weapon’s hilt. And then, as if in quiet defiance, he turned the blade in his hand—watching as it shimmered, melted, and collapsed into the simple form of a broomstick.
“Nothing,” Kalo said, his voice neutral.
The koopling only smiled, shaking his head. “If you say so.” With that, he rose, his cloak shifting around him.
Morning came quietly. The travelers packed their wagons with practiced ease, the smell of tea and bread thick in the cool air. The caravan leader, a broad-shouldered woman with a laugh like rolling thunder, clasped Kalo’s forearm in parting.
“Grimthorn Hollow in a few months, if the roads are kind,” she said. “Maybe we’ll see you there. And if you do, maybe you can help with our missing hobgoblin.”
Kalo gave her a nod, watching as the wagons rolled down the dirt road, disappearing one by one into the misty horizon.
Then, just as the last wagon was about to vanish, a figure appeared at its rear. The old koopling.
He stood, his eyes calm and knowing. And then, slowly, he raised his hand in salute—three fingers stretched outward. The royal salute of House White Heather.
Kalo hesitated. His breath caught in his throat, an old instinct rising to the surface. Finally, as if against his own will, he returned the gesture.
The koopling gave a slow nod before turning away, vanishing with the caravan.
Lukan said nothing, only watching Kalo with quiet understanding.
The road stretched ahead, long and winding. Grimthorn Hollow was only a few days away.
Kalo walked on, his steps steady, though the weight on his shoulders felt different now. Not lighter. Not heavier. Just… real.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
