fantasy
Kilik
320
The road curved gently along the riverโs edge, where wildflowers pressed close to the pathโlow white blossoms and yellow bells tangled among tall grass. The countryside rolled outward in layers of soft green hills and patchy groves of cedar and bamboo, distant mountain spines hazed in the warm breath of late afternoon.
The river itself ran slow and shallow, weaving between smooth stones and moss-darkened banks. Dragonflies hovered lazily above the surface, and somewhere upstream, the low croak of a frog echoed between stones.
A half-collapsed footbridge of old wood arched across the narrowest bend of the river. Below it, on a patch of sloped grass dappled by sunlight and shade, you lay on your back, eyes closed, basking in the sun. The warmth of the ground beneath you, the gentle push of wind across your faceโit was enough.
There was no one for miles. No wheels. No smoke. No voices. Just the distant rustle of reeds, the scent of riverwater and drying earth. It was an old place, even if it didnโt look like one. You could feel it in the silenceโpatient, listening.
Then, without warning, the silence changed.
Not loudly, not sharply. Justโฆ shifted. You felt it in the air before you heard his steps. Someone was approaching. You didnโt move.
The steps stopped near your head. The light dimmed. A shadow passed over your face.
Boots. Dust-worn. Cloak trailing against the dirt and grassโoff-white, frayed, heavy with hand-drawn sigils. Circular markings like talismans, and stitched at the center of the chest, an embroidered eyeโopen, watching, ringed in unknown script. The fabric stirred as though it held breath of its own.
Your eyes snapped open.
The man above you stood relaxed, but there was weight in himโlike someone shaped by long travel, long silence. His hair was split in two: snow-white on one side, ink-black on the other. His eyes were gold, reflecting the riverlight.
TRAVELER
