Tall trees blurred past, their towering forms nothing but streaks of dark green against the moonlit canvas. Their leaves shimmered like scattered emeralds under the crescent moon's silver gaze. It was a quiet moon—not sorrowful, not joyful either—just watchful, as if it bore witness to the thoughts none dared speak aloud.
The wooden cargo creaked and groaned as it rolled along the uneven path. Two horses—muscles taut, breaths heavy—pulled the carriage with tireless resolve, their hooves pounding like a heartbeat against the lonely trail. Boxes of supplies clattered softly in the back, jostling beside three siblings who sat in silence.
Kairos sat near the edge of the cart's open back, legs swinging inches above the dirt road, catching gusts of cold wind that whistled between the trees. He didn't blink often, as if the distance would vanish if he stared long enough. He hadn't said much since they departed three nights ago. His thoughts were like anchors, dragging deeper beneath the surface of still waters.
Lysander stood nearby, her golden hair flowing like candlelight caught in motion. She absentmindedly brushed the tips with her fingers, a gesture she'd learned from their mother—the kind of subtle grace she always carried without realizing.
After a pause, she sat beside him, crossing her legs. She reached out and gently patted his shoulder, the silence between them filled with meaning.
"I'm fine," Kairos muttered, not even glancing her way. His voice didn't tremble, but it wasn't steady either. It hovered somewhere between resolve and resignation.
Lysander didn't press further. She didn't need to. Her presence was enough.
"You know…" she began softly, watching the moonlight filter through the passing trees, "life doesn't always follow the script we write in our heads. Sometimes… the detours are the parts worth remembering. The unexpected—that's where the meaning usually hides."
Kairos didn't respond at first. Then he shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "I failed, Lysander. That's not going to change."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe failure isn't the curse you think it is."
"Easy for you to say," he replied. "You've always been perfect. Things go your way. People listen to you. They look up to you."
The weight behind his words didn't come from anger. It came from something quieter—something like envy or fear. Or maybe both.
Lysander's smile dimmed. She followed his gaze toward the trees, where the leaves rippled like ink on parchment.
"Well, if we're being honest…" she paused, casting a quick glance at Zephyrus, who sat a little distance away, sharpening a blade that didn't seem dull. He wasn't eavesdropping, but he wasn't not listening either. "...I've never felt confident, or perfect. It was more… complicated than that."
Kairos turned to her, finally. His expression was guarded, but curious. The smallest ember of something stirred behind his eyes.
"When I was your age," she said, "I was empty. Hollow. Like a shell of a person. My soul and my body… they were born apart. Detached. I didn't feel things the way others did. Couldn't cry. Couldn't laugh properly. I was clumsy. Distant."
Kairos blinked slowly. He hadn't expected that.
"I had to chase my soul," Lysander continued, voice barely louder than the wind. "Find it, catch it, and bind it to myself before I turned twelve. That was my trial. It tried to run. Hide. Trick me. There were times I thought I'd never reach it. I didn't even know if I wanted to."
Silence followed. Not awkward, but heavy. Like something sacred had been placed between them.
"I never knew," Kairos whispered. "I mean… I knew there was a change, when you turned twelve. With both of you. But I didn't know what it cost."
"Trials always cost something," Zephyrus called from his corner without looking up. "Sometimes more than we expect."
He stood and walked over, the hilt of his sword gleaming in the moonlight—only the hilt, because the blade itself remained sheathed.
"My trial wasn't about chasing something," Zephyrus said, folding his arms. "It was about keeping something from falling apart."
Kairos tilted his head, his interest genuine now.
"My soul split. Four ways. It fractured like glass, and scattered into different fragments. I had to find them, hold them, bind them. Three of them became these—" he gestured to the three swords strapped to his back and sides, "—but I can't draw them unless certain… things happen. Don't ask what. Even I don't fully understand all the rules yet."
Kairos stared at the blades. The idea of someone's soul turning into a weapon was… both terrifying and beautiful.
"And the fourth?" he asked.
Zephyrus smiled faintly, but didn't answer.
Lysander leaned forward. "The point is, Kai, we all went through something. We all broke, in different ways. You're no different from us."
"You just haven't found your break yet," Zephyrus added, ruffling Kairos' hair with a hand that was both gentle and firm. "And when you do, you'll find what's underneath. That's where strength comes from."
Kairos didn't reply, but he didn't need to. Something had shifted in his expression—an acceptance, maybe. Or the beginnings of one.
They rode in silence for a while, the trees thinning as dawn approached. The moon began to wane, its brilliance softening into a pale ghost. The wind carried the scent of dew and wild herbs.
"Almost there," Lysander murmured, spotting the rising cliffs in the distance.
The sky began to stain with hints of gold and orange. Birds chirped lazily from the treetops. The path beneath the cart grew smoother, firmer.
By the time the sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, the cargo had reached the gates of a small stone outpost nestled between cliffs and forest. The first leg of their journey had ended.
But the real journey—for all of them—had only just begun.