Brother Nile’s sandals pressed softly into the dirt path that wound south of Eidelon, the grand magical city that loomed like a jewel on the horizon. His journey through Chromatica had stretched on for months, though the days blurred together in a haze of prayer, weary roads, and questions with no answers. His memories; gone. His past; a shadow. Only faith and instinct guided him onward.

  It was on one such lonely road that he first met the boy.

  The child looked no older than sixteen, though his frame was small and his eyes, a deep, unsettling red, seemed far older. He sat by the roadside, clutching a small bundle of worn books to his chest as though they were treasure. When Nile approached, the boy shrank back, wary and silent.

  “I mean you no harm,” Nile said softly, lowering his hood to reveal the plain white mantle of his order. “You seem lost.”

  The boy said nothing. Only tightened his grip on the books.

  Nile’s heart ached. He knew the look; abandonment, fear, loneliness. Once, perhaps, he had worn it himself. Without pressing further, he offered his hand. “Come with me. You need not wander alone.”

  Hesitant at first, the boy rose and followed. Step by step, the two of them walked the southern road together, one a cleric searching for a past, the other a nameless shadow clutching words of forgotten knowledge.

  Days passed. The boy rarely spoke, but Nile learned to read his silence. A slight tug at the hem of his robe meant he was hungry. A glance at the treeline warned of beasts nearby. It was enough. Nile had found someone to protect, and the boy had found someone willing to protect him.

  But fate has little care for peace.

  The ambush came as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in crimson. Bandits poured from the trees with crude blades and hungry eyes.

  “Coin and books, priest,” their leader snarled. “Hand them over and we’ll leave your bones unbroken.”

  Nile stepped forward, shield raised. “You’ll have neither.”

  Steel clashed. Nile fought with the discipline of his order, striking with his quarterstaff and chanting prayers of warding. But they were outnumbered, pressed on every side. A dagger nearly found his ribs when a sudden burst of flame roared from behind him.

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  The boy stood trembling, one hand outstretched. Fire licked across his fingertips, his red eyes glowing with strange, untamed light. The bandits reeled back, shouting in fear, and for the first time Nile saw the truth; the child wielded magic.

  Yet even with fire and faith, the fight turned grim. Nile’s wardl cracked under the strain, and the boy’s spells sputtered as exhaustion set in. Just when defeat loomed;

  A roar split the air.

  From the ridge above, a cloaked figure descended, brandishing a sword far too large for her frame. A young woman, hair blazing red beneath her hood, crashed into the fray like a storm. Her blade carved arcs of steel, scattering bandits with each furious swing.

  Nile felt something stir within him, something instinctive. He raised his voice in a hymn, his prayers weaving through the air like a blessing. Radiant light wrapped around the boy and the red-haired girl, strengthening their limbs, sharpening their strikes.

  And suddenly, they fought not as strangers, but as one.

  The boy’s fire lashed in rhythm with the girl’s sweeping blade, each strike covering the other. Nile’s blessings knit their defense into something seamless. It was uncanny, as though they had battled side by side for years.

  When the last bandit fell, silence reclaimed the road. The three stood, panting, the dusk settling heavy around them.

  Nile lowered his mace and turned to the girl. “You’ve my thanks. Might I ask your name?”

  She hesitated, hand tightening on her sword hilt. Her eyes darted between Nile and the boy, mistrust shadowing her face.

  “Very well,” Nile said gently, inclining his head.

  The silence broke. She squared her shoulders and declared, “I am Zavana. Zavana the Great Swordswoman.”

  There was pride in her tone, though caution lingered in her eyes. She looked to the pair. “And who are you?”

  Nile bowed slightly. “I am Brother Nile, a cleric of the wandering path. And this; ” he turned to the boy, who clutched his books to his chest; “this is; ”

  “Fayama.”

  The name fell from the boy’s lips like a stone into water. Nile blinked, surprised that he had spoken at all.

  Zavana studied them both, her fiery hair catching the last of the sun. Nile felt a weight stir in his chest. Both children carried something within them, a searching, a hunger for answers they could not yet name.

  And in that, they mirrored him.

  For the first time in many months, Nile did not feel so alone. The road ahead stretched long and uncertain, but as he looked at the two beside him, he felt a spark of faith take root. Perhaps none of them knew what they were searching for; but maybe, just maybe, they would find it together.