The clearing was quiet as the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the court. Sander stood at its edge, the deflated basketball tucked under his arm, his thoughts heavy with unanswered questions.
The faint sound of birdsong began to fade, replaced by the rustling of leaves as the cool evening breeze swept through the Silverbark Woods. Sander glanced at the sky, where streaks of orange and pink painted the clouds.
It's late, he realized, his chest tightening with a pang of urgency. He turned toward the village, his legs stiff from the exertion of the day. The walk back to the cottage wasn't far, but his weak body made every step feel longer than it should have.
The court loomed in his mind with every step. Its presence was an enigma, a puzzle piece that didn't fit the medieval world he had observed so far.
The faint glow of the hearth greeted him as he pushed open the creaky door to the cottage. Isolde sat by the small table, mending a patch on one of Theo's shirts. Her silver hair caught the firelight, glinting faintly as she turned to look at him.
"You're back," she said, relief softening her tone. "I was starting to worry. The woods can be dangerous after dark."
Sander stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I didn't go far," he said, his voice low as he placed the deflated basketball on the table.
Isolde's eyes flicked to the ball, her hands stilling on the fabric in her lap. "Where did you find that?"
"It was in the house," Sander said, his gaze steady. "But I found something else today. A court—an old basketball court, hidden just outside the village."
Isolde's brow furrowed, her hands resuming their work. "A court? Here? I didn't know there was one nearby."
Sander leaned against the table, his mind still churning. "How long has basketball been a part of this world?"
Isolde paused again, her needle hovering above the fabric. She looked at him, her expression a mix of curiosity and caution. "It's always been here," she said simply. "Basketball is part of our culture, just like it is in the rest of Aurionvale. Everyone knows that."
Her words sent a ripple through him. Part of the culture? In this world?
"Do you know anything about the court?" he pressed.
She shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "No. I don't remember a court ever being mentioned in Eryndale. But it's not unusual. Courts like that are built and forgotten all the time, especially in smaller villages."
Her explanation didn't satisfy him. There was something about that court—its age, its isolation—that felt significant.
"If you want to know more," Isolde added, her voice gentle, "you should speak to Elder Sofia. She's been here longer than anyone. If anyone knows about that court, it's her."
Sander nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the ball on the table. "She might," he murmured.
Isolde reached across the table, her hand brushing against his. "Why does this matter so much to you?"
He hesitated, his fingers curling around the edge of the ball. "It just… feels important," he said finally.
Isolde studied him for a moment, then nodded. "If it feels important, then it is," she said softly. "But don't let it consume you. There's a balance to everything, Sander."
He met her gaze, her words sinking in. The quiet strength in her voice reminded him of Elias's resolve, a steady presence that anchored their fragile world.
"I'll find the answers," he said, his voice steady. "I have to."
Isolde's lips curved into a faint smile, though worry lingered in her eyes. "Then start with Sofia. And after that, eat something. You'll need your strength if you're going to chase answers."
Sander nodded, his resolve hardening as he turned toward the fire. The ball in his hands, the court in the clearing, and the questions that burned in his mind—all of it was connected to something bigger.
Tomorrow, he would find Elder Sofia.
The morning light filtered through the cracks in the cottage walls, casting golden beams across the worn wooden floor. Sander sat at the small table, absently turning the deflated basketball in his hands. The texture of the cracked leather, the faint give of its ruined core—it all felt like a link to something he couldn't quite name.
"Eat first," Isolde's voice interrupted his thoughts.
He glanced up to see her placing a small bowl of porridge in front of him. The scent of warm oats mingled with the faint smoke from the hearth, but his appetite was nowhere to be found.
"You'll need energy if you're going to the square," she said, her tone soft but firm. "Sofia doesn't take kindly to impatient boys."
Sander nodded and forced himself to take a few bites. The porridge was bland, but it settled in his stomach like a promise of strength. He stood, brushing his hands against his patched trousers, and tucked the basketball under his arm.
"I'll be back soon," he said.
"Take your time," Isolde replied, her eyes following him as he stepped out into the crisp morning air.
Eryndale was alive with quiet activity. Villagers moved about, tending to their daily tasks, their voices mingling with the sound of clucking chickens and the low creak of wagon wheels. Sander made his way to the square, his steps purposeful but measured.
Elder Sofia sat on her usual bench near the well, her sharp eyes scanning the square like a watchful hawk. The morning sun highlighted the deep lines of her face, each one a testament to the years she had lived and the wisdom she carried.
Sander hesitated at the edge of the square, gripping the basketball tighter. He had spoken to her briefly the day before, but this time felt different. The questions burning in his mind were too big, too important, and he wasn't sure if he'd find the answers he needed.
Taking a deep breath, he approached her.
"Sofia," he said, his voice steady but quiet.
The elder turned her gaze toward him, her expression unreadable. She nodded once, gesturing for him to sit on the bench beside her.
"You're back," she said simply. "What's on your mind today, Visione?"
Sander sat, the basketball resting in his lap. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "I found something yesterday. An old basketball court, just outside the village."
Sofia's eyes flicked to the ball in his hands, her expression remaining calm. "Did you, now?"
He nodded. "It's overgrown, broken, but it's still there. And I don't understand why. How long has it been there? Who built it? Why is basketball even… here?"
The elder tilted her head slightly, studying him with a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "You ask a lot of questions, boy. But you don't need me to tell you that basketball is a part of this world. You've known that all your life—or at least, you should have."
"That's just it," Sander pressed, his voice firm. "I don't know why. This world… it doesn't feel like a place where basketball should exist. It's too old, too—" He stopped himself, unsure how to finish the thought without revealing too much.
Sofia's gaze lingered on him, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "You think you're the first to ask those questions?" she said finally.
Sander blinked. "What do you mean?"
The elder leaned back on the bench, her hands resting on her knees. "Basketball has been part of this land for as long as anyone can remember. Longer than the kingdoms, longer than the guilds. Some say it's a gift from the gods, others say it was discovered by chance. What matters is that it's here, and it shapes the lives of everyone in Aurionvale."
She gestured toward the square, where a group of children passed by, their laughter echoing in the crisp air. "It's in our culture, our honor, our very way of life. But as for the why, well… that's a question even I can't answer."
Sander's grip on the basketball tightened. "But the court—"
"It's just a court," Sofia interrupted gently. "A piece of stone and iron left to rot like so many others. You won't find answers there, boy, not the ones you're looking for."
Her words stung, but Sander refused to back down. "Then where do I find them?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Sofia's expression softened slightly, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. "You're asking the wrong question," she said. "You don't need to know where basketball came from. You need to know what it means to you."
The elder stood slowly, her movements deliberate as she rested a hand on his shoulder. "The answers you seek won't come from a someone or a book, Visione. They'll come from the you itself. If you're willing to fight, to give everything you have for it, then you'll understand."
Sander looked up at her, the weight of her words settling in his chest.
"What if I'm not strong enough?" he asked quietly.
Sofia smiled faintly, her grip on his shoulder tightening. "You're stronger than you think," she said. "And you have more time than you realize. Use it wisely."
She turned and began to walk away, her steps slow but steady. Sander sat in silence, the ball still in his lap.
The village square emptied slowly as the morning wore on, the rhythm of Eryndale's life returning to its familiar routines. Sander remained on the bench, the deflated basketball resting heavily in his lap, Elder Sofia's words echoing in his mind.
The answer had felt evasive, yet it struck something deep inside him. Basketball had always been more than a game to him—it was a test of skill, a measure of character, a battle for respect. But here, in this world, it seemed to carry even greater significance.
He thought of the court hidden in the woods, its broken lines and rusted hoop standing as a silent relic of something larger. He thought of the ball in the cottage, its existence as mysterious as his own presence in this world.
Sander tightened his grip on the basketball, his knuckles white against its worn surface.
I'll find those answers, he thought. If the game itself holds the truth, then I'll dedicate myself to it. But first, I need to know more. I need to see how basketball fits into this world—not just in Eryndale, but everywhere.
He looked up, his gaze settling on the road that led out of the village. Beyond its winding path lay Carna, a town larger and more connected than this quiet hamlet. If basketball was a part of this world's culture, Carna would surely hold more clues.
And his father worked there. Elias might have seen or heard something during his trips—a piece of information that could help Sander understand the game's place in this strange land.
By the time Sander returned to the cottage, the sun was climbing higher, its warmth chasing away the morning chill. Isolde was outside, hanging damp linens on a frayed rope tied between two wooden posts. She glanced up as he approached, her expression softening at the sight of him.
"How did it go?" she asked, her tone as gentle as the breeze rustling the linens.
Sander hesitated, then shrugged. "Sofia told me what I already know—that basketball is part of this world. But she couldn't tell me why or how it started."
Isolde nodded thoughtfully, her hands deftly pinning a shirt to the line. "She's a wise woman, but even she doesn't have all the answers. Some things… we just accept because they've always been."
Sander frowned, her words offering little comfort. "I'm not ready to accept that. There's something about all of this—about the court, the ball, even this world—that doesn't add up."
He paused, glancing at his mother. "Do you think Father might know anything? He's in Carna so often. He must have seen or heard something."
Isolde tilted her head, considering his words. "Your father has a sharp eye for details," she said slowly. "If there's anything to learn about basketball in Carna, he might know. But Elias keeps his focus on work, Sander. He doesn't spend much time on games."
"It's not just a game," Sander said quietly, his voice firm.
Isolde's hands stilled, and she turned to face him fully. For a long moment, she studied him, her blue eyes searching his face. Finally, she sighed and gave a small nod. "If this means that much to you, talk to him. But don't push too hard. He carries enough on his shoulders."
"I'll wait for the right moment," Sander promised.
Sander spent the rest of the day pacing the cottage and its surroundings, his thoughts restless as he turned over possibilities in his mind. He needed to visit Carna himself, to see the town where his father worked and to explore its markets, its streets, its people.
If basketball is part of the culture here, he thought, then Carna will show me how deep it goes.
But Carna wasn't just a place to gather information—it was a starting point. The world beyond Eryndale was vast, and Sander knew he couldn't unlock its secrets from the confines of a small village.
He glanced at the deflated basketball sitting by the hearth, its cracked leather surface catching the firelight.