Beyond the village, the ruins of an outpost came into view. Its stone walls, once proud and strong, were overrun with ivy, moss clinging to the weathered surface. The creak of the iron gate echoed as he pushed it open.
He ventured deep into the abandoned outpost. Inside, the air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and decay. He moved through the crumbling corridors, his footsteps stirring faint puffs of dust. The structure had long been reduced to a hollow shell, but faint carvings of shields, swords, and ancient sigils remained.
The surrounding ruins started to come alive, carrying with them the echoes of the past. Elven archers stood atop the watch tower, their bows drawn taut, their keen eyes scanning the horizon for threats. Beast folk warriors patrolled the grounds, their fur glinting in the sunlight as their low growls communicated vigilance. Sylphs flitted through the air, their delicate forms shimmering like sunlight on water, weaving protective wards that hung invisibly over the outpost. Humans hurried about their duties—repairing armor, sharpening weapons, and preparing supplies—each movement purposeful and precise. The hum of life, vibrant and disciplined, filled the space.
The sights and sounds were so vivid, so real. But when he blinked, the vision faded, leaving only the silent ruins and the faint echo of what once was. At the heart of the outpost stood a statue. He stopped short, his breath catching as he recognized the unmistakable figure despite the wear of years: Thalia.
Her likeliness was carved with meticulous care, capturing the grace and wisdom that had defined her in life—a remarkable skill. Her long, flowing attire that seemed to ripple in an unseen breeze, her pointed ears peeked out from beneath her braided hair cascading down her back in intricate patterns. In one hand, she held her healer's staff, its tip adorned with a carved crystal, and was raised as though channelling a protective spell. The other hand extended outward, as though offering solace to the broken, and vines coiled gently around her feet, blending with the artistry of the sculpture to suggest as if nature itself sought her embrace.
He stepped closer, the sight of her stone-carved face stirring memories he had buried deep. The High Elf had been their healer, her healing spells a balm against the horrors of war. She had been their heart, the healer who reminded them of the world worth fighting for. Even in the darkest moments, Thalia's steady hands and unwavering belief in the goodness of the world had kept them from falling apart. She had healed the wounded without hesitation, even when it cost her everything.
Kneeling, he reached out and brushed away the moss that had crept up the base of the statue. Beneath the green layer, slowly an inscription was revealed:
"To Thalia, who mended the broken and stood unyielding in the face of despair."
He traced the words with his fingers, the weight of their meaning pressing against him like an unspoken accusation. "You believed in them," he murmured, his voice breaking, heavy with emotion. "Even when I couldn't... What would you think of me now, Thalía? The man who couldn't save you or anyone else."
A breeze stirred the air, rustling the ivy, carrying with it a faint whisper. For a fleeting moment, he thought he heard her voice—a memory, steady and unwavering, like the healer whose faith had never faltered. It felt as though she were standing beside him once more, her presence as grounded and unshakable as the earth beneath his feet.
He rose, his chest tight with an ache that words could not express. He owed her and the others far more than this fleeting tribute, but for now, it would have to suffice.
He left the ruins behind as the sun climbed higher in the sky, its rays cutting through the canopy of trees ahead. The air grew cooler, carrying the earthy scent of moss and damp wood. As he vanished into the wilderness, Aurestedge remained behind—a place of fleeting warmth and enduring tension, its people oblivious to the burden carried by the lone traveller who had passed through their lives. For him, the journey continued, each step forward an echo of the past and a question unanswered.
As the ruins faded behind him, the road soon split into two paths: one wound back toward mapped lands, civilization awaited with its ambitions and conflicts. The other led into the uncharted wilderness, a dense and shadowed expanse that seemed to beckon him with an unseen hand.
He paused at the crossroads, his gaze lingering on the uncharted path. There was a pull—subtle but insistent—that seemed to emanate from the unknown. The trees lining the path seemed to lean closer, their shadows darker, their whispers softer.
With a steady breath, he stepped forward, choosing the unmarked road.
The wilderness quickly swallowed him, its dense canopy blocking out much of the sunlight. Shadows danced between the trees. The trees grew denser, their branches intertwining to form a natural archway. The stillness was profound, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a distant bird. The sunlight dimmed, filtered through the thick canopy, casting the forest floor in a mosaic of shifting light and shadow.
Atop a small hill, he paused to catch his breath. The stars faint and distant above him, he stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the expanse below. The moon hung low, casting a silvery glow over the land, its light filtering through the canopy below. The forest stretched endlessly before him, a sea of dark silhouettes and dappled shadows, as if it held its breath under the watchful eye of the night.
For a fleeting moment, he thought he heard her voice again—a whisper carried on the breeze. Closing his eyes, he let the sound wash over him, steady and unwavering, just as it had been in life.
"I can't let it end like this," he said softly, his voice carrying a mix of bitterness and resolve. But even as the words left him, doubt lingered like a shadow. What could he possibly do that hadn't already cost him everything? What difference could he make now, when the world itself seemed determined to forget?
Perhaps the answers lay in the wilderness ahead, or perhaps the silence would swallow him whole. There was no certainty in the unknown, only the hope for a question unanswered. In the untouched parts of Ilyrion where the echoes of the past might still linger. The questions he carried weighed on him, but the path before him offered no guarantees—only the promise of distance from a world that no longer felt his own.
"Perhaps..." he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Perhaps the silence will hold the answer."
For now, all he had was the journey. And even if he found no answers, he knew one thing for certain: the memory of his comrades—their sacrifices, their ideals—would remain with him. He owed them that much.
With the memory of his comrades etched into his heart, he resumed his journey. The wilderness called to him—not with promises of answers, but with the hope of understanding the questions that had haunted him for so long.