The solstice of that year marked both a beginning and an end. The irony lies in the fact that it is impossible to know exactly when and how all the events and details of the earth unfold. Thus, like many other secrets of Gea's Hidden Heart, this truth also remained concealed.

The details are significant. Every element is a spark in the cosmic vastness. Grains of sand form infinite deserts, crystal drops nourish the oceans; each one is part of the symphony of the macrocosm.

But which god knew it? Even that became confusing and perplexing—especially when the gods were falling like flies. Their screams pierced the seven heavens and echoed across the earth's surface; those were days of crimson rain and violent tremors, with black clouds and scarlet lightning.

In magical lands where anything is possible, and the extraordinary knows no limits, the Kelpie were creatures as magnificent as dragons in their power. The elders and the young once spoke of them with joy. From time to time, one could see them covering the sky with a black mantle to begin the night; others frosted the celestial curtain; it was all a shared labor. Benevolent beings in their magnificence.

However, it had been over ten centuries since any trace of them had been seen, and every heavenly and pure memory, every feeling of devotion, and all respect for the Kelpie vanished into thin air as if they had never existed, as if their love for the minutiae had never been. People no longer mentioned them, and only a few claimed to know of their past existence. One in a hundred knew vaguely of them, while the rest looked with disdain at those who upheld the theory of their life in the Starry Spring.

As knowledge of the Kelpie faded, the term "Napatun" emerged. These beings resembled the Kelpie in appearance. People portrayed them as malevolent and diabolical, defining them as creatures that propagated human suffering, creators of sin, and the cause of humanity's downfall, as well as the fall of the Spiritual Sanctuary.

Humans have always leaned toward negative emotions. Their being is always filled with darkness. When presented with something to despise, they do not hesitate to awaken their hatred and irrationally unleash their violence. The easy path, without counterarguments, has always been their preferred choice.

Autumn came, and the Kelpie fell; winter came, and the Napatun were born; in spring, they settled; and by summer, the autumn leaves were never seen again.

— You've been staring at the tree trunks the whole way —snapped Throckmorton. His gaze glimmered with the light of dusk, inquisitive, as his head turned toward his companion. His starry eye, and the other, covered by a tear of dawn, captured Hale's attention. A whirlwind of dry leaves struck him—. What's wrong? Is the path some sort of graphic representation of you or what? Do you feel like the grooves in the wood?

Hale made a heavy gesture. He didn't know how to express himself. His breath came out demoralized. He lowered his gaze. The brushes of his hands played with the reins. His fingertips slid along the leather stitching. Nervousness compelled him to press the stirrups halfway into the horse's girth. Exhausted, yearning for the moons to embrace his sorrow, he threw his head back.

The Ethereal Drifters swam as if troubles didn't exist; perhaps that was how the phantom world worked.

The young man felt incompetent. The reflection projected on the water embraced his face and shattered his armor. Fixated on a solitary telescope fish, which stirred his heart with its graceful presence, his gaze faltered amidst the dry branches and mud.

His lips quivered.

— Sometimes I think I'm wicked —he said. His teeth clenched his flesh. He was incapable of voicing what gnawed at his mind. Three silences were enough to move him. He asked, pained—: Am I good enough? —His eyes sparkled—. In general.

Throckmorton made a goofy face. He opened his mouth, exposing his teeth. He stuck out his tongue exaggeratedly. His action came across as scruffy, almost grotesque. It exuded an air of childish absurdity.

— Are you kidding me? —he asked nervously. His mind wandered. He'd never seen Hale in such a state—. Don't you hear what they say about you?

His friend gave a faint smile. He shook his head. Once again, he turned his attention to the tiny fish.

— They don't know me —he declared with difficulty—. They've never seen me fight. They say what they say because of my elemental spells.

Throckmorton blocked his path. He abruptly stopped him with his horse. His face was overly expressive and playful. His gesture of perplexity filled with wrinkles, fostering a hint of comedy.

— Are you out of your mind? —He leaned closer. He maneuvered his horse to face north while Hale's pointed south. He grabbed his companion's head and brought his ear close to his skull. He leaned on it, pretending to listen—. Since when do you let that feeble little voice rule over you? —He knocked on his head as if rapping on a door. He shouted—: Leave Fox alone! —He let go of him. Taking the reins of his horse, he repositioned himself by Hale's side. Both gazed south—. You're leaving a mark, even if you can't see it; you're forging a path.

Hale wasn't moved. He shrugged. His fingers tightened around the reins. He gestured, disagreeing. He leaned on the horse's neck, wanting to hide his face.

— That voice has been the echo of my footsteps these days. —He rubbed his forehead against the white mane—. The message it's trying to convey... —he murmured. He faltered. He hesitated. He tried to escape the conversation out of discomfort. Throckmorton rolled his eyes in irony. Once again, Hale hid himself. He struggled to speak and, after stammering, summarized, referring to "that voice"—: I think it's right... I feel like I've disappeared. 

— And how can I see you? —Throckmorton asked mockingly, rummaging for an apple in his bag—. Is that why you were leaving alone? What do you gain by running away? —He looked at him expectantly, softening the atmosphere. He patted Hale's back before spurring his horse. Deciding to continue the conversation without unsettling him, he abandoned his earlier stance. He reasoned—: It's a test, Fox, it's fear chattering. Your true voice is shouting: "I can do anything!" —He clicked his tongue, shaking his head—. You're focused on ignoring yourself. Your insecurities are drowning you in a swamp. Please stop. You'll fall into an annoying state of discouragement. What will I do without my partner in stupidity? 

— Saying it like that doesn't change anything —Hale objected—. The apprehension is still there. In fact, it built a house after your wise words. 

— It's here, Fox. —Throckmorton tapped his chest—. The fears are yours, aren't they? You can control anything that belongs to you; you're their master. Listen. Your voice, your true essence, has pushed you to accomplish everything you've achieved. I don't expect you to change overnight because of what I say, but I want you to be aware of it so you can fight that enemy of yours—who, by the way, is you. There's nothing more to it. 

— I feel like I'm going to fail. I want to bring it back. At home, they act as if they've simply accepted it. And if I fail? How could I return? I wouldn't be able to. 

— Do you know how I overcame my fears? —Hale quickly turned to him, excited—. You get up and keep going. —Hale's smile crumbled—. Grab your hand and keep walking. You were born alone, and you fight alone. —After a moment of silence, he added casually—: I'm not strong, not at all, not as much as you. You have to decide: are you going to trust your voice or your fear? 

— Sounds easy. 

— Nothing worthwhile is practical. It's your life; it will never be easy. But if you feel doubt creeping in again and that feeling starts to take over, think of me. I'll help you learn about yourself. You know what? Better yet, let me know, so I'll stick by your side, and you won't do anything foolish. Don't give up because of doubt; that would be failing. If you're going to throw everything into an abyss, then do it in a grand, radical way—not out of fear. What's that? It's not cool at all. Give yourself a chance, let yourself be known. 

Hale nodded slowly, contemplative. Soon, his cheeks regained their warm color. He wore a sly expression, and, in a biting tone, he celebrated: 

— You spoke. Now you're punished. You'll have to be there for me no matter what. —Throckmorton froze—. No matter what! That means… 

— Yes, yes, I know what it means! —he growled, exasperated, throwing his head back. Irritated, he snapped—: Be honest, were you acting? 

Hale shook his head, intrigued. At first, he had followed his own path, but with Throckmorton's reach, he abandoned his mission and adhered to his companion's guidance. He didn't ask for directions. 

— Are you sure this is the route? —he asked. 

— I'm the one who chose the jobs —Throckmorton asserted—. I'm sure, let's go. 

The night knew the travelers were in the deepest, most intricate note of life. The clouds sealed the promise to be there for one another. The rain, tears of unripe grapes, couldn't stop them, for the rising of the suns was assured by nature's inevitable course. However, it took time, just a dense pause. The tide of shadows smothered the ethereal beauty of the moons. The awakening was a dust-laden blow filled with moans, sobs, and muffled cries of despair. Evil arrived as swiftly as lightning. Hope sang a mournful tune, the water danced in horror, and the earth trembled in anguish. 

That night, a bird soared through the skies until it disappeared. It let out a trill of platonic love. The frost embraced it in a magical collision. The other swallow drowned in the current of the phantom world. Its body, now featherless, exposed its fragile flesh. 

Amid the sorrow, flooded with solidarity, the Ethereal Drifters escorted the spirits. 

A half-eaten apple was left behind. 

A worm found a new home. 

A path and a story were lost.