Chapter 28 - The Missing Piece
The morning air was crisp, dry wind brushing gently across the basin like a mother smoothing her child's hair.
Above him, birds cried out to each other. Short bursts of song and sharp, distant caws, weaving across the pale sky.
But no people. No footsteps. No clatter of tools. No bubbling pot or soft sparks of a fire.
Just the sounds of nature.
It was peaceful. And lonely. And real.
Ren sat with his back against the stone again, already awake, legs heavy from the cold and the thoughts still lingering from last night.
He didn't rush.
He cut his half-loaf of bread. Small, careful slices, and placed them on a cloth. He poured water from his bottle.
Breakfast. Slow. Quiet.
He chewed deliberately, letting the silence stretch.
This was the only real pause he'd had in days.
He tilted his head upward.
Birds soared overhead. Some gliding, some darting, a few shouted at each other, chasing across the morning light.
He watched them. Let himself breathe.
Then something moved near his hand.
A tiny shape. Black. Glossy.
An ant.
Just one.
It marched toward a fallen breadcrumb, the one that Ren hadn't even noticed slipping from his lap.
The ant reached it, circled once, then disappeared into a crack between the rocks.
A moment passed.
Then it returned, with others.
A dozen, maybe more. Small, fast, efficient.
Together, they carried the crumb away. Piece by piece.
Ren watched, unmoving.
Then, a small smile.
Without a word, he cut another piece of bread. Then another. Tiny shreds, the smallest he could manage.
He scattered them gently near the crack in the rock.
"A thank-you," he murmured.
To what, he didn't know.
But the moment stayed with him.
One ant couldn't move the world. But a dozen could carry more than their size should allow.
He sat a moment longer, then stood slowly. Brushed dust from his coat. Packed the relic carefully. Rolled the map and tied it to his pocket.
The morning had cleared something in him. The storm of thought was quiet now.
He had the relic.
He had the site marked.
And the map was reacting again.
Whatever puzzle this world was hiding, he wasn't chasing shadows anymore.
He had a trail. And he had time.
But first, Ironpeak.
He needed new gear.
Better packs. More tools. Maybe a guide.
And coin enough to trade, but not draw attention.
He set off westward, each step firm on the dry earth. The cracked land behind him. A new weight in his pack. A clearer purpose in his chest.
The wind picked up again.
This time, it felt like it was behind him.
The trail to Ironpeak curved west, but the map told a different story.
Faint ink, like a vein under skin, shifted again. Pointing just off the road ren has passed before.
Ren hesitated. Then turned.
One hour wouldn't change much.
But what he found… it might.
At least that what Ren thoughts.
Ren continued his journey, the map guiding each step like a second pulse under his skin.
He scanned for anything odd. Strange formations. Ruins. Uneven land. But nothing appeared.
No structures. No shimmer. Just dust, roots, and time.
He frowned.
This one's different, he thought.
Maybe it was below.
He crouched, ran his hand across the ground. It was solid. Packed dry from years without plowing.
If whatever was hidden lay three meters deep, he couldn't reach it alone.
Not without tools. Not without help. Not without time he didn't have.
The water in his flask was low. The dried meat was nearly gone.
This wasn't the place. Not yet.
He marked it with several broken branches, stacking them in a triangular shape near a half-dead tree.
Then took a bit of charcoal and scratched the coordinates onto his map.
Just as he finished, the map pulsed again.
This time, north.
He didn't stop. He trusted it now.
Every pulse meant something. Had to. No room for hesitation.
He moved.
The terrain shifted slightly. From patches of grass to gnarled roots breaking through stone. The soil smelled older here. Wetter. Alive.
Then he saw it.
A tree. Massive. Old beyond words. Its trunk was thicker than a wagon.
It rose like a pillar into the sky, branches stretching wide like a hand frozen mid-reach.
And at its base, a stone. Rounded. Placed.
Someone had put it there.
The map pulsed stronger. Its lines breathing. Expanding. Here.
Ren stepped forward. "There's something behind this," he murmured.
He tried to move the stone. It resisted. Too heavy. Too deep.
He reached for his hoe.
For once, the old tool was more than enough. He worked the ground in front of the stone, loosening the soil. Chipping away until the rock began to shift. Slowly, it rolled aside with a scraping thud.
He wedged a few thick branches under it to keep it from rolling back, then crouched low.
Beneath the roots and the tree's base was a hollow, like a tunnel tilted downward.
A shelter. A hideout. No signs of life above. No ruins. No buildings. Just this, buried where no one would find it unless they knew.
Ren dropped to one knee and crawled through the narrow gap. The walls were wooden. Old and root-bound, but stable.
Inside, it was dim. The light filtering through the narrow entrance barely reached the far wall. Dust floated in the air like ash, caught in the silence.
Then Ren saw it.
A mural.
Etched deep into the wood, darkened by time, but still sharp. Preserved like a message no one was ever meant to see.
He stepped closer, each footstep. Slowly, as if sound would somehow disturb the meaning trapped inside.
And when his eyes adjusted, he froze.
His breath caught.
His heartbeat slowed.
A weight pressed into his chest, not fear. Not awe.
Something deeper. Stranger.
Recognition.
Confusion warred with understanding. Shock twisted into wonder.
This drawing, this mural, it wasn't decoration. It was memory.
A memory left behind by people who understood something the world had forgotten.
His hand hovered in the air, almost touching the first etched line. But he held back, as if to do so would break it.
"This... means something," Ren whispered.
The words left his lips without thought.
He didn't fully understand it. Not yet.
But he knew.
This was part of the puzzle.
The missing piece.