"The capital of Thessalyn"
The first thing Ronell noticed was the smell of pine.
It wasn't cold anymore. The snow had vanished. The wind that brushed her cheeks was soft and smelled like earth and sunlight and something impossibly clean.
She opened her eyes.
They were standing in a forest.
Green leaves rustled high above, dappling sunlight across mossy ground. Wildflowers pushed gently through the underbrush. The sound of birdsong, of insects humming, of distant water — everything was alive.
Too alive.
Ronell looked to her side. Moore was already removing his winter coat, frowning faintly as he scanned the trees.
"Where are we?" he murmured.
"I don't know," Ronell replied. But even as she said it, something in her chest disagreed. It felt… hauntingly familiar.
Ahead of them, May stood still in the path. Human again. Her long black hair, streaked with crimson, moved gently with the breeze. She wasn't looking at them — she was staring past the trees, unmoving.
Ronell took a step forward. "May?"
No answer. Just a small, unreadable flicker in her expression.
She looked surprised.
Not startled. Not afraid.
Just quietly, inwardly shaken — like someone seeing a ghost in a photograph.
Then she turned.
"We need to move," she said, her voice quiet but sharp. "I need to know where we are."
And without waiting, she began walking — briskly, precisely, like someone retracing a forgotten path.
Ronell and Moore exchanged a glance, then followed.
The dirt road underfoot felt strangely untouched, as if it had been waiting for them. Around them, the forest teemed with life — no signs of ruin, no cracks in the earth or bleeding skies.
And yet, something didn't sit right.
Their clothes — heavy winter fabric — didn't match the warmth on their skin. Moore tugged at his sleeves, finally pulling off his coat and slinging it over his shoulder. Ronell followed, revealing a turtleneck underneath, wrinkled from travel.
The road stretched on ahead, winding toward something none of them could yet see.
But May's pace never slowed.
Whatever she was looking for — or whatever she expected — it wasn't this.
Not anymore.
---
The road bent gently, lined with moss-covered stones and budding trees just beginning to wake from winter. A hush hung over the woods — not silence, but reverence. As if the forest itself remembered.
Then they saw it.
A weathered wooden sign, half-sunken into the dirt where the path split. The letters were carved deep, bold despite age:
Thessalyn.
May stopped walking.
Her feet rooted in place. Her breath caught in her throat.
For a moment, she simply stared.
The forest swayed gently behind her — birdsong threading between branches, sunlight spilling through the leaves — but she didn't move. She didn't blink.
Ronell tilted her head. "May…?"
May's eyes narrowed slightly, jaw tight. But whatever she was thinking, she kept it buried. She said nothing.
She just stepped forward.
"The capital's this way," she said simply, voice unreadable.
No questions asked. None answered.
Moore followed without comment. Ronell lingered for a heartbeat longer, her gaze flicking back to the sign as if trying to read something invisible behind the carved letters.
Then she walked too.
The road ahead was uneven, but sunlit. Their winter coats had been tied at their waists, light sweat beading at their necks. The air smelled clean — like herbs and wildflowers, like rain not yet fallen.
None of them spoke for a while.
But something in May's shoulders had stiffened.
And though her expression stayed calm, her eyes flicked to the trees more often now — not with wonder…
…but with caution.
---
The trees thinned. The forest floor gave way to open path.
Their boots met gravel — uneven but well-traveled. Ahead, the road unwound like a ribbon across gentle hills, sun catching in its pale dust. The horizon stretched wide and clear, painted with wildflowers and golden grass, the occasional tree dotting the landscape like punctuation.
Villages appeared in passing — distant and quiet, tucked between fields and low stone fences. The smell of smoke from morning hearths drifted faintly on the wind. Children's laughter echoed from somewhere unseen. A bell rang in the distance.
It was peaceful. So peaceful it made Ronell's chest tighten.
Not because it was unfamiliar — but because it was too familiar.
Like walking into a memory you didn't know you missed.
Moore didn't speak. He walked beside her, gaze sweeping slowly across the scenery. His winter coat, now tied loosely around his waist, tugged at him in the breeze. The warmth of spring kissed his skin — real, alive, vivid. It felt like something that could be taken away.
And he didn't trust it.
May walked a few steps ahead, silent but steady. Her black hair caught the light as they crested a hill, red strands gleaming like threads of ember. Her hand briefly brushed the side of her pouch — as if checking the weight of the coin inside.
Below them, at last, the capital came into view.
Thessalyn.
Open. Grand. Unwalled. Still untouched by the creeping fear that would one day demand stone barriers.
White rooftops stretched beneath them, gleaming in the sunlight. Winding streets ran through marketplaces and courtyards, flanked by gardens and climbing ivy. Marble towers caught the sky. Birds danced across balconies. The whole city seemed to breathe.
But even without walls, it had its watchers.
As they approached the outer path that led into the city proper, two guards stepped forward from their post. Clad in silverplate and navy, they lowered their spears just enough to halt the group.
"Halt. State your names and intent."
Their voices were formal but not harsh. Expecting routine.
May stepped forward — and for a moment, she said nothing.
Then her eyes met the older of the two guards. His brow twitched.
"…You're the girl from Estenwood," he said, squinting.
May nodded once.
The younger guard blinked at her, and then at Moore and Ronell.
"…Your company?"
"They're with me," May answered simply.
The guards hesitated, glancing at the three worn coats — the foreign fabric, the odd fit. Their eyes lingered a second too long on Moore's boots, on Ronell's slightly disheveled braid.
But whatever questions rose in their minds, they did not speak them.
The spears lifted.
"You may pass."
They stepped aside, though one guard murmured something under his breath about travelers dressing like mountainfolk. The other only nodded politely, hand on hilt.
May moved forward first.
Ronell followed, her pulse quickening as the gates of the homeland welcomed her.
Moore's eyes darted to each face they passed — uncertain, suspicious.
And somewhere in the wind, carried just beneath the scent of lavender and horse leather, he swore he felt something shift.
A presence.
Watching.
Waiting.
---
The capital of Thessalyn stretched out before them — open and alive, just as May remembered. But that was the problem.
Cobblestone roads shimmered faintly from a recent rain. Market stalls lined the streets like painted brushstrokes — vibrant fabrics flapping in the breeze, fruit vendors calling out prices, the scent of spice and bread mingling in the air. Children ran barefoot between horses. Laughter and footsteps blurred into a song.
But to May… it all felt wrong.
It wasn't the way she left it.
She slowed her steps just inside the main road, her boots crunching against gravel, and stared — not at anything in particular, but at everything. The banners hanging from balconies. The distant bell tower. The cracked fountain by the square, still running.
She blinked.No blood.No ash.No hollow-eyed soldiers.
"May?" Ronell's voice was soft beside her. "Are we… where we're supposed to be?"
May didn't answer right away. She just nodded — once. Her voice, when it came, was composed. "We'll need proper clothes. Winter coats won't do."
Moore looked down at himself, pulling his collar. "Feels too warm already."
May didn't explain. She just reached into her pouch — a small, weather-worn leather bag tied to her belt — and fingered through the familiar weight of thessas. She had earned them the slow way — errand by errand, favor by favor. And of course, it helped to be on good terms with a certain princess, back when things were simpler.
She gestured toward a narrow street off the main plaza. "Come on. I know where to go."
---
They followed her into a quieter part of the city, where the noise softened and the houses pressed closer together. The tailor's shop was tucked between a bakery and a glassmaker's — the sign above it a carved wooden button swinging gently in the breeze.
May stepped inside first. The scent of fabric and pressed starch filled the air. A few mannequins stood in the window, dressed in warm-toned tunics and soft-trimmed cloaks. It looked exactly like it used to. That, more than anything, unsettled her.
She stepped to the counter. A woman looked up — silver hair tied in a loose bun, eyes sharp behind delicate spectacles.
"Looking to dress the lot of you?" she asked, glancing at their mismatched coats. "Bit of an odd season for snow gear."
May placed her pouch gently on the counter. "Something simple. Travel-ready."
"Could do that," the woman replied, eyeing the trio again. "Prices have gone up, though. Recent shortages. But…"
She leaned in, dropping her voice with a smile.
"…if you're the sort that knows how to follow directions, I've got a task that might lower the cost."
May didn't even blink. "We'll take it."
Behind her, Moore exchanged a look with Ronell — but said nothing.
The tailor smiled wider. "Wonderful. It's a quick fetch. I'll explain."
May didn't speak again until they were outside. She handed Moore the task note and turned to face the street.
Everything was as it had been.
But nothing was the same.
---
The city faded behind them as they followed the forest's edge once more, this time on a narrower path shaded by tall pine and ash trees. The air was different here — cooler, filtered through soft needles and sunlight. May walked ahead in silence, steps assured, her eyes scanning the woods like they were remembering for her.
Ronell and Moore trailed behind. Neither spoke. Not because there was tension — but because the quiet felt appropriate.
Birdsong. The distant ripple of a creek. And nothing else.
"This is too quiet," Moore muttered, eyes drifting upward to where the trees swayed almost too slowly.
Ronell hummed in agreement, brushing her fingers against the moss-covered trunk of a nearby tree.
Eventually, they found it — the wreckage of the supply cart nestled off the side of the path, like it had veered in panic. One wheel lay snapped and abandoned. Fine silver cloth — delicate and expensive — hung in the brambles like spiderwebs.
"Stay alert," May murmured, crouching to inspect the broken axle. "We're looking for a spool. Shimmer-thread. Should glint under direct light."
They spread out cautiously. Ronell ducked beneath a low branch, fingers brushing through leaves. Moore stepped over a fallen log, eyeing torn cloth snagged like breadcrumbs.
As they moved, the silence pressed closer.
At one point, the ground rose steeply toward a shelf of rock, and Ronell hesitated, uncertain.
"I'll go," Moore said, surprising her.
She blinked — but accepted the offered hand without comment. He steadied her up the ledge with quiet strength, and for a moment, they stood at the top together, catching their breath.
"Thanks," she said softly.
He didn't answer. Just nodded.
Then — a flicker.
From between the trees, something pale moved.
At first they thought it was a patch of mist. But then it shifted again — and they saw it. A white doe, barely visible in the dappled light. It stood impossibly still, one leg gently tangled in what looked like gossamer thread.
Star-thread.
Ronell made a small sound in her throat — something like awe. Moore stepped forward, slowly.
The deer didn't flinch.
He knelt, careful, careful, and worked the delicate thread free with fingers that trembled slightly. It shimmered as it caught the sun, impossibly fine — the shimmer-thread they were meant to find.
As soon as it slipped loose, the doe looked at him once — something like thanks — and vanished into the deeper woods without a sound.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
"It didn't run," Ronell said quietly.
Moore looked down at the thread in his hands. "It wasn't afraid."
They descended the slope again and rejoined May, who took one look at the shimmering bundle and gave a small nod.
"You found it."
No questions. No praise. Just calm acceptance — like she expected no less.
As they turned back toward the city, the trees swayed gently above them. The path didn't feel so still anymore.
---
The bell above the shop door gave a soft jingle as they stepped inside again. The warm scent of pressed fabric and dye met them like a memory. Light filtered through the front windows, brushing over spools of thread and neatly folded bolts of cloth.
Behind the counter, the silver-haired tailor looked up from her work — eyes narrowing behind a pair of delicate spectacles. When she saw what May held, her hand stilled.
"You actually found it?" she said, voice a quiet marvel.
May didn't answer. She simply held out the shimmer-thread — thin as silk, catching the light like frost.
The woman took it gently, as if it might disappear. Her fingers traced the thread with reverence. "I didn't think you'd manage… Not many come back from that kind of errand."
Her eyes lingered on May a moment longer — then shifted to the siblings behind her. There was something new in her gaze now. A flicker of respect. Curiosity.
"A deal's a deal," she murmured, already moving toward the back room. "It won't be grand, but it'll last you through road and rain."
The door swung shut behind her, and the shop fell quiet for a breath.
May didn't move. Her gaze drifted to the mannequins in the window — clothed in muted colors, stitched in patterns she still remembered.
It was all exactly the same.
And somehow, that made it harder to breathe.
---
The clothes they received weren't rich or royal — but they were practical, built for the road, and stitched with care.
Ronell emerged first — a fitted tunic-dress, layered over flexible leggings and belted at the waist. It had a skirt split at the sides for movement, and faint embroidery near the hem — something floral, almost like wind-tossed leaves. A light gray-blue cloak was draped over her shoulders. She looked like a trainee from a noble house, aiming to earn her way through sweat and steel rather than title.
Moore's set was simple but sharp — a deep brown vest over a loose cream linen shirt, the sleeves tied just past the elbow. His pants were rugged, held up by a worn leather belt. There were small patches on one knee — not ugly, just real. He looked like someone used to slipping through alleyways and vanishing into crowds, but now with a purpose.
When he glanced at Ronell, he looked away quickly — but not before she noticed his half-smile.
May, of course, didn't change.
She still wore her forest-green cloak with crimson lining, her high-collared dress faded and familiar. She stood beside the siblings like a shadow given form.
The shopkeeper returned with a satchel. "For coin. Or whatever else you're hiding," she said, handing it to Moore.
May nodded. "Thank you."
The woman eyed her. "You're not from around here, are you?"
May said nothing.
Ronell adjusted her cloak, catching her reflection in the glass. A fitted tunic-dress layered over leggings, the skirt split at the sides for movement. Faint embroidery traced the hem — wind-tossed leaves, maybe. The gray-blue cloak sat lightly on her shoulders, more practical than proud.
So… this was her new look, in this strange, medieval world.A world that felt distant — yet, somehow, oddly familiar.
Like a memory she'd never lived… but had always carried.
She looked like someone willing to earn it.
And somehow, that felt right.
---
The sun had dipped low by the time they left the tailor's shop, the cobbled streets of Thessalyn's capital glowing with the last warmth of day. Lanterns began to flicker to life one by one, casting golden halos through the cooling air. The city was calming — settling into that liminal quiet between daylight and night.
May adjusted the strap of her pouch, her gaze sweeping the rooftops and alleyways as if weighing options that didn't quite exist yet. The wind tugged at her cloak.
"We'll eat," she said softly, more to herself than the others. "And find somewhere to stay. I'll handle the cost."
They didn't argue.
A few blocks down, tucked between a florist and a leatherworker's stall, they found a small restaurant — warm light spilling through its arched windows, the scent of roasted vegetables and baked bread rising into the evening air. A painted sign above the door read: The Lantern's Rest.
Inside, it was all wood and soft fabric. Tables were simple but clean, candlelit. A quiet hum of conversation floated through the space. In one corner, a young musician sat on a stool, plucking at a dulcimer, a slow and airy melody weaving into the evening.
They sat near a window.
May ordered last — a small bowl of spiced lentil soup with wild herbs and a slice of dark rye. The waiter looked at her like he expected more, but she only nodded. "This is enough."
She didn't eat much. Her spoon moved in slow circles, drawing steam into delicate spirals. Her mind was elsewhere — eyes scanning faces, corners, exits. Watching. Listening.
Ronell, though… Ronell was still looking at the menu when her eyes caught something. Her breath hitched slightly.
"Chicken," she murmured under her breath, a flicker of real joy passing over her features — almost childlike, but soft and inward. She glanced up, cheeks a little warm, then pointed. "I'll take the herb-roasted chicken. With the mashed parsnips and… the carrot stew."
The waiter smiled. "Good choice."
Ronell sat straighter after that. When the plate arrived, the smell alone made her exhale through a quiet smile. She didn't devour it — she wasn't rude — but she ate with a quiet hunger. Something about it made her feel normal again. Safe. Like this world, however strange, could still hold comfort.
Moore hesitated with his order. Everything seemed too rich, too heavy, too much. In the end, he settled for the porridge — oat and barley, honey-drizzled, with bread and some sliced fruit.
When the plate came, he stared at it for a moment before picking up the spoon. "I don't usually…"
"You'll feel better if you eat," Ronell said, nudging him gently with her elbow, her tone teasing but kind.
Moore huffed through his nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. But he ate. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Because she was right.
As they ate, the dulcimer's melody shifted into something lighter, more playful — a dancing rhythm. Ronell's ears perked at the change. She glanced toward the musician, then down at her plate, then back.
She didn't say anything. But her foot tapped under the table, almost shyly. A small smile crept onto her face — one she didn't try to hide.
Moore noticed. Said nothing.
May noticed too.
It was the kind of moment they hadn't had in a long time.
And somehow, in a world that had already begun to fray at the seams, that small warmth — that little joy — felt like something worth saving.
---
After the meal, the streets had dimmed into deep blue and flickering gold. Shadows stretched long between stone buildings, and the city had taken on that hushed tone of winding down — shops closing, chimneys smoking, the wind gentle and cool.
May led them with quiet certainty, her pace neither rushed nor hesitant. They passed through narrower alleys now, between iron lamps and flowerboxes tucked under shuttered windows. Eventually, they reached it — a modest stone building with ivy trailing up its sides and warm light glowing behind its stained-glass windows.
The sign above the door read: The Hearthspoke Inn.
May stood still for a moment, her gaze flicking up toward the familiar lettering. It was exactly as she remembered it. That alone made her stomach tighten.
She pushed open the door.
The inside hadn't changed either.
Wooden beams arched above a soft-lit lobby. A central fireplace crackled warmly. The air smelled of cinnamon and old parchment. Worn rugs softened the stone floor, and a few travelers were seated near the fire, murmuring over mugs.
And behind the counter — broad-shouldered, bearded, and with a worn apron around his waist — stood a man in his later years, maybe fifty-something. His chestnut hair was streaked with silver, his frame sturdy like an old oak. His eyes were gentle.
He looked up the moment the door jingled. And for a heartbeat, his expression lit up.
Then, almost theatrically, he squinted.
"Well, well…" His voice was warm as a hearth, tinged with amusement. "If it isn't our favorite ghost."
May froze. Just a little.
But he didn't press. The man stepped out from behind the counter with a broad grin and opened his arms, palms outward — a greeting, not a demand.
"Wasn't sure I'd ever see you again, girl."
"I was just passing through," May said softly, her tone even. She kept her expression neutral, but something in her shoulders eased.
"I see that." He nodded at the siblings behind her. "Didn't take you for the traveling troupe type."
Moore looked mildly confused. Ronell gave a small, awkward smile.
The man chuckled, brushing his hands on his apron. "Name's Harvin, for your friends' sake. And don't worry, I know how you are — I'll keep it quiet. Just glad to see your boots haven't forgotten their way home."
May nodded once. "Thank you."
He gestured toward the key hooks. "Got one room left. Cozy fit for three, but clean sheets and a good lock on the door. Breakfast's at sunrise. First bowl of stew's on the house."
He winked. "For old times' sake."
As he fetched the key, Ronell leaned toward May and whispered, "You really have been here before."
May didn't respond right away. But the smallest hint of a smile touched the corner of her mouth.
"Yes," she murmured. "A long time ago."
---
The room was small, but warm — sloped ceilings, old wood, and the faint scent of dried lavender tucked between the beams. A single window let in the moonlight, casting silver over the three narrow beds lined against the far wall.
They each claimed a spot without speaking much. The quiet wasn't heavy, just… tired.
Ronell sat on the edge of her bed, tugging off her boots with a sigh. She glanced down at her makeshift sleepwear — just the layers she'd worn beneath the cloak, slightly wrinkled, not exactly soft. She pulled her knees up and muttered:
"…I miss my pajamas."
May, seated on the bed nearest the window, said nothing. She was already curled in her cloak, arms tucked close, staring at the ceiling as if watching something shift behind it.
Moore had laid down almost immediately. Still in his clothes, arms folded behind his head. He didn't complain. He didn't say anything at all.
Ronell looked at him, then at May.
"Didn't think to pack for bedtime, huh?"
Still no answer. But this time, May's lips pressed together in a faint, almost sheepish way. Not quite a smile.
Ronell sank back onto the bed, exhaling.
The silence returned — but now it felt... softer. Like a shared breath after a long day. The distant crackle of the inn's hearth downstairs hummed beneath the floorboards, and outside, the streets had quieted entirely.
None of them were quite comfortable. But they were safe.
For now.
And somehow, that had to be enough.