The next morning, the sun cast a golden glow through the wooden slats of the window, warming Zehron's skin. He stood beside his bed, pulling up his trousers before lowering his shirt over his chest. His fingers briefly brushed against the mark beneath the fabric—a pattern of deep, winding lines etched into his skin since birth. He tugged his shirt down further, concealing it from sight.
Steadying himself, he turned to the mirror. His face, though bruised, still held its striking sharpness—his gaze unwavering, determined. He rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly at the lingering pain, then took a deep breath.
Limping toward the door, he glanced around. His mother was out searching for herbs, and his father had left early for work, leaving behind a note that he would return by evening. The house was empty. It was the perfect time.
He stepped outside, the fresh air filling his lungs as he made his way toward the road. A vehicle approached—a rugged transport often used for long routes. He raised a hand, signaling it to stop. The driver, an older man with a weathered face, eyed him curiously.
"Where to?"
Zehron gave him a location. The driver nodded, and he climbed in. The ride was rough, every bump sending a jolt through his sore body, but he remained silent, focused. His fingers curled around the money in his pocket. As soon as they reached the spot, he handed the driver his fare. The man hesitated, eyeing his bruises, but Zehron gave him a firm nod. Understanding the dismissal, the driver turned back and rode away.
The moment he was alone, Zehron exhaled sharply. His heart quickened as he turned toward the towering trees ahead. Despite his limp, excitement surged through him. It had been too long.
Step by step, he pushed forward, the familiar scents of damp earth and wild flora welcoming him like an old friend. The wind whispered through the branches, brushing against his skin as if recognizing his presence. He passed by thick clusters of vines, his fingers trailing against them, the rough yet familiar texture grounding him. The sounds of chirping birds and rustling leaves filled the air, easing the restlessness in his heart.
Reaching a familiar clearing, he collapsed onto the grass, his body sinking into the soft embrace of the earth. His breathing slowed, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. A single tear slipped down his cheek—relief, comfort, longing. Here, in the heart of the forest, he felt at peace.
But peace was not the only reason he had come. He could not afford to be here just for comfort. There was something else. Something more.
Zehron took a deep breath, allowing the tranquility of the forest to settle within him. His mind cleared, his senses sharpening. He stood, his posture steady despite the lingering pain in his limbs. Closing his eyes, he reached out—not with his hands, but with his presence.
A rustling in the trees answered his silent call. One by one, birds of different species began to gather, perching on nearby branches and rocks. Some were ordinary, their feathers blending seamlessly with the forest, while others shimmered with an otherworldly glow—creatures of magic, bound to the whispers of the land.
A small smile tugged at Zehron's lips as he looked at them, his voice gentle yet firm. He spoke, his tone carrying both respect and warmth. The birds chirped in response, tilting their heads as if listening intently. He let out a quiet chuckle at their eagerness before continuing.
He described the place—a grand estate adorned with silver banners, its towers rising high above the cityscape. He detailed the path leading to its gates, the sprawling gardens, and the noble who resided within—Lord Aldrin Solea. But most importantly, he spoke of Elvienne, the one he sought to know about. He needed to be sure she was well.
One of the magical birds let out a soft trill, as if assuring him of the task. Zehron nodded, his gaze steady. "Find out what you can," his voice carried only trust, not command.
The birds did not need to infiltrate the manor themselves. Instead, they would do what they did best—listen. They would fly to the estate, perching on windowsills, hidden among garden branches, blending into the bustling city. They would speak to other birds—those that roosted in the eaves, those that scavenged in the courtyards. Even the ancient trees surrounding the estate held whispers in their leaves, and the magical ones among them would share what they knew. No locked door or guarded hall could silence the murmurs of nature.
Satisfied, Zehron then turned his attention to Liri, the Fivri—a swift, tiny creature with shimmering wings . Unlike the birds, Liri was bound to no place, no land. She was a messenger of the unseen paths, and Zehron trusted her beyond all else.
He knelt, meeting Liri's gaze. "Go to her," he murmured, his voice softer now. "And..." He hesitated for a moment before exhaling." Comfort her."
Liri's ears twitched, and for a brief second, she simply stared at him, as if understanding the weight of his words. Then, with a swift leap, she took off into the air, her wings catching the wind as she vanished into the trees.
The birds followed soon after, their wings beating in unison as they soared toward their mission. Zehron watched them disappear into the sky, a quiet determination settling in his chest.
They would return. And when they did, he would finally have the answers he sought.