The Grove held its breath under the pale wash of pre-dawn light. Mist curled along the moss-damp ground, brushing the roots of the great trees like soft fingers, and somewhere far off, a bird trilled a tentative morning song.

Hassian sat on the rough-hewn bench he’d claimed as his own, Tau curled at his feet, tail flicking occasionally against the earth. This place—it had been his refuge for years. The Grove was where he came to grieve, to think, to strip life down to its simple truths. A sanctuary carved from solitude, where the weight of loss could be set down, if only briefly.

His body ached from too little sleep, the kind of sleep that left muscles stiff and memory sharp in the wrong ways. He traced the familiar lines of the Grove—the low branches, the hollow where water pooled near a stone, the subtle stir of wind through the leaves—and yet it felt hollow tonight.
Not the Grove. Him.

Another restless night had left him raw with absence, with grief, with memories of Taylin. He had been too young, too small, too stubborn in his pride to survive such a loss without breaking entirely. Somehow, he had survived. Somehow, he had learned to move through the world with quiet routines and carefully measured isolation. But tonight—tonight—the solitude gnawed at him more sharply than usual.

He exhaled into the chilly air. “Enough,” he muttered to no one, pressing his hand into Tau’s fur. The hound nudged him, warm and solid, as if understanding more than Hassian wanted to admit.

Then came the whisper—soft, nearly swallowed by the Grove. A prayer, unpolished, desperate, raw:
Someone. Someone who stays. Someone to love… and to be loved in return.

It was a foolish prayer, a fragile hope he hadn’t dared voice for years. He had not expected it to carry weight, or linger in him like smoke in a cave. And yet… it did.

He pushed the thought aside. Too soon. Too dangerous. A fool’s fantasy. People—love—were more unpredictable than any beast he’d ever tracked. Still, the seed had been planted. The Grove, for all its quiet, might allow that seed to root anyway.

He traced the grain of the bench beneath his hand, listening to the soft stirrings of the Grove waking. Somewhere a chappa shifted in the underbrush; a bird began its morning song in earnest. The sun had not yet risen, but the promise of warmth hovered at the edge of the sky.

He could let himself hope, just a little.

Tau sighed, stretching beside him, and Hassian allowed himself a tiny, quiet smile. A fragment of longing, a shard of possibility. He didn’t know how it would come to him, if it would ever come at all, but for the first time in years, he let himself imagine an answer.

And that was enough to carry him through another day.

Lyra

The sun spilled gold over the plains, brushing the cabins of Killima Village in soft light. Lyra’s boots pressed into the worn dirt path, each step steadying her racing thoughts.

She had been in Killima for nearly two weeks now, ever since she and another girl—Saraya—had emerged in the old temple. Neither of them remembered anything about who they were, where they came from, or why humans—a race long thought lost—were suddenly reappearing across Killima.

Ashura had been the first to find them, checking the temple daily since the emergences began. He had brought them here, to safety, to this village that had extended a helping hand. Humans had appeared in ruins across the land, scattered, alone, without memory.

Lyra’s first days had been a blur of fear and disbelief, her mind struggling to reconcile the impossibility of it all.

Now, a fortnight later, she was beginning to find rhythm. She carried a satchel with a few small tools, herbs, and a notebook. The villagers were kind—some cautiously, some warmly—but she had learned quickly that she needed to rely on herself. She wanted to belong here, not as a visitor or a ghost, but as someone who could contribute, who could be seen and remembered.

Her mornings were spent learning the skills she felt would serve her best: tending the garden she’d just planted, foraging along the edges of the woods, cooking simple meals with what little she could get, and practicing basic fishing skills. She moved through the routines with purpose, not only to sustain herself but to offer help where she could. Every meal she shared, every scrap of knowledge she gathered, felt like a small anchor in a world that had suddenly appeared around her. Knowledge grounded her. Purpose gave her breath. And in the quiet moments, she allowed herself the one indulgence that felt timeless—the stars.

She paused at the library steps, fingers brushing the strap of her satchel, and glanced at Saraya walking nearby. Quietly, they had begun to rely on each other, finding some comfort in shared bewilderment and the faint hope that one day they might discover who they had been. For now, the past didn’t matter. The present demanded attention, and Lyra had made a choice: to thrive, to learn, to help where she could, to turn this improbable second chance into something real
“The world’s strange,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to the distant hills. “But I can figure it out. I will.”

And then came the next step—the skill she had been longing to learn. Hunting. Tracking. Patience. The kind of hunt that required more than strength, more than instinct, more than luck. Ashura had guided her to the Hunter’s Guild and handed her a note, words barely more than a nudge toward the man who could teach her.

The path to the Hunting Guild Shack cut through the plains just outside Killima Village, dry grass swaying beneath a pale blue sky. Lyra’s boots crunched along the worn trail, heart steady but excitement prickling at her fingers. She had prepared for this—studied the basics, practiced stance and grip—but nothing could prepare her for the presence she found waiting at the shack.

Approaching Collision

The Guild shack sat quiet in the pale morning light. Hassian leaned against the porch post, arms crossed, eyes tracing the horizon rather than the wood beneath his fingers. His body ached from another sleepless night, his mind heavy with grief—and that whispered prayer he had barely dared speak.

Someone. Someone who stays. Someone to love… and to be loved in return.

He shoved the thought aside. Foolish. Dangerous. Premature. Still, it lingered, a thread he couldn’t ignore. Tau rested at his feet, tail flicking lightly against the earth. Purpose. Duty. Habit. That was all he allowed himself.

Out on the path from Killima Village, Lyra’s boots pressed into the dirt, satchel swinging lightly at her side. Her heart raced—not with fear, but with resolve. Ashura had handed her the note that morning: seek the hunter who could teach her to track, to hunt, to master the skill she had longed for. Hunting was more than strength; it required patience, focus, a kind of stillness she was only beginning to understand.
She had studied, practiced, prepared—but the moment her eyes finally fell on the shack ahead, the nerves returned. The world felt sharp, alive, full of possibility.

Hassian didn’t notice her approaching, still caught in the fog of his own thoughts, watching the light spill across the plains, lost in memories and longing. The clearing ahead shimmered with sunlight, and Lyra stepped forward, determination in every measured stride. Two worlds, separate until now, were about to collide.