CHAPTER THREE — The Things Left Behind

The afternoon carried the slow warmth of early summer, settling gently over the valley without haste. Beyond the fields, the forest breathed in long, quiet motions, its shadows stretching lazily between the trees as though the world itself had chosen to rest.

In the garden behind the house, the sound of wood striking wood echoed through the air.

Grover stumbled backward with an offended noise after Irene’s training stick struck his wrist for the third time.

“That one did not count,” he argued immediately.

“It counted,” Irene replied.

“You cheated.”

“You say that every time you lose.”

Grover narrowed his eyes at her before lunging forward again. This time, Irene stepped aside before he could properly swing, catching the edge of his wooden blade and twisting sharply enough to throw him off balance. He nearly crashed into one of the herb baskets before recovering.

Near the porch, Irene’s grandmother watched the exchange while sorting dried leaves into small bowls. Across from her sat Grover’s father, a cup of tea resting untouched in his hand.

Neither adult interrupted.

The old woman’s expression held the faintest trace of amusement as Grover dramatically pointed his weapon toward Irene.

“She fights dirty,” he declared.

Irene blinked. “You walked into the attack.”

“You distracted me.”

“With what?”

“Your face.”

For the first time in several minutes, Grover’s father laughed quietly into his cup.

“There,” Grover said immediately, pointing accusingly toward Irene. “See? Even he knows.”

“No,” his father replied calmly. “I know you speak too much during training.”

Grover groaned in betrayal.

Irene hid her smile by turning away.

The breeze shifted softly through the garden, carrying the scent of herbs and fresh soil across the yard. It should have felt like every other afternoon they had spent here. Familiar. Unchanging.

But something beneath the quiet felt different today.

Grover’s father eventually reached into the satchel resting beside his chair and removed several folded papers bound together by dark string. The moment they appeared, Irene’s grandmother lifted her gaze.

“The guild again?” she asked.

He nodded once.

Grover immediately lost interest in training and wandered closer, dropping onto the grass beside the porch steps. Irene followed shortly after, lowering herself beside him with her wooden sword resting across her knees.

“What do they want now?” Grover asked.

His father exhaled through his nose lightly. “The same thing they always want.”

“To drag you back?”

“That would require me agreeing.”

Grover leaned back against the steps. “You should say yes. Then I could brag that my father is terrifying.”

“You already brag,” Irene muttered.

“Because it is true.”

His father shook his head slightly, though the corner of his mouth almost softened.

The grandmother extended her hand. “May I?”

Without hesitation, he passed her the letters.

The old woman untied the string carefully, unfolding the parchment one piece at a time. Her calm expression remained unchanged at first. Then her eyes paused briefly over one particular line.

The movement was small.

Too small for most people to notice.

But Irene noticed.

She always noticed.

The grandmother read the rest in silence before placing the papers neatly back together.

“It has begun earlier than expected,” she said quietly.

Grover frowned. “What has?”

Neither adult answered immediately.

The wind moved again, softer this time.

Grover’s father leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the distant tree line beyond the valley.

“The church has started its search,” he said at last.

“For what?” Grover asked.

“The next saintess. The next oracle.”

The words settled over the garden with strange weight.

Grover only blinked. “That happens every generation.”

“Yes,” the grandmother replied softly. “And every generation believes they are prepared for what follows.”

Something about the way she said it caused the air itself to feel quieter.

Irene rested her arms loosely over her knees. “Why are the hunters involved?”

Her question earned a brief look from Grover’s father.

“Because whenever the church begins searching,” he said, “things hidden for a long time begin moving again.”

Grover frowned harder. “That sounds unnecessarily ominous.”

“It usually is.”

The grandmother gave him a look of mild disapproval. “Do not tease the truth simply because it unsettles you.”

“I’m not unsettled.”

“You dropped your sword ten minutes ago.”

Grover looked down at the empty space beside him.

“…I did.”

Irene finally laughed.

The sound cut gently through the heaviness that had begun settling over the garden. Even Grover’s father smiled faintly at the expression of betrayal on his son’s face.

For a moment, the tension loosened.

But only for a moment.

Because beyond the valley, beyond the quiet hills and distant forests, larger things had already begun shifting into place.

And somewhere far beyond their home, names were already being written down by people they had never met.

Names that would one day reach them.

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