The road north from the cobbler's village took them through a forest of birch trees, their white bark glowing in the grey light like bones scattered across the hills. The path was narrow and winding, barely wide enough for Grenda to pass, and the silence was complete—no birds, no insects, no wind. Just the crunch of their boots on fallen leaves.Jace had heard about the painter from a merchant in the last town. "She lives in a cabin deep in the woods," the merchant had said. "She doesn't come out much. Doesn't talk much. But people say she paints things that shouldn't exist.""Things like what?" Finn had asked."Things from the war. Things from before. Things that no one else remembers.""Sounds like a memory keeper.""Maybe. Or maybe something else."-They found the cabin at the end of a trail that seemed to appear only when they were looking directly at it. It was small, built of logs and stone, with a chimney that released a thin curl of smoke. A garden surrounded it, but not a no

Kaelen woke to sunlight streaming through her window. Not the grey, filtered light of the road—real sunlight, golden and warm, slanting across her bed like a promise. She lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the tavern waking up around her.Below, she could hear Sage moving in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of something cooking. Finn's voice drifted up from the common room, already in the middle of a story despite the early hour. Grenda's deep laugh followed, then Sera's quieter one.Home.She dressed slowly, took a moment to braid her hair, and headed downstairs.The common room was busy. Travelers sat at the tables, eating breakfast, talking in low voices. Locals stopped by for their morning bread. The guild had claimed their usual corner—the table near the fire, where Boris's chair still sat empty, reserved for memory.Finn was telling a story about a merchant who had tried to cheat him and ended up cheated himself. It was probably exaggerated.