The air grew thinner as they climbed, the stone path winding between moss-covered rocks and skeletal trees that clawed at the sky. The man in the robe moved with quiet purpose, his footsteps almost soundless against the cold earth. The girl followed close behind, her hands clutching the strap of her bag, the book nestled inside like a heartbeat.
They said nothing for a long while. The only sounds were the breeze weaving through the branches and the gentle crunch of gravel underfoot.
Finally, the man spoke.
"You know," he said, his voice soft but firm, "you shouldn't follow strangers. Especially ones you meet on the edge of forgotten places."
The girl lowered her gaze but didn't stop walking.
He chuckled lightly, not unkindly. "You're quiet. Not just today. Always. I can tell."
They reached the top of the hill, where the land stretched out and the view of Mount Ebott towered in solemn majesty. Clouds moved slowly above, the wind brushing over them like a whisper.
"Do you have a name?" the man asked, turning to her.
She opened her mouth slightly but no sound came. Her lips trembled, but her voice remained locked somewhere deep inside. Embarrassed, she looked away.
The man tilted his head. There was no judgment in his posture, only understanding.
"Ah," he said gently. "You don't have to speak. Words aren't always necessary."
She blinked, surprised.
He turned his gaze to the mountain again. "You have the eyes of someone with determination. And that's rarer than words. So... I suppose I'll tell you. But first, I need to know—how much do you already know?"
She hesitated, then slowly reached into her bag. The book. She drew it out, holding it carefully in both hands, and offered it to him.
The man's body stiffened, just a little. He reached out, brushing his fingertips over the worn leather cover.
"This..." he murmured. "I haven't seen one of these in a long, long time. Where did you find it?"
She pointed toward the distance—toward home, toward her attic, toward the place where rain had painted the windows the night she found it.
He nodded slowly. "You already know more than most. But…"
He opened it, flipping through the pages. Some were legible—ink faded but intact. Others were blank, or torn, or smeared with water damage.
"It's fractured," he said quietly. "Like memory. Like truth."
She nodded.
He closed the book and handed it back. "With this, I can help you understand. I'll tell you what really happened. Not the version that survived in scraps and myths. Not the fairy tale."
The wind picked up, brushing through their clothes like a sigh from the mountain.
He turned toward her, his faceless hood reflecting only the soft gray of the sky.
"It's a long story," he said. "It's not always pretty. And once you hear it, you won't be able to forget it."
She didn't look away.
"But before I begin," he added, voice a shade more serious, "I need something from you. A promise."
She tilted her head.
"You cannot tell anyone this story," he said. "Not about me. Not about what you hear. The truth is heavy. And dangerous in the wrong hands. Can you promise me that?"
She looked at him, long and steady. Then, slowly, she nodded.
His shoulders relaxed slightly, as though a silent tension had eased.
"Good," he said. "That's all I needed to know."
He sat on a smooth, flat rock and motioned for her to sit too. She did, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them.
He folded his hands together.
And then, in a voice that was softer than the wind but carried more weight than the mountain itself, he said:
"Once upon a time..."