The beaten road stretched in from the northwest, rugged, muddy, dotted with pools of murky water, and flanked by tall grass clumps at its edges. On its northern side, a gentle wooded slope descended from the mountains, becoming suddenly steeper and more precipitous on the southern flank, where the vegetation gradually thinned before stopping several meters below on the jagged banks of a rushing stream. The surrounding forest and the one cloaking the opposite side of the narrow valley beyond the water glowed with an unusual amber light. The rays of the autumn morning sun, low and cold, reflected off the orange foliage, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere suffused with a warm golden glow.
Under the canopy of a large, ancient oak, a middle-aged man stood in deep silence, lost in admiring the forest, mottled with the colors of autumn and bathed in that nearly supernatural light. His eyes lingered, moving from one patch of color to another like a painter’s brush on a palette, intent on crafting a splendid mountain landscape in the eternal season of those lands. In that scene, he sought a peace he had not felt in a long time. Too long. And he tried to push from his mind the horrifying memories of the past two days spent in the ruins of that decrepit, abandoned mansion.
The sensations and emotions from confronting those horrors were still vivid within him. Until recently, he had believed such things existed only in old tales and children’s stories. But he had been forced to reconsider. He had seen with his own eyes objects floating mid-air, old and tattered dolls coming to life, and ghosts hovering faint and blurry before him—spirits of the dead unable to find their way to peace in the afterlife. Just like him.
He sighed deeply, lifting his head to look at the branches above him, finding in their hues and in the light that gently kissed them a fleeting but welcome tranquility. Through the canopy, where some of the oak’s leaves had already fallen, he could glimpse the sky, painted with a pale white-blue glow. For a moment, when a sudden breeze brushed against him, caressing his long brown hair and making the foliage above him dance, he forgot where he was. He forgot the burdens and fears that assailed him relentlessly. Closing his eyes, he savored the moment, losing himself in it entirely. Around him were only the gentle, delicate sounds and scents of nature. Nothing else.
“If this is your gift,” he whispered to himself, a bitter smile on his lips, “thank you. Thank you, Dhalia. I needed this… even if just for a little while.”
“Goldrick! Goldrick!” called a familiar voice, snapping him back to reality. It was Tiresio, approaching to inform him, “The rest is over. We’re moving on.” The middle-aged man opened his eyes, turned toward his companion, and nodded silently, offering a surface-level smile. Then, as his friend rejoined the other four already preparing to depart, Goldrick glanced again at the tree and the sky above it. In the brief moments that had passed, they no longer seemed the same. The bark of the great oak, rough, damp, and covered with patches of thick moss, belonged to a tree that had weathered too many autumns and was unlikely to see many more. Above him, the blue sky had begun to fill with thin yet substantial layers of gray clouds, multiplying and thickening. They were enough to obscure the sun and the interplay of light it created.
And so, the brief, pleasant moment of solace and quiet evaporated into the near-constant grayness of that land—a sight Goldrick was far too accustomed to. Fleeting moments of respite that occasionally broke through and overcame the ever-present grip of oppression and sorrow. As if some benevolent god sought to alleviate mortal suffering, even briefly, by granting glimpses of hope. Or as if a demon from the abyss cruelly and vainly sought to deceive them into believing they could escape the perpetual agony.
With a somber expression, the middle-aged man let his hand slide down the oak’s trunk as he tried to ignore the grayness and shadows that suddenly engulfed him. Adjusting his belt, ensuring his trusty sword was in its proper place, he slung his inseparable leather satchel over his shoulder. Finally, he picked up the metal shield resting on the damp ground among the tree’s roots, securing it with a strap across his back.
“Onward,” he thought to himself, mustering courage. “It’s time to go.”
Then, casting one last glance at the majestic, dying tree beside him, he set off to follow his companions, already moving along the path. He knew he would face new threats, unfamiliar and deadly dangers. But he also knew he would do so to help as many as possible escape the grip of despair and death that plagued this land. He would do it for all of them. And for her. Dhalia. He owed her that much. Deeply believing in the sacred ideals they had shared, instilled by their god, he only needed to hold on to the little peace and quiet he could occasionally taste. To keep it somewhere within himself, to cling to it during the darkest moments and use it as a fire to fuel his faith—a light to pierce the shadows.
After all, that was precisely what had happened in the old mansion. Despite the horrors, fears, and dangers that had assailed and nearly overwhelmed him, in the end, he had managed to illuminate the way for at least four of the spirits trapped there. Spirits that could now finally rest in peace.
“I will do the same for all those I can… I swear it,” he whispered as an unbreakable promise to the morning breeze, quickening his pace to catch up with his companions.
Ahead of him, the path wound south-eastward, rugged, muddy, and carpeted with a thin, multicolored layer of fallen leaves.
