The King’s Road

The King’s Road stretched before Edric like an ancient scar upon the earth, wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast, paved with stone blocks worn by time and countless journeys. It was no grand highway, but it possessed a quiet solidity, as if built to outlast the very kingdoms that gave it its name. During his first days away from Eldorwyn, Edric walked it with a steady stride, feeling that here, at least, the world still followed comprehensible rules: the sun rose and set without haste, travelers greeted one another with nods, and nothing seemed intent on barring his way.

As he walked, his thoughts returned repeatedly to the choice he had made. Leaving Eldorwyn had not been difficult; what was difficult was accepting that he might never return as the same man. The road, safe and predictable, stood in sharp contrast to the tempest within him. Varethia loomed in his mind as it always had: lofty towers piercing the sky, stern masters with watchful eyes, doors barred to those devoid of the gift. Yet Myriath offered an intermediate promise—a less rigid city where information flowed more freely. Edric wondered if he was fleeing from Varethia or merely delaying another failure.

Eventually, Edric fell in with others journeying in the same direction: a man driving an empty wagon back to Myriath, a young merchant apprentice, and a peasant carrying sacks of grain to sell at the market. They did not walk in a hurry, and the road, safe and well-known, allowed for quiet conversations, broken only by the rhythmic sound of footsteps and the occasional creaking of wheels against stone.

“You don't often see someone leaving Eldorwyn alone,” the peasant remarked after a while, casting a curious glance at Edric. “Are you going to work in the city?”

“I don't know yet,” Edric replied, after a brief hesitation. “I want to see Myriath... to understand better what lies beyond the village.”

The man nodded. To him, leaving was a practical matter, unburdened by hidden meanings.

The young merchant girl, however, showed more interest.

“Myriath is good for anyone looking for opportunities,” she said. “Trade, crafts, information. Better than Varethia, they say.”

Upon hearing the name of the great arcane city, Edric felt the impulse to speak, as he always did.

“Have you ever been to Varethia?” he asked.

“No,” she answered promptly. “Never needed to. I've heard stories, of course. Mages, academies, too many rules. It seems distant... like something that exists, but doesn't belong to us.”

Edric reflected on those words as he walked.

“To me, it always seemed the opposite,” he said, almost without realizing. “As if everything that matters were there.”

The wagoner chuckled softly, without malice.

“Perhaps it matters to those born for it,” he commented. “For the rest of us, the world is already complicated enough without magic involved.”

There was no contempt in his words, nor fear. Just a plain fact. That intrigued Edric more than any explicit rejection.

Since he was a boy, he had grown up imagining magic as a beacon for everyone, something admired from afar even by those who would never reach it. To discover that, for many, it was just another distant curiosity, made his dream feel simultaneously lonelier and more personal.

As they continued down the road, Edric risked one more question, like someone groping at a half-formed thought.

“Do you believe magic is something you learn... or are you born with it?”

The young merchant thought for a moment before answering.

“I think some people are born with different talents. Some know how to trade, others how to till the earth. Maybe magic is just that... only rarer.”

The peasant shrugged.

“If it can be learned, I’ve never seen proof of it,” the peasant remarked. “And if one is born with it, then there’s no use trying to force it.”

The words were not harsh, but they stayed with Edric. He continued walking in silence for a time, feeling the weight of the road not in his legs, but in his thoughts. If they were right, then all his effort since childhood had been in vain. Still, there was something within him that refused to accept that simplicity.

The road pressed onward, steadfast and indifferent to human doubts, leading everyone equally—yet Edric was beginning to realize that, although they shared the same path, each carried a very different destiny in their heart.

At dusk, as the sky began to stain with hues of orange and the road took on a colder sheen, the wagoner pointed ahead, where small, flickering lights revealed a nearby village along the King’s Road, called Briarholme. It was nothing more than a cluster of low houses, barns, and a single inn with a sturdy facade, but the thought of a night under a proper roof seemed to please everyone. The merchant apprentice agreed immediately, and Edric, already feeling the weariness accumulate in his shoulders, saw no reason to press onward in the dark.

The inn proved to be surprisingly welcoming. Built of dark wood and stone, it featured wide windows through which the warm light of torches and a central hearth escaped. Upon entering, they were greeted by a wave of heat and the constant murmur of voices, laughter, and footsteps. The aroma of freshly baked bread, slow-roasting meat, and full-bodied ale mingled with the hearth-fire smoke, creating an atmosphere that invited rest. Each traveler saw to securing their own room—simple but clean—and storing their belongings safely before descending back to the main hall.

When they returned, they found a free table near the hearth. Shortly after, steaming platters were placed before them, and the wagoner made no secret of his relief at the scent of the food.

“Nothing like a hot meal after a whole day on the road,” he said, breaking a piece of bread with his calloused hands. “If the road treats you well, half the credit belongs to these inns.”

“And to the butter,” added the merchant apprentice, smiling as she spread a generous layer over her bread. “In some villages, they stint even on that.”

Edric tasted the meat slowly, savoring it far more than he ever had in Eldorwyn.

“I never thought something so simple could feel so... comforting,” he remarked.

“One learns quickly to value what sustains us,” the wagoner replied. “Dreams don’t fill an empty stomach.”

Before Edric could answer, the notes of a lute rose across the hall. In one of the corners, a bard had settled upon a small, makeshift stage, strumming the strings with tranquil skill. His voice began to weave through the room, firm and clear, and the conversations gradually quieted.

“Through paths of stone and summer skies,

Marched the hero without name or home,

With iron in hand and faith in his eyes,

Vowing never to yield, wherever he roamed.”

The merchant apprentice tilted her head, listening closely.

“He’s good,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve heard many bards, but few know how to hold a room like this.”

“Familiar tales help,” the wagoner answered. “People like what they already understand.”

Edric listened in silence, following every verse. When the song ended, another began almost without pause, telling of maidens locked in high towers and promises made beneath the moonlight.

“She waited where the wild wind sighs,

Midst frozen stones and prayers in vain,

For even time grows weary and dies

Before a love that comes not back again.”

“Always the same stories,” the wagoner murmured, though he smiled. “Heroes, maidens, battles.”

“Because they are easy to remember,” the apprentice replied. “And easy to sell.”

Edric furrowed his brow slightly.

“Strange that he doesn't speak of mages,” he said, more to himself than to the others.

The apprentice looked at him with curiosity.

“Do mages not make for good songs?”

“They would,” Edric answered. “There are deeds as grand as any war.”

“Perhaps,” the wagoner said, “but those are distant tales. Few people have seen magic up close.”

The music continued, now narrating ancient wars between forgotten kingdoms, shattered spears, and fallen banners. Edric realized that, although the hall was enveloped by the melody, no one seemed to expect anything beyond what it was: entertainment, not revelation.

“And when the last high banner fell,

And the earth drank blood and bitter pain,

The names of kings the wind did quell,

But the song, the clamor, did remain.”

When the bard finally paused, setting his lute aside and accepting a mug offered by one of the patrons, Edric felt the impulse that had been building since the very first song. After a brief moment of hesitation, he stood up.

“Your music is impressive,” he said with sincerity. “You make the road feel shorter.”

The bard smiled, that easy smile of someone who had heard similar praise many times before.

“If I achieve that, then I serve my craft well,” he replied. “People travel better when they believe in stories.”

“Do you know many places?” Edric asked. “Distant cities?”

“More than I can readily recall,” the bard said, shrugging. “Every place leaves a mark... and a melody.”

Edric took a deep breath before continuing.

“And what of magic? Have you ever seen anything... true?”

The bard observed him for a moment before answering.

“I have seen mages in a few cities. In Varethia, there are many, but they are rarely sung of. Elsewhere, they are few and discreet. Magic exists, lad, but it does not always wish to be remembered.”

Edric's heart surged with eagerness.

“Do you know any songs about mages, then?”

The bard broke into a wider smile, standing up.

“I know one that I do not sing often.”

He adjusted his lute, and when he struck the strings again, the tone shifted. The melody grew graver, slower, and the hall fell almost completely silent.

“When rival towers touched the sky,

And flame roared back to thunder's call,

Mages raised a cruel lore high,

For vision, reason and binding all.

Runes shattered wide, the world did shake,

And the price was far too great to pay,

For all high magic in its wake,

Left scars that will not fade away.”

Edric listened like one receiving an ancient truth. There, between notes and verses, he felt that magic was not merely desire or study, but a force capable of shaping entire eras—and destroying them. When the final chord ceased, and applause filled the hall, he remained motionless for a few moments, certain that the song would stay with him for a long time, echoing along the silent road of the days yet to come.

When the applause faded, and the chatter of the hall resumed its usual rhythm, the bard stepped down from the small platform and walked among the tables with his lute slung over his shoulder. His steps led him to where Edric, the wagoner, and the merchant apprentice were still seated, and there was a brief moment of hesitation, as if he were choosing not just a place, but a conversation.

“May I join you?” he asked with a smile.

The wagoner made a vague gesture with his hand, dismissing any doubt.

“If there’s room for another mug, there’s room for another traveler.”

The bard thanked him with a nod and called to the innkeeper, ordering a hot meal and something to drink. While he waited, he carefully set his lute beside him and leaned his elbows on the table.

“I don't like leaving songs faceless,” he said. “I am Lorien, a son of the road more than of any home.”

The merchant apprentice smiled.

“Then we are alike,” she said. “Maia, from Myriath.”

“Brann,” the wagoner completed, lightly tapping his fist against his chest. “And you, lad?”

“Edric,” he answered. Saying his own name there, far from Eldorwyn, sounded different from what he had imagined.

For a moment, the conversation lingered on trivialities: the chill of the night, the bustling of the inn, the taste of the ale. When Lorien’s food arrived, and he broke the still-warm bread, it was Brann who broke the silence.

“You listen to songs like someone searching for something,” he commented, observing Edric with practical attentiveness. “You didn't seem interested in heroes or maidens.”

Edric felt the warmth rush to his face, but he did not look away.

“I was waiting for something else,” he admitted. “Stories of mages.”

Maia arched her eyebrows slightly.

“Not a common request,” she said. “Most prefer something... closer to home.”

“To me, it isn't distant,” Edric replied, realizing it no longer made sense to keep it hidden. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want to learn magic. I want to become a mage.”

A silence longer than they had intended followed.

Brann was the first to react.

“A grand dream,” he said after a moment. “Nothing wrong with that. But grand dreams usually require broad shoulders.”

Maia tilted her head, as though she were appraising a rare commodity.

“Have you tried Varethia?” she asked.

“I have,” he answered. “More than once.”

She nodded understandingly.

“So you aren't fleeing from something... You are looking for another way.”

Lorien, who until then had only listened, leaned forward a bit more, his eyes sharp.

“And what do you hope to find on that path?” he asked. “Power? Answers? Or just the chance to try?”

Edric did not answer immediately.

“I want to understand,” he said at last. “To know why some can... and others cannot. And if I truly cannot, I want to discover it for myself.”

The bard smiled almost imperceptibly.

“That is a better reason than most I’ve heard.”

The conversation flowed more freely now. Edric told them he would set out for Myriath at dawn in search of information, books, anything that might bring him closer to what he had always desired. Brann commented on the city's routes, while Maia spoke of the markets and the right people to listen to.

Then Lorien wiped his hands on a cloth and spoke again.

“Myriath is my destination as well,” he said. “I have a performance scheduled... and a few stories to seek out. If it’s no trouble, I can walk the road with you.”

Brann shrugged.

“The more people, the less silence.”

“And more stories,” Maia added.

Edric felt something akin to relief.

“It wouldn't be a problem,” he said. “I would be glad for the company.”

Lorien nodded, satisfied, and took a long draught from his mug.

“Then we travel together at dawn. Sometimes, it’s on the road that the best songs begin to take shape.”

Edric looked around the table and, for the first time since leaving Eldorwyn, felt that his dream had been spoken aloud—and heard. The road ahead remained safe and predictable, but now there were names, voices, and a silent promise that the world might be grander than he had ever imagined.

The sun was still low when the four left Briarholme, and the village was soon swallowed by the light morning mist gathering over the fields surrounding the King’s Road. The air was cold but clear, and the path lay firm beneath their feet, as if promising a peaceful day. Lorien walked ahead for a few moments, his lute slung over his shoulder and a persistent smile on his face, like someone who had awakened with a song caught in his throat.

“It’s a fine day for walking,” he said, breaking the silence. “And fine days call for music.”

Maia laughed, adjusting the pouch she carried at her side.

“If you're going to sing while we walk, perhaps the way will seem shorter.”

“That has never been a problem for me,” Lorien replied, already plucking the strings lightly.

The melody began simply, matching the rhythm of their strides, and his voice was not loud, but firm enough to reach them all. It sang of open roads, of travelers who departed without looking back, and of cities rising on the horizon like promises. Brann grumbled something about preferring the creak of the wagon wheels, but he did not try to interrupt, and Edric realized that the weight he had carried since the previous night felt a little lighter.

When the song ended, Maia clapped softly.

“I confess I didn't imagine starting the day like this,” she said. “Usually, mornings on the road are far too silent.”

“Silence has its value too,” Brann commented. “But music helps to forget the weariness.”

“Or to remember it with more poetry,” Lorien replied, smiling.

Edric seized the moment.

“Do you sing of places you’ve seen... or just imagine?”

“A bit of both,” the bard answered. “The road teaches, but imagination completes what is missing. There are cities that only exist because someone sang them first.”

Maia tilted her head thoughtfully.

“In Myriath, there are people who live off that,” she said. “Stories, rumors, information. Sometimes, knowing where to look is worth more than knowing everything.”

“True,” Brann agreed. “Information doesn't weigh down a pouch, but it can save a journey.”

Edric walked a few paces in silence before speaking.

“And magic?” he asked, looking at Lorien. “Does it also fade if no one speaks of it?”

The bard did not answer right away.

“Magic does not fade,” he said at last. “It hides. When it ceases to be sung, it ceases to be remembered... and then it begins to act far from sight.”

Brann furrowed his brow.

“I always thought magic was a thing of towers and books,” he said. “Something that only exists where it is permitted to exist.”

“Perhaps,” Lorien replied. “Or perhaps it simply doesn't care who believes in it.”

Maia looked at Edric.

“And you?” she asked. “Do you think learning magic is like learning a trade... or hearing something that is already there?”

Edric thought before answering.

“I think it’s understanding why it calls to me so deeply,” he said. “Even when no one else seems to hear it.”

Brann let out a brief sigh.

“Just don't let it make you forget to live,” he said. “I’ve seen people waste years chasing something that never answered.”

“And I’ve seen people live their whole lives without ever asking,” Lorien countered softly.

The road stretched out before them, bathed in the growing light of day, and Edric felt that those voices—so different from one another—were shaping his thoughts in ways he did not yet fully comprehend. There was no clear answer, no promise, only the sense that as long as he walked and listened, the path would not be lonely.

After a few more steps, Lorien began to play again, a short melody, almost a whistle, accompanied by strings. Maia smiled, Brann shook his head in resignation, and Edric pressed onward, certain that this secure road was beginning, little by little, to lead him far beyond what he had imagined possible.

The tune Lorien hummed now was lighter, nearly an accompaniment to their footsteps, and after a few minutes, he let the lute rest against his body once more. The silence that followed was broken by the distant sound of a wagon traveling in the opposite direction, but soon the road belonged only to them again.

“You sing as if the road were your home,” Maia remarked, pulling her cloak tight against the light morning wind.

“Because it is,” Lorien answered without hesitation. “Not in the sense of having walls, but in the sense that it doesn't cast me out.”

Brann let out a brief nasal laugh.

“The road doesn't cast anyone out because it doesn't promise anything,” he said. “That’s why I like it.”

Edric walked attentively, feeling that those simple phrases carried more weight than they appeared to.

“And you never thought of stopping?” he asked the bard. “Staying in a city, living off something else?”

“I have,” Lorien answered. “Many times. But whenever I stay too long, I begin to hear the road calling me. Not with words, but with absence.”

Maia tilted her head.

“Absence?”

“Of new stories,” he explained. “When everything around you is already known, the song begins to die.”

Brann crossed his arms.

“Not everyone needs new stories,” he said. “Some need stability.”

“And you, Brann?” Edric asked. “Did you never want something beyond what you already have?”

The wagoner took a few paces before answering.

“I did,” he said at last. “When I was younger. I thought of joining a caravan to the north, learning another trade. But I realized that wanting something is not the same as knowing how to sustain it.”

“Sustain what?” Maia asked.

“The frustration,” he replied. “Grand dreams leave grand scars when they fail.”

Edric felt the comment like a subtle weight, but he did not falter.

“And what if not trying is the greater failure?”

Brann looked at him from the side, evaluating him.

“That is the question only those who try can answer.”

Maia smiled slightly.

“See?” she said to Edric. “He isn't discouraging you. He just isn't deceiving you.”

Lorien observed the three with care, like someone listening to a song being composed in real time.

“You speak of dreams as if they were objects,” he commented. “Something one carries or leaves behind. But dreams change.”

“Did yours change?” Edric asked.

“Many times,” the bard replied. “In the beginning, I wanted to be remembered. Then, I wanted to understand what I was singing. Today, I only want not to lie in my songs.”

Maia knit her brow.

“Lie?”

“To exaggerate what one does not comprehend,” Lorien said. “To make something grand what was merely tragic. Magic, for instance, often suffers from that.”

Edric felt his heart quicken slightly.

“How so?”

“I’ve sung of mages as saviors,” the bard said. “Then I saw cities scarred by their decisions. Neither heroes nor monsters. Just people with too much power for simple mistakes.”

Brann nodded.

“That sounds closer to the truth.”

Maia turned to Edric.

“Do you still want to follow this path knowing that?”

Edric took a deep breath.

“I do,” he said. “Precisely because of that. If magic exists, someone needs to understand it without turning it into a legend.”

Lorien smiled, satisfied.

“That is a rare answer.”

The road began to slope gently downward, and broader fields opened up in the distance. The sun was already higher when Maia spoke:

“In Myriath, there is a scribe who collects strange accounts. He isn't a mage, but he knows how to listen. If anyone can point to a beginning, perhaps it’s him.”

“A beginning is enough,” Edric replied.

Brann looked at Maia.

“Always trading in paths.”

“Information is merchandise too,” she said. “It just demands more care.”

Lorien struck the strings again, a short refrain repeated over and over, and hummed softly:

“Not every flame seeks out the sky,

Some only crave the air to breathe;

Not every dream is born to fly,

But every stride's a path we weave.”

Edric heard those words as if they were spoken for him alone.

“Lorien,” he said, “do you believe some people are born... destined?”

The bard thought before answering.

“I believe some people are born restless,” he said. “And the world does not care for those who refuse to settle.”

Brann let out a sigh.

“That explains a great deal.”

Maia laughed.

“And it explains why we walk together now.”

Edric looked at the three of them, feeling something new take root. It was not certainty, nor full hope, but companionship—and, for the first time, his dream did not feel like something he carried entirely alone.

“Thank you,” he said, almost without realizing.

“For what?” Brann asked.

“For listening,” Edric replied.

Lorien rested his hand over the lute.

“Stories begin like this,” he said. “Someone speaking. Someone listening. The rest... the road resolves.”

And onward they went, the sound of their footsteps marking the rhythm and their voices intertwining like unfinished verses, while Myriath, invisible beyond the horizon, slowly began to draw near—not just as a destination, but as the next question Edric would have to face.

The days that followed were marked by a peaceful, almost meditative routine. The King’s Road remained true to its promise of safety, guiding them through vast fields, gentle hills, and small villages that appeared and vanished with the same quiet discretion. They slept in inns or beneath the generous canopy of the open sky, shared modest meals, and pressed ever forward, guided more by the steady rhythm of the road than by any haste to arrive.

Lorien filled many of their walks with songs—some joyful, some melancholy—and at times he paused the music only to speak of distant cities or fleeting encounters that had granted him verses. Maia spoke of Myriath with increasing familiarity, describing bustling markets, watchful scribes, and the ceaseless flow of people and information that made the city unlike any village on the road. Brann, for his part, contributed practical advice, pointing out better routes, safer times, and the importance of not arriving too exhausted at a great city.

Edric listened more than he spoke. Amidst the conversations, the shared silences, and the constant sound of footsteps upon stone, his thoughts began to organize themselves in unexpected ways. His dream of becoming a mage was still alive, but now it felt less idealized, less solitary. He was beginning to understand that the road did not exist merely to bring someone to a destination, but to wear away certainties and give shape to better questions.

On the morning of the final day, the air grew drier, and the road began to rise slowly. The wind brought with it a different scent—not of earth or wood, but of distant smoke and heated metal. Brann was the first to slow his pace, looking ahead intently.

“We are close,” he said simply.

Shortly after, as they reached the crest of a gentle rise, the landscape opened before them. In the distance, stretching across a vast expanse, Myriath emerged. Its pale walls reflected the sunlight, and beyond them rose towers, rooftops, and stone structures that seemed to multiply as far as the eye could see. A light haze hovered over the city, cut here and there by columns of smoke rising from forges, hearths, and marketplaces.

Maia stopped beside Edric.

“Welcome to Myriath,” she said. “Where nearly everything passes... and nearly nothing remains.”

Lorien observed the city with a restrained smile, like one reuniting with an old acquaintance.

“Every time I see it, it looks different,” he commented. “And yet, always the same.”

Edric remained silent for a few moments, feeling the weight and the promise of that place. Myriath was not Varethia, nor was it Eldorwyn. It carried neither the rigidity of the Academy nor the simplicity of his village. It was something in-between—alive, uncertain—exactly how he himself felt at that moment.

“It’s here,” he said at last, more to himself than to the others.

The road stretched onward, descending toward the city gates, and Edric took the first step without hesitation. Behind him, the others followed, and together they began their descent toward Myriath, as the chapter of his journey on the road drew to a close, making way for all that was yet to come.