The scent of rot clung to the wind.
Celestyn Thornis pulled his scarf tighter around his muzzle as he trudged through the woods beyond Willowvale. Autumn leaves crackled underhoof, the amber canopy above no longer warm or comforting. They said the sickness began in the lowlands, but now even the high hills whispered of fevered dreams and failing breath.
He had not looked back since leaving his father’s side.
The image of him—normally so tall, so composed—shivering beneath layers of wool, eyes sunken and distant—haunted Celestyn’s every step. It was wrong. His father never trembled. His father never begged.
But he had, just before sleep overtook him. He had clutched Celestyn’s wrist with a strength that betrayed the wasting in his frame and said, “Find Visuisa’s shrine. Find answers. She would not abandon us.”
And so, Celestyn ran.
The Withered Grove stretched for miles, the ancient forest gnarled and whispering, with branches like crooked fingers scraping at the sky. The red-roofed shrine of Visuisa—goddess of mercy and wind, keeper of Vistakin breath—was said to lie deep within, cloaked in mists and memory. Few dared the journey now. Not when the goddesses had fallen silent.
His supplies were dwindling. One waterskin nearly dry. Dried mushroom cakes and a half-eaten pack of seed nuts. But worse, the fear gnawed at him—fear that the shrine would be gone too, crumbled like so many forgotten promises.
The trees opened slightly at a rise in the land. Celestyn’s eyes caught the glint of bark stripped smooth by time—a climbing tree. He hesitated only briefly before clambering up, branch by aching branch, until the forest opened like a sea around him.
And there it was.
A flash of vermilion nestled in the canopy far to the west: Visuisa’s shrine. The roof, though moss-laced and faded, still bore the distinct sloping Vistakin curves. Relief surged like a tide.
“I found it!” he shouted, voice sharp in the still air.
Then his hoof slipped.
The branch snapped beneath him.
He tumbled.
Thud.
Pain lanced through his shoulder and spine as he landed hard among fallen leaves. He gasped, eyes wide, ears ringing. For a terrifying second, the world blurred.
Then—deep breath.
Calm.
He placed a hand over his heart and inhaled through his nose, as his father had taught. One beat. Two. His lungs remembered the rhythm even as the forest spun.
His satchel had flung open, and he scrambled to check its contents. The mirror—his mother’s, all silver filigree and grief—was intact, wrapped tight in a wool cloth. His coin pouch, tucked into the side pocket, still jingled faintly. And most importantly, the amulet: red-gemmed, warm to the touch despite the cold. His father had pressed it into his palm days ago, whispering, “It will glow when you are near her.”
Celestyn swallowed hard and fastened the satchel closed. He rose unsteadily, ignoring the ache in his hip and the throb in his tailbone.
The shrine waited.
And if Visuisa truly watched from her silence, then maybe—just maybe—he could bring her back.