Chapter 7- Arrival

Some doors, especially ancient ones, cannot be closed once opened.

In this chapter, Alina wanders through Aetheris, longing for normality and rest. Will she be able to handle the revelations that await her?

The village lay under a veil of milky mist when Alina arrived just after dawn. Her body was heavy with exhaustion, her mind still fogged from the long journey. At the edge of the square stood an inn with green shutters peeling like old paint.The Lucky Shamrock. She had always loved old buildings, and stepping inside felt like wandering into a forgotten fairy tale.

Warm air, smelling of coffee and bread, wrapped around her. For the first time in days, she smiled — though it felt strange, like remembering home without ever having been there. The innkeeper handed her the key to Room Eleven with a nod, and soon she was collapsing into bed. Sleep came swiftly, free of panic for once.

When she woke, the Mistvale River’s murmur drifted through the open window. Jays and robins called from cedar branches, their bright songs threading through the morning air. She stretched, breathing deeply. Here, I can breathe, she told herself — though it sounded more like a wish than truth.

Later, wrapped against the mountain chill, she wandered the square. Villagers moved slowly, shutters opening, apples set on wooden tables, a young girl sweeping chapel steps. At first, no one looked at her directly — but when she passed, she sensed her eyes following her, their whispers trailing like smoke.

Uneasy, she ducked into a café called Céadar & Cosán. The air smelled of roasted beans. She ordered coffee and sat by the window, but the old woman who served her lingered with sharp, unreadable eyes.

Then a voice broke the hush.
“So, you’ve come back.”

An old man at the next table studied her. His gaze was piercing, though not unkind.
“Excuse me?” she whispered.
He tipped his head, almost sadly. “The air shifts when one of you returns. Always has. Things are moving again.”

He left without another word. Alina sat frozen, fear crawling through her chest. The coffee cooled untouched between her hands.

At the village’s edge, a signpost pointed:
→ Breathnóir Hill, 2 km.
← Mistvale River, 1 km. Veilheart Arch Bridge, 1.5 km.

Without really knowing why, she turned left toward the river.

The path wound down toward the river, narrowing as though it meant to carry her alone. Mist rose in pale ribbons, clinging to the undergrowth and wrapping itself around her boots. Trees leaned close, their trunks furred with moss, their branches alive with the flicker and song of birds. Somewhere, frogs croaked in the reeds, and a squirrel leapt from branch to branch, playfully scattering droplets of dew.

When she reached the water, Alina stopped in silent awe. The Mistvale River glimmered green-blue in the morning light, restless and bright despite the still air. She crouched, dipped her hand in the water, and flinched at the sharp chill that raced through her fingertips.

Her reflection gazed back. Pale, tired, a tad too thin — the journey had hollowed her. Yet as she tilted her head, the image didn’t follow right away. It lingered, staring at her a moment too long before catching up. Her breath caught. She pressed her knuckles to her eyes, trying to convince herself it was nothing. It was the sleeplessness, the hunger, the nerves. And yet…

She stood quickly, followed the river’s bend, and came to the Veilheart Arch Bridge. Its stones curved upward in a solemn, ancient grace, vines threading through the cracks as though determined to bind it to the living world. Halfway across, she stopped. The mist was denser here, curling around her ankles like it meant to keep her. She thought she saw letters forming, faint and fragile, dissolving before she could name them.

And then, a memory rose unbidden. A voice — not her own, but it felt like one that had lived in her long enough to feel like part of her. They say if you stand here at dusk, the river shows not who you are, but who you are becoming.

The words felt hollow in her chest, leaving her full of ache. Leaning over the stone railing, she watched the current flicker past. For a heartbeat, the water did not show her own face but another — half in shadow, waiting. A man? She pulled back sharply, pulse hammering.

When she dared to look again, it was only her reflection. Pale, startled. Alone.

By the time she returned to the inn, dusk had softened the village. The square was lit by lanterns, their glow painting the cobbles in small, trembling pools of light. Inside, the inn was warm with firelight and low voices.It was quieter than before. Shadows had lengthened across the common room, firelight flickering against the walls. Alina slid into a corner table, trying to shake off the image of her reflection lingering in the river, watching her with that heartbeat of delay. She ordered some soup but could hardly bring herself to eat it.

Two men by the hearth were speaking in low voices, but still, the words carried over to her.
“…Breathnóir Hill… storm-lights again last night…”
“…not storm. Never is. You know what it means.”

The other made a sign with his hand, glancing toward her. She dropped her gaze quickly, pretending to study the cracks in her mug.

Alina sat at the desk in her inn room long after the square had gone quiet. The pages of her journal were streaked with half-thoughts: fragments of the river, the bridge, the way her reflection had lingered like a stranger. The river does not show who we are but what we are becoming. A bridge between selves. I saw… someone. Was it him?

She wrote until her hand ached, as though putting the words down might somehow pin them still.That somehow, all this could make sense.Then, her pen stilled. A memory pressed at the edge of her mind: a figure in the city shadows outside Carrie’s window, his lips forming her name.

And just like that,sleep pulled her under before she could write any more.

She woke — or dreamed she woke — to silver light spilling across the floorboards.Was that the sound of a door unlatching? She wasn’t sure.Her feet carried her outside, bare, leaving faint prints on the dew. The village lay silent, but the forest whispered, drawing her forward.

The path rose, the trees thinning until the jagged crown of Breathnóir Hill emerged, black stones thrusting upward like ancient teeth. She slowed, breath caught in her chest. It was just as the villagers spoke of: a circle of obsidian stones standing against the sky.

But when she stepped closer, the air shifted. Mist curled inward, and behind the jagged ring, another formation began to pulse into being — smooth, luminous stones in a perfect circle, glowing faintly as though the hill itself pulsed with light. The two circles stood one within the other, the outer visible to all,the inner revealed only to her.

Her pulse raced uncontrollably. She knew, instinctively, she wasn’t meant to see both.

A presence stirred within the light.His silhouette seemed familiar. Could it be…?

Kaelan stepped from shadow into moon-glow, half his face veiled, the other glistening in the silver light. His eyes caught hers with quiet gravity and tenderness.

“You’re not only seeing the path,” he said, his voice low, carrying as though spoken into her bones. “You’ve already set foot on it.”

She tried to speak, but could form no words that would sound rational.

He drew closer, the glow outlining his form until it seemed part of him. “Not all who stand here are chosen. But you…” He raised a hand, fingers brushing her cheek, warm against the chill of the night. “You’re marked. By the river. By this place. By me.”

Her breath shuddered out. “Why me?”

For an instant, sorrow passed through his gaze, as if he carried an answer he could not give. Instead he whispered, “Just remember this Alina: the circles aren’t only stone. They’re doors. And doors do not stay closed forever.”

The light flared — and Alina jolted awake, tangled in her bedsheets, her heart hammering furiously.

On the floor, faint traces of soil darkened the boards. A few withered leaves clung to her hair.

Morning broke pale and sharp. She made coffee with shaking hands. The phone buzzed suddenly, her mother’s anguished voice breaking through the crackling line:

“They’re closing in… you have to le…”

Static swallowed the rest.

The knock at her door made her jump. She opened it to find Bridget leaning in the frame, coat dusted with morning dew and travel, her eyes sharp and unreadable.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Bridget said lightly, though her gaze lingered on the dirt at Alina’s feet.

Alina tried to answer, but Bridget was already stepping inside, voice softer now, almost too soft:
“Strange dream, wasn’t it?”

Alina froze, staring at her friend. She wondered just how much Bridget knew she wasn’t letting on. But Bridget had already turned away, fussing with the luggage as though she hadn’t said anything unusual at all.

Something to reflect on: ✨

• What do you think the stones on Breathnóir Hill are exactly?

• Who do you think is closing in, as her mother warned?

• We see Bridget herself becoming a suspect.How much does she know?

Previous- Chapter 6 Aetheris

Next - Chapter 8 Waiting between mist and stone

Thank you for reading…✨

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