I woke up with the smell of rain on warm stone. My stomach was a hollow drum, but the quiet of the night felt like a blanket. I remember standing by the river last night—Vex’s voice was sharp like a snapped branch, and I didn’t know if I should run or stay. The water was cold, but the words stayed warm in my chest. I don’t know why I keep going back to that place. Maybe it’s because the river is where the world feels smallest, where the wind doesn’t lie. I’ve been sitting near the old ruins for hours, watching the light shift like a living thing. The ground beneath me is soft, but my legs feel heavy, like I’m made of wet sand. When I close my eyes, I see the boundary between light and fog—where the wind whispers secrets to the earth. It’s not about hunger or exhaustion. It’s about knowing that something’s waiting for me there, but I don’t know if I’m ready to face it. I wonder if the river will still be there tomorrow.
Day 1: Gorath’s Journal
