“Well,” she said, her voice strange to her own ears after days of silence. “That’s new.”
She knew it was a trick. She’d read stories of fae portals, mind-fever cacti, the Siren’s Gullet. This was a test. The Wanderer in her screamed to turn around, to find the real path, the authentic hardship. But another part—a part she’d buried under miles and sunburns—whispered: What if it’s not? Wanderer
The old maps called it the “Bleak Scar,” a wound of rock and dust where even the hardiest nomads turned back. But to Elara, it was simply the next step. “Well,” she said, her voice strange to her
Elara stopped.
The same lopsided apple tree she’d climbed as a child. The same chipped birdbath where robins splashed. The same scent of damp earth and marigolds. Her mother, younger than Elara remembered, looked up from her weeding and smiled. This was a test
Then she walked past the birdbath, through the apple tree—which dissolved into light—and out the other side of the arch.