The Guardian’s Echo

The Sight of the Sentinel: Penny

I woke up to the lingering smell of cedar smoke and the soft sound of stone scraping against steel. I pushed myself up from the bed roll to see Soren kneeling by the brook. Sighing softly, I got to my feet, and as I approached the water’s edge, I saw him sharpening his sword against a whetstone.

I knelt on the soft mossy bank and washed my face with the cold water. When the surface resettled, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. The lavender in my eyes had expanded at an alarmingly faster rate than it had back at the palace. They looked like galaxies were swirling within them now. My ears weren’t just physically sharper either, my hearing was too. I could hear a squirrel’s tiny footsteps from at least fifty yards away.

I pushed myself up from the moss and moved back to the dying campfire. I rolled up and secured my bedroll and threw my cloak around my shoulders again. Holding my knapsack in one hand, I dug out a few carrots with the other and offered them to our horses while Soren moved to finish packing up our camp. We worked together, and I offered him a crust of bread I’d brought with me from the palace.

Our fingers brushed and I felt a jolt of electricity run through me as my breath caught.

The early morning light filtered through the trees and we worked together in a peaceful quiet as we prepared to continue our journey. A new, comfortable ease seemed to have settled over us during the night.

It took half a day to ride out of the forest. We probably could’ve moved at a faster pace, but Soren let me take my time as I admired the beauty of the foliage. Besides, this was a personal journey, not a timed mission with a deadline. Well… not a big deadline at least.

When we finally left the forest behind and started towards the foothills of the Highlands, the landscape began a drastic change. The trees were sparser, spread further apart, but they were massive. The air felt charged too, like the calm before a storm.

We found the road — a dusty tan path that cut through the tall grass — and for the first time in my life, I felt strangely, truly free. The world spread out around me, nothing but grass and sky as far as I could see as we rode towards the —mostly— unknown.

As we rode though, the road in front of me started to shimmer. I pulled back on Moonstride’s reins, slowing her to a steady walk. Soren noticed and Emberleaf fell into step beside me. “Is everything okay?” he asked, his brows pulled together.

“Do you see-“ I started, but immediately cut myself off as the shimmers became ghosts of people standing on a stone bridge that wasn’t really there. It was a vision of the bridge we were riding to. I gasped, the sight leaving me breathless.

“Penny,” the sound of my name broke the spell, and I felt the grounding warmth of Soren’s hand on my forearm, pulling me back to where we actually were.

I explained what I had seen and he nodded as if he understood, even though he hadn’t seen it himself. “The ley lines are thick and the veil is very thin here,” he explained. “It’s quite common for travelers to have visions here. The Highlands were a crossroads before the war. It’s why so many rifts opened here when the war started. According to Aethelgard lore, the Guardian of the Gate was also blessed with a sight that allowed her to see what would be, too. If that’s true, then it’s possible that it’s a gift passed down through the Ashendor bloodline.”

We continued down the path, eventually coming to a massive stone that stood solitary, the road forking around it. As we got closer, I could see that it was covered in ancient, weathered runes. Moss grew in the grooves, creating a living green ink.

Soren stopped, taking a moment to look at the marker with a gaze that felt reverent. “In all my years,” he admitted, his voice low, “I’ve never known anyone that could decipher this.”

As I approached the stone, the runes started to glow with a faint silvery light. They weren’t just carvings. I slowly began to understand them — not read them — I didn’t know the language. But I could feel their meaning.

“It’s the Waymarker of Ashendor,” I murmured. It was a signpost left by my ancestors. “We aren’t just going to a village. We’re going to Rosariel’s home.” As I acknowledged it, I heard a soft, melodic hum in the air. The land was recognizing the return of the guardian’s blood.

I looked at Soren. He was unable to hide the shock from his face. His eyes were wide and his lips were parted. “How do you…?” he trailed off, but his voice carried a stunned sense of awe.

“I don’t know, I can just feel it,” I explained.

I lifted my hand, resting it against the warm stone and feeling the soft pulse flowing from its center. “I spent thirty years in an office looking at spreadsheets, Soren. And now the rocks are talking to me. I think my Chicago-brain is finally broken.”

“It’s not broken, Penny,” he corrected. “It just finally knows what to listen to.”

The hum of the stone stayed with me as we left the Waymarker behind. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in bruised purples and burnt orange. At the edge of the horizon, signs of civilization began to appear.

Nestled into the crook of two rising hills sat Hillsong.

It wasn’t a grand city like the capital. Instead, it was a cluster of stone cottages with thatched roofs made of silver grass that caught the fading light of the sun. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, smelling of peat and roasting meats.

We rode through the village gates, which were constructed of two massive, unhewn oak pillars. The village streets were full of bustling activity that seemed to slow down and pause as we passed. The villagers weren’t like the polished elves of the palace. There were folks with dirt under their fingernails and simple clothes made of sturdy wool and leather.

The elves stopped, looking at my eyes. They weren’t fully lavender like theirs, and they knew just by looking that I was something different. I wasn’t sure yet if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Soren noticed too, and steered Emberleaf closer to Moonstride.

We dismounted in front of a long, low-slung building. The air was filled with the sound of distant flutes, just like Grandma Rose had written about. I looked up at the building in front of us. Words were painted against the stone in faded green ink: Singing Hills Inn.

The innkeeper, a stout elven woman with greying hair, stepped outside to greet us. Her hair was braided, and tied with a thin strip of leather. She immediately recognized the status of Soren’s rank, and gave a respectful bow of her head. “We don’t get many travelers here anymore. I’m Bruneil.”

She turned to me, and her breath hitched, her eyes wide. She didn’t see the queen’s mother, she was looking at a ghost. “Rosariel?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“No, I’m her granddaughter, Penny,” I answered, my voice low but steady.

“Well, welcome, please, come inside,” her voice still shook as she spoke. Bruneil led us to a quiet corner table. She served us simple food, stew and crusty bread, and it tasted like home.

Soren seemed unusually quiet. His gaze scanned the room, his mind clearly working through the fact that I’d been recognized.

“They remember her,” I whispered.

He reached across the table, his hand covering mine for a brief second. “They remember the blood, Penny. The war. The Ashendors didn’t just guard the gate, they guarded these people. When they were summoned to the capital at the start of the war, the Highlands were left unprotected. To them, you’re not a stranger, you’re a promise of a return that’s finally been kept.”

We ate, and Bruneil gave us keys to connected rooms. As we prepared to retire for the night, she approached me and pressed a second, small, rusted key into my palm. “Your grandmother left this with my mother before she disappeared,” she whispered, her voice hushed. “She said the day would come when the echo returned.”

I looked at the key, then at Soren, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Thank you,” I murmured.