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raulonastool.eth 🎩 🏰
@raulonastool
FARCASTLES: CHAPTER TWO – THE CIRCLE By the fifth morning, Ern stopped hoping the rain would end. He had crossed two bridges, three empty villages, and one field that smelled like old fire. At some point, the hills began to rise, and so did his doubts. But the road kept going, so he did too. He arrived at camp just before dusk—if you could call it that. It wasn’t a fortress or even a proper outpost, just a muddy clearing scattered with tents and half-lit fires, bordered by crooked trees that looked like they wanted to run away themselves. No guards challenged him. No horns announced his arrival. A boy half his age in a tunic two sizes too big just pointed him toward the stump and said, “Take a rock.” Ern blinked. “What?” “From the pile. Take one. Then write your word. That’s how we do it.”
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raulonastool.eth 🎩 🏰
@raulonastool
The stump sat in the center of the clearing like a rotted throne. Beside it, a pile of flat, smooth stones—too perfect to be random. A small tin of charcoal rested nearby. “What kind of word?” Ern asked. The boy shrugged. “Just one that matters.” Ern picked a stone. It was warm, oddly enough. Fit neatly in his palm. He watched others as they scribbled. A man with a broken nose etched the word Glory. A girl in fraying red cloth wrote Fire with practiced strokes. Someone near the tents had written Sorry, and was holding it like an apology no one would accept. Ern knelt beside the stump. His hands were shaking, and not from the cold. He thought of his fishing nets. His mother’s blanket. The girl with the flute. Then he wrote: Stay. He didn’t know why. It felt like a word left behind for him by someone else. Or maybe a word he’d always wanted to hear.
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