Leona

Estaria rose from his resting place, muscles still aching from the weight of countless lived experiences. Sentinel stood with fluid grace, its wooden joints moving without a sound. The creature’s amber eyes fixed on a path through the trees that Estaria hadn’t noticed before, marked by subtle changes in the undergrowth.

As they walked, morning light filtered through the canopy, creating shifting patterns on the forest floor. Estaria’s boots crunched against fallen leaves, each step measured and thoughtful. The forest’s usual cacophony of strange sounds provided a background to his racing thoughts.

“Those obelisks back there,” Estaria said, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “Four of them clustered together, and that fifth one separate.” He glanced at Sentinel, who maintained a steady pace beside him. “The fifth one showed me those lives, those possibilities. But it felt different from the others. Like it was preparing me for something.”

Sentinel’s tail swished in a pattern Estaria was beginning to recognize as agreement. The wooden guardian navigated around a cluster of luminescent mushrooms, leading them deeper into the forest’s heart.

“And those four numbered obelisks…” Estaria’s voice trailed off as he remembered the ghostly figures hovering above each stone. “Leona was above the first one. Orin above the second. My mother…” He swallowed hard. “And Angel.”

The memory of Angel’s spectral form made his chest tighten. He pushed the feeling aside, focusing instead on the puzzle before him. “The first obelisk had Leona. Number one.” He studied the ground as they walked, piecing together the pattern. “We’re heading somewhere specific, aren’t we? To some kind of test?”

Sentinel’s head turned slightly, amber eyes meeting Estaria’s. The creature’s movements became more deliberate, its tail sweeping in a precise arc that Estaria had learned meant affirmation. The wooden guardian’s claws clicked against exposed roots as they walked, the rhythm steady and purposeful.

“And it has something to do with Leona?” The question felt heavy in the air between them.

Sentinel’s posture shifted subtly – shoulders squaring, head lifting slightly. The change was minimal, but Estaria had spent enough time with the creature to recognize its significance. He was on the right track.

The path led them through increasingly dense vegetation, past trees that seemed to whisper among themselves. Streacresh’s presence felt stronger here, the air thick with potential. Estaria’s resonance hummed beneath his skin, responding to the forest’s energy.

Sentinel moved with careful precision, each step calculated to guide them along their chosen path. The creature’s wooden form blended seamlessly with their surroundings, yet remained distinctly separate from the forest’s wild growth.

“That fifth obelisk,” Estaria said, breaking the rhythmic silence of their walk. “It wasn’t really a test, was it? More like… a warning? Or preparation?”

Sentinel stopped abruptly, turning to face him. The wooden guardian’s movements, usually so precise and clear, took on an unfamiliar pattern. Its tail swept through the air in two distinct motions - first horizontally, then vertically.

“Yes and no?” Estaria ventured, trying to decipher the mixed signal.

A single horizontal swipe followed.

“What does that mean?”

Instead of clarifying, Sentinel rose to its full height and nudged Estaria gently with its snout - an unexpectedly affectionate gesture from the usually stoic creature. Before Estaria could press further, the guardian turned and resumed their journey, leaving him to trail behind with his questions unanswered.

Estaria’s mind churned as they walked. Yes and no. The contradiction nagged at him like a splinter under the skin. If it was a test, what was being tested? And if it wasn’t a test, what was its purpose? The weight of a million possible lives still echoed in his memory, each one distinct yet somehow blurred together.

He tried parsing it different ways. Yes, it was a test, but no, not in the traditional sense? Yes, it was preparation, but no, not just preparation? Each interpretation felt both right and wrong, like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.

The sound of his boots against the forest floor changed, pulling him from his circular thoughts. The wild undergrowth had given way to something more structured - not quite a path, but a definite progression through the trees. Looking up, Estaria’s breath caught in his throat.

Estaria stepped into the clearing, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. Morning light slanted through the canopy, casting dappled shadows across the scene before him. The air held an expectant quality, thick with the forest’s living energy.

The flat stone dominated the right side of the clearing, its weathered surface rising from the ground like a ancient sentinel. The mural caught his attention immediately, its details remarkably preserved despite its apparent age. Each line and shadow seemed deliberately placed, telling a story that tugged at something deep within him.

The white-haired man in the mural commanded attention, his profile turned slightly away yet holding an unmistakable dignity. His beard, hanging a foot below his chin, was rendered with careful detail. The positioning of his hand over his heart spoke of deep emotion - pride.

Behind the figure loomed the tower, its black surface capturing an impossible sheen even in stone. A dragon’s presence added scale to the scene, and despite his initial uncertainty, Estaria felt increasingly convinced the tower’s massive size dwarfed what was probably a large dragon. The logic escaped him, but the certainty remained, settling into his bones like an inherited memory.

“There’s something here,” he muttered, studying the proud set of the man’s chin, the way his gaze fixed upon the tower. “Something I’m not seeing.”

Sentinel remained at the clearing’s edge, its wooden form perfectly still except for the occasional twitch of its tail. The guardian’s silence felt meaningful, as if watching and waiting for something specific.

Estaria reached out with his resonance, attempting to align with the stone’s energy. The connection formed instantly, but instead of clarity, his mind filled with chaotic impressions. Colors bled into sounds, memories twisted into shapes that made his teeth ache. The discordance grew stronger as he pushed, like trying to force two opposing magnets together.

His eyes burned from the strain, vision blurring at the edges. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sensation, but it persisted. The mural seemed to shift and swim before him, refusing to resolve into anything meaningful.

Frustrated, he began circling the stone. His fingers traced the carved surface, feeling every ridge and hollow. The texture changed subtly as he moved - smooth here, slightly rough there, but nothing that formed a pattern he could understand. The stone remained stubbornly silent, holding its secrets close.

“Fine,” he said finally, stepping back and rubbing his temples. The ache behind his eyes slowly subsided as he withdrew his resonance. “Let’s try something else.”

He turned toward the obsidian obelisk, which stood in stark contrast to the weathered stone of the mural. Its black surface absorbed the morning light, creating an impression of depth that drew the eye. Unlike the confusion of the mural, the obelisk’s presence felt clear and purposeful, waiting to be understood.

Estaria approached the obelisk with measured steps, each foot placement deliberate against the soft forest loam. The stone’s surface held a familiar sheen, inviting yet somehow distant. He settled cross-legged before it, his back straight but not rigid, and closed his eyes.

Drawing upon his recent experience, he aligned his resonance with the obelisk’s. The connection formed faster this time, like a key sliding into a well-oiled lock. The forest dissolved around him, replaced by the earthy scent of fresh vegetables and woodsmoke.

A potato sat heavy in his left hand, a peeling knife in his right. Beside him, Keely hummed as she worked, her weathered hands moving with practiced efficiency through her own pile of potatoes. The afternoon sun warmed his back through his thin shirt, and the wooden bench beneath him creaked with each small movement.

“I told Marcus three times to fix that loose board by the storehouse,” Keely was saying, her voice carrying its usual mixture of fondness and exasperation. “But you know how he gets when the weather turns warm. Can’t keep his mind on anything except—”

A sharp shout cut through the peaceful scene. Estaria’s head snapped up, catching sight of Orin and Silas near the edge of the camp. Their bodies were rigid with tension, faces flushed with anger.

“Wait. I remember this,” Estaria muttered, the words feeling strange on his tongue – both present and distant at once.

Orin’s response was too low to hear, but his clenched fists spoke volumes. Silas turned sharply, stalking away between the tents with barely contained fury.

Keely paused in her work. “What do you think that was about?”

Before Estaria could respond, the world shifted. The potato was back in his hand, seemingly unpeeled. Beside him, Keely began speaking again.

“I told Marcus three times to fix that loose board by the storehouse. But you know how he gets when the weather turns warm. Can’t keep his mind on anything except—”

The shout rang out again. Estaria looked up, knowing exactly what he would see. Orin and Silas stood in their previous positions, tension radiating between them.

Orin’s response remained inaudible. Silas turned and stormed away, his path identical to the previous iteration.

“I wonder what that was about,” Keely mused, her tone unchanged.

The scene reset. The potato returned to his hand. Keely started her story about Marcus and the loose board. The argument played out again, exact in every detail.

And again.

And again.

This was the test, but what was it. It was just a scene from his memory. He remembered peeling this potato weeks ago. But then he thought about the vision from yesterday, and remembered the resonance memory had Leona floating above it.

The revelation struck Estaria like a splash of cold water. He had been so focused on the obvious conflict between Orin and Silas that he’d missed what the test wanted him to see. Near the communal fire pit, partially hidden by stacked firewood, sat Leona. Her presence was subtle, easy to overlook among the camp’s daily activities.

The scene reset. The potato’s familiar weight settled into his palm as Keely launched into her story about Marcus. This time, Estaria kept his attention fixed on Leona. She sat close to Orin, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Her usual warm demeanor was absent, replaced by something more brittle and tense.

The argument erupted right on schedule. Orin stood, confronting Silas with barely contained rage. Their bodies blocked Estaria’s view of Leona, but when Silas stormed off, Estaria caught a glimpse of her. She had drawn her knees up to her chest, making herself small against the log she leaned against. The firelight caught the shine of unshed tears in her eyes before the scene dissolved and reset.

The potato returned. Keely started speaking. This time, Estaria strained to hear Leona and Orin’s conversation, but the distance and Keely’s steady stream of words made it impossible. Their lips moved, their expressions shifted from concern to anger to something like grief, but their words remained frustratingly out of reach.

Frustrated, Estaria tried to stand, to cross the distance between them. His body responded strangely – he felt himself rise, but also felt the solid bench beneath him. Looking down, he saw himself still seated beside Keely, potato in hand. His consciousness had somehow separated from his physical form, allowing him to move independently.

Before he could process this development, the scene reset, snapping his awareness back into his seated body. The potato’s weight pressed against his palm. Keely cleared her throat to begin her story.

This time, Estaria stood more quickly. The moment he felt the potato’s weight, he stood, letting his consciousness slip free of his body. He moved quickly toward Leona and Orin, their voices becoming clearer with each step. But he couldn’t quite get close enough.

He swear he heard Leona say “I can’t believe he fell for it.”

The potato’s weight pressed into Estaria’s palm once more. Estaria’s mind reeled with what he thought he heard. Were they mocking him? Calling him gullible? Estaria watched as Orin moved to confront Silas, and Leona, curled into herself, eyes damp, didn’t seem to mesh with what he thought he heard. Estaria squashed the pain of confirmation, determined to hear it all. If they were going to betray him, he’d hear the whole thing.

The weight of the potato.

This time, he didn’t hesitate. His consciousness slipped free, rushing toward Leona and Orin with desperate intensity. The firelight flickered across their faces as he drew near enough to catch fragments of their conversation. But what he heard wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t cruel.

“…can’t keep doing this.” Leona’s voice trembled, so different from the cruel mockery he thought he’d heard before.

“You’re not the only one wrestling with this,” Orin replied, his usual gruffness softened. “Been watching that boy work on the wagons, listening to him talk with Keely and Brenda.” He shifted, his shoulder pressing against Leona’s. “Reminds me of Marcus, sometimes. That same eagerness to learn, to prove himself useful.”

Leona reached up, squeezing Orin’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. The gesture carried such genuine warmth that Estaria felt his certainty waver.

“I didn’t expect to…” Orin’s voice caught. “Well, didn’t expect to care what happened to him. Thought I was past letting myself get attached to anyone new in the caravan. Especially not someone we’re supposed to…” The words died in his throat.

A night bird’s cry pierced the darkness. Leona stared into the flames, their light dancing across her tear-streaked face.

“I know,” she whispered. “Every time I see him helping in camp, or hear him laughing with the others, I feel this weight in my chest. Like I’m betraying him somehow.”

Orin’s fingers traced absent patterns on her shoulder. “Leading him to Streacresh…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t sit right anymore. Not after seeing who he really is. Not after watching him become part of our family here.”

The word ‘family’ echoed through Estaria’s being. He felt the weight of it, heavy as the potato still pressed against his physical form’s palm.

“What do we do?” Leona asked, her voice small against the night.

Orin’s arm tightened around her. “Don’t know,” he admitted. “First time I’ve questioned our path. Always thought we were doing what needed to be done, serving a greater purpose.” He prodded the fire, sparks rising like fireflies. “Now I’m not so sure.”

The potato’s familiar weight settled into his palm once more. Why had he thought he’d heard mocking? Estaria’s mind reeled, trying to reconcile the conflicting scenes before him. The cruel words he’d imagined – they had cut too deep, felt too real. Yet here sat Leona, vulnerable and torn, sharing her guilt with Orin by the firelight.

“I told Marcus three times to fix that loose board—” Keely began again.

“Marcus,” Estaria muttered. “Who is Marcus?” The name floated through his consciousness, disconnected from any real meaning.

“Orin’s son. Oh! I guess you weren’t here when he was around, were you.”

His consciousness drifted again toward Leona and Orin, their forms bathed in firelight. The tears on Leona’s cheeks caught the flames, each droplet a tiny reflection of her inner turmoil. Her arms wrapped tighter around her knees, making herself smaller, as though trying to disappear into the shadows between the flames’ reach.

Reset. The potato pressed against his palm.

They had betrayed him – were still betraying him. The evidence sat right before him, undeniable as the weight in his hand. Sure they might have felt bad, but they still betrayed him.

Reset. The familiar weight returned.

Estaria watched as Leona leaned into Orin’s comfort, their shared concern palpable in every gesture. Her hands trembled as she wiped away tears. There was no performance in that movement, no carefully constructed deception. The pain etched across her features cut too deep to be anything but genuine.

Reset. The potato sat heavy in his hand.

“I don’t understand,” Estaria whispered, frustration building in his chest. He trailed off, watching as Leona curled tighter into herself, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

The weight of the potato grounded him as his mind spun through possibilities. Each reset brought new details into focus – the protective set of Orin’s shoulders, the way Leona’s fingers twisted in her skirt, the careful distance they maintained from others in camp. None of it aligned with the calculating manipulators he’d imagined earlier.

Reset. The familiar pressure against his palm.

The argument between Orin and Silas exploded on schedule. Estaria barely registered it now, his attention fixed on Leona’s reaction. That subtle flinch as Silas passed – it spoke of real fear, real vulnerability. Not the confidence of someone playing a long game of deception.

Reset. The weight pressed into his hand.

“What am I missing?” Estaria demanded of the empty air. “What am I supposed to see?” The potato felt impossibly heavy now, each reset adding to its symbolic weight. The truth lay somewhere between these contradicting scenes, but its shape remained frustratingly unclear.

Reset. The pressure returned.

Estaria pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, the cyclical nature of the vision pounding against his skull like a hammer striking an anvil.

The shouting between Orin and Silas pierced the air. The potato’s weight pressed into his palm. Leona’s tears glistened in the firelight.

Reset.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take deep, measured breaths. The camp sounds swirled around him – footsteps on packed earth, the crackle of the fire, Keely’s steady voice telling her story about Marcus.

The shouting erupted again. The potato sat heavy in his hand. Leona’s shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Reset.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Was he supposed to forgive her? The thought rose as he contemplated the nature of tests, bringing with it a surge of conflicting emotions. The memory of his mother crushed into a puddle, and the tears she shed. They had wanted him to be a puddle. Right?

The shouting split the night. The potato’s rough skin pressed against his palm. Leona curled into herself by the fire.

Reset.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Could he forgive her? The question settled in his chest like a stone. He watched her lean into Orin’s comfort, saw the genuine anguish in her features.

The shouting came right on schedule. The potato’s weight anchored him to the moment. Leona’s fingers twisted in her skirt as tears tracked down her cheeks.

Reset.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

What did forgiveness even mean? Was it forgetting? Pretending the betrayal never happened? The thought made his stomach turn.

The shouting ripped through the camp. The potato sat solid and real in his hand. Leona wiped away tears with trembling fingers.

Reset.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

No, he didn’t think he could forgive her – not in the way that meant erasing what she’d done. But as he watched her huddle by the fire, vulnerability etched in every line of her body, he realized his compassion for her pain was just as real as his anger at her betrayal.

The shouting began. The potato pressed against his skin. Leona’s grief painted shadows across her face.

Reset.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

He didn’t hate her. The hurt and anger remained, sharp-edged and real, but they weren’t all that existed.

The shouting split the air. The potato grounded him in place. Leona’s tears caught the firelight.

Reset.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

The betrayal was real. He couldn’t forget that – wouldn’t forget it. But so was the pain in her eyes, the genuine remorse in her voice as she spoke to Orin.

Both truths existed simultaneously.

He stopped trying to pull the feelings apart, stopped searching for the one ‘true’ frequency. Instead, he just… perceived the resonance as it was. And suddenly, he could hear it – not as jumbled noise, but as a painful, complex chord. The sharp pitch of betrayal didn’t disappear; it was a clear frequency within the resonance. And woven through it, undeniable now, was the deeper, slower rhythm of her grief. They had always been in this wave, interwoven, part of the whole signal. And finally, terrifyingly, his mind and his Resonance could perceive them both, vibrating simultaneously within the single, complicated reality of the moment.

In the sudden silence, he became aware of an absence. The constant background noise of crickets chirping filled the void where Keely’s voice had been.

Estaria opened his eyes. The familiar scene of the camp had dissolved, replaced by the ancient stone of the obsidian obelisk. Its surface reflected the filtered sunlight that broke through the forest canopy above, no longer showing him visions of the past.

Estaria stared at the resonance writing, a realization dawning on him. He wasn’t aligning his resonance with the obelisk—not exactly. Instead, he was using his resonance to identify the message within the wave, much like he had during the test. He wasn’t transported to other places, nor did he experience visions. Rather, he was deciphering patterns within the resonance.

These patterns weren’t separate, distinct elements. Just as his anger and compassion were intertwined, so too were the multiple strands of the resonance. They existed together, part of a single, complex reality. And as he considered this, another question arose: did others have resonance patterns that revealed different messages?

Estaria’s legs felt weak as he rose from the obelisk. The mural that had caused him such pain before caught his eye, its discordant imagery no less jarring than before. The sight of it made his temples throb with remembered agony, but something pulled him forward.

He approached the image of the white-bearded man, bracing himself for the assault of conflicting messages. The discordance rose immediately, a cacophony of visual frequencies that threatened to overwhelm him. But this time, instead of trying to force the image into a single coherent narrative, he let the layers exist simultaneously.

Pride radiated from the old man’s stance as he gestured toward the obsidian tower. Yet beneath that commanding posture lay a deep well of sadness, etched in the subtle downward turn of his mouth. Here was someone who understood the weight of his actions, who saw beyond the immediate triumph to some distant, bittersweet consequence.

The more Estaria looked, the more truths revealed themselves. The old man’s hand, over his heart, trembled with an almost imperceptible tension – uncertainty threading through his decisive gesture. His other hand hung loose at his side, fingers curled in resignation, as if accepting an inevitable price.

Though the dragon was the only other figure in the image, Estaria sensed a third presence. The old man’s eyes held a particular softness, a look reserved for deep friendship. It wasn’t directed at the dragon, but rather toward some unseen companion, someone whose absence spoke as loudly as their presence would have.

The dragon itself carried multiple truths. Its posture suggested both submission and partnership, fear and trust, power and vulnerability. Each scale seemed to shift between light and shadow, depending on how Estaria looked at it.

But it was the tower that dominated the image, both physically and symbolically. Dark obsidian stretched toward an unseen sky, its surface both reflecting and absorbing light. Estaria’s head spun as he tried to hold all its contradictory truths at once.

Salvation and destruction coexisted in its jagged lines. Hope and fear twined around its base like climbing vines. The structure somehow managed to embody both future and past, progress and regression, triumph and defeat. Each truth layered upon the next, none canceling out the others, all existing in a complex harmony that defied simple understanding.

The vertigo of holding so many simultaneous truths made Estaria’s vision swim. Yet he couldn’t look away. The mural had transformed from a source of pain into a testament to complexity, each layer of meaning adding depth rather than confusion.

His fingers traced the rough stone surface, feeling the texture of the ancient paint. The old man’s expression seemed to shift under his touch, revealing new layers of emotion – determination, regret, hope, fear, love, loss – all present in a single moment, captured for eternity in pigment and stone.

The obsidian tower reflected Estaria’s own face back at him, distorted and multiplied across its faceted surface. Each reflection seemed to show a different aspect of himself, just as the mural held its multiple truths. He wasn’t just one thing either – no one was. They were all complex harmonies of contradicting frequencies, playing out across time and space.

Standing there, head tilted back to take in the full scope of the mural, Estaria felt something shift inside him. The ability to hold two opposing truths had been just the beginning. Reality wasn’t binary; it was a symphony of countless notes playing simultaneously, each one true in its own way, each contributing to the greater whole.

His fingers fell away from the stone, but his gaze remained fixed on the image. The discordance that had once threatened to tear his mind apart now felt like a complex melody, challenging but comprehensible. Not because it had changed, but because he had learned to listen differently.