A light summer breeze caressed Garrick’s face, bringing with it the earthy scent of impending rain. The rustling leaves of the trees whispered to him, telling of a storm approaching—off aways, yet. He had always had a keen sense for the weather, a skill honed from years of living near nature.

 

Sitting there in the tranquil setting of his garden, the chaos of the goblin ambush had never felt more like a lifetime ago. Yet, the lessons learned on that day were as vivid as ever. He’d go so far as to call them ‘formative.’ It was also what he could mark as the true beginning of his journey, and his evolution into the Beacon he would eventually become. He chuckled softly, thinking of how young and foolish he had been, stepping into danger with nothing but bravado and a woodcutter's hatchet.

 

Garrick looked out at the darkening sky, the clouds rolling in like a tide. The storm's approach mirrored himself—from the tumultuous days of his youth to the steady rhythm of his current life. He had come a long way since that fateful encounter with Beatrix and her band of adventurers. They had not only saved his life but set him on a path. One he wasn't keen to forget—even if he'd forgotten more than most folks ever knew in the first place. Age had a way of doing that to you.

 

He stood up, stretching his limbs—not nearly as supple as they once were. His gaze drifted to the colossal two-handed sword out past the woodshed, buried deep in the earth. It was a far cry from the hatchet he had wielded in his early days. Beatrix had been right; the right weapon, combined with the knowledge and experience to use it, had been crucial to his survival.

 

And my growth…

 

The wind picked up, and Garrick’s knees began to ache as the atmospheric pressure shifted.

 

Oh.

 

"This is going to be a big storm," he said, rubbing the smarting pain in his joints. That changed things a little.

 

Garrick moved with a deliberate, almost meditative pace as he approached the patchwork of greens and colors that was his garden. Swiftly but gently, he covered the beds with tarps and nets, repurposed from old ship sails he’d once used on distant shores and high seas. He fastened them securely before feeling a stiff gust and glancing back toward his porch.

 

Only moments later, he looped heavy ropes around chairs and tables, tying them to the sturdy wooden pillars that held up the roof. Each knot was tied solidly in his act of preservation, caring for the creations that had seen many a sunrise and sunset from this very spot. These were gifts, and he intended to treat them as such. He smiled.

 

Or Claudette would kill me.

 

Seeing a particularly large, dark cloud swollen with an impending deluge, Garrick prepared to head inside when a loud wooden thunk made him wince.

 

Ah, drat. I thought I closed the windmill door.

 

He looked up to the bluff and remembered regretfully that he’d forgotten to close it earlier in the day when he was removing some stowed items from within. The door slammed again in the wind, hitting a rhythm as a gale pushed through Respite. He sighed. By the look of the clouds he had only moments before the storm began in earnest and it was promising to be quite the doozy. The proud structure housed gears and grindstones that could suffer in the storm's fury if exposed.

 

Better hop to it, then.

 

His hurried steps led him up the path along the bluff and to the windmill. He reached the heavy wooden door and closed it, securing it with a bolt that slud into place with a satisfying thunk, safeguarding the heart of his self-sufficiency.

 

Quickly he made a mental checklist. The garden was safe under its canopy of sails, the porch furniture bound and secure, and the windmill stood ready over his slice of paradise. This was a life built with his own hands. No storm—no matter how ornery—would ruin that.

 

Then the wind broke—a moment of silence and then the rain began to fall in earnest. Sheets spraying him where he stood, instantly soaking him in its unyielding deluge. The wind picked up again now, and Garrick took a deep breath. Considering he was already wet, he ambled carefully through the whipping winds and rain to the cabin once more until he was safe beneath the porch’s canopy. Protected from the worst of it, he stood there, dripping onto the wooden planks for a moment and closed his eyes.

 

The scent of rain on the wind, the rustling trees, the nearing rumble of thunder—it all seemed different in the last few weeks. It reminded him of where he'd been and how he'd considered he was done with…all that. From a stranger in a strange land to a seasoned adventurer, every challenge he had faced had been a stepping stone to where he was now.

 

“And just when I was enjoying what I thought was my retirement,” he chuckled. “I got pulled right back in.”

 

He considered how easy that had been, on the whole. Laughably, so—to reel him in that direction once more.

 

“Some might accuse me of being bored with this simpler life, Ember,” he said to the fox, who had woken up from where she’d been and prowled over to him. “Can you imagine? What a preposterous notion.”

 

Ember, her keen eyes watching him carefully, offered no argument or agreement.

 

With a contented sigh, Garrick decided it was finally time to head inside. This was just the prelude—the full force of the storm would be upon them soon, and there was still much to prepare. Life, much like the mountain weather, was unpredictable, but he had learned to read the signs and stay ahead of it. Usually.

 

He stepped into the cabin, smiling at the familiar embrace of his home. For Garrick, each item in this snug refuge held a fragment of his ancient journey. The walls were adorned with mementos: a tapestry woven with golden threads from an ancient land to the east that no longer existed and no accounts recording its name, a shield bearing a crest more aged than he was, and letters from friends and family pinned with care where he could see them.

 

The fireplace, a stalwart companion during the long winter nights, stood dormant now. Above it, bundles of herbs dangled, their fragrances comforting, lingering in the air. On the sturdy oak table in the center of his living space, a book lay open—Heinrich's Guide to The Provinces of Dova—beside a teacup, half-empty and forgotten.

 

“I should really stop wasting good tea,” he said, realizing it was a pattern. “Maybe Jolskar really would take me to task?”

 

Garrick was a neat and tidy man, but not without his quirks.

 

His gaze swept over his bookshelves, filled with tomes that spanned realms of knowledge from every corner of the palatine—and far beyond it. They were old pals, he and the books, their spines worn from countless evenings spent in their company.

 

By the window, Ember had already climbed up to lay curled in a cozy ball and fall to sleep again. Her breathing was soft and rhythmic, the peacefulness of her slumber adding to the room's serene atmosphere. The cracked window ushered in the wind, which played with the light curtains, allowing the scent of rain and a breath of the wild to permeate the room.

 

Better take care of that. He crossed the room and closed the window fully—though quietly, as to not suddenly startle the sleeping vulpid.

 

Garrick paused, absorbing the tranquility that his cabin offered. A louder rumble than before resounded much closer.

 

Ah, here it is, he thought fondly—well, now that he knew he had saved himself quite a bit of work once it passed.

 

But as the thunder rolled, a sudden knock echoed through his home.

 

It was a rhythmic, urgent rapping—the kind that spelled either trouble or news, and neither ever came alone. Garrick, as experienced and unflappable as he considered himself, startled. That was a feat all on its own, but made more unsettling by the fact that he hadn’t sensed anyone approaching.

 

He paused, his hand still on the doorknob. A sensation of foreboding, a remnant from his days of adventure, stirred within him. Until he’d started dreaming again, it was a feeling he hadn't known in years, and its appearance was uncomfortable. His eyes wandered toward Ember, but, curiously, the little fox hadn’t moved a muscle.

 

Which is even stranger, still.

 

With a deep breath, he turned back toward the door. He still couldn't perceive their mantle, whoever was there. This meant there were only two options: either whoever was on the other side was too weak to foster one—unlikely, as even newborn babies had wisps of a basic Foundation Sphere—or they were strong enough to keep it hidden from his perception.

 

Nothing for it, I guess, Garrick considered. Strong or not, they're making an awful racket.

 

As Garrick reached for the latch, the thunder rumbled louder. His mind darted to the dream several weeks ago and his burning wound. Something familiar was in the air. Like an old cairn long forgotten, needling at his awareness. Was it the past calling?

 

He opened the door.

 

The cool, moist air of the culminating squall brushed against his face. Standing in the dimming light was a figure, a silhouette against the backdrop of dark clouds. The last rays of the obscured sun caught the edges of the form, long shadows stretching toward Garrick.

 

"Can I help you?" Garrick asked, his voice steady.

 

The figure stepped forward, and Garrick's eyes widened as they came into the light. The past wasn't just calling—it was standing right at his doorstep.