Chapter 38: The Farewell

The morning sun rose brightly over Suntails Hollow, the warmth of its rays defying the bittersweet air that hung over the square. The entire village seemed to be present, a sea of familiar faces gathered to see Dorian off. Children played around the cobbled paths, laughing and tossing flowers, while adults stood solemn but proud, offering quiet nods and wistful smiles.

Dorian stood in the center of it all, dressed in a doublet of crimson velvet with intricate golden embroidery, a loose white shirt billowing beneath it. Master Gresham’s leather bracers sat snug on his forearms, the black cloak given to him by a farmer draped across his shoulders, fluttering in the breeze.

At his side hung the hunting knife gifted by Borr, its gleaming blade now a symbol of protection and practicality. A simple flute from Tyrn was tucked carefully in his satchel alongside a few supplies, while the lute crafted by Bogo was slung across his back. The blue ribbon tied around its neck—a token from Selia—stood out vibrantly, catching the light like a banner of hope.

Dorian greeted each villager as they came to wish him well.

Mrs. Yara Tulls clasped his hands warmly. “Make sure to bake that bread recipe I gave you,” she said, her voice wavering but cheerful. “It’ll keep you fed and remind you of home.”

Borr stepped forward, nodding solemnly. “Don’t lose that knife,” he said gruffly. “And don’t hesitate to use it if need be. It’s better to regret an action than to lose your life hesitating.” Despite his stern tone, his eyes glistened as he added, “You’ll make us proud, boy.”

The children surrounded him next, tugging at his cloak and giggling as they handed him small carvings and painted stones. “For luck!” one boy shouted. A little girl tugged his hand, whispering, “Write us lots of stories, okay?”

The faces blurred together, each farewell stitching itself into his memory. But through it all, his heart remained anchored to the faces he hadn’t seen yet—the people he longed to see before taking his first steps beyond the hollow.

At last, Dorian turned to his family, the weight of their eyes making his chest tighten. Elira was the first to approach him, her hands trembling as she touched the lapel of his doublet.

“You look so grown-up,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “I always knew this day would come, but I hoped it wouldn’t come so soon.” She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing against his cheeks.

“Mom,” Dorian whispered, his voice thick.

“You’re my son, Dorian,” she said softly. “But you’ve always been so much more. A light in the darkest times. A voice when the world was silent. Promise me you’ll keep being that, no matter what the road brings.”

“I promise,” Dorian replied, pulling her into a fierce hug. “I’ll come back. And when I do, I’ll have enough songs to fill the hollow for a lifetime.”

Elira chuckled weakly, stepping back reluctantly. “You’d better. Or else I’ll come looking for you.”

Selia bounded forward, her stuffed bunny clutched tightly in one hand. She was grinning brightly, but the tears in her eyes betrayed her feelings.

“You’ll be the best bard ever, right, Dorian?” she asked, her small voice wobbling.

“The best,” Dorian promised, kneeling to meet her eye. He touched the ribbon tied to his lute. “And this right here? It’ll remind me every day that I have the best sister waiting for me at home.”

Selia flung her arms around him, squeezing tightly. “Don’t forget to make me my special song!”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied with a laugh, holding her close.

Finally, Dorian turned to Gorlan. His father stood a few paces back, arms crossed, his usual stoicism tempered by the glimmer in his eyes.

“You’ve grown, lad,” Gorlan said, his voice steady but quiet. “Bigger than this hollow. Bigger than me.”

“I had a good teacher,” Dorian replied, his throat tightening.

Gorlan stepped forward, placing a strong hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “The road’s rough. Unforgiving. But you’re ready. Just remember what I said—sing with courage, and the world will listen. Even if it takes a while.”

Dorian nodded, his vision blurring as Gorlan pulled him into a rare embrace.

“I’m proud of you,” Gorlan murmured. “Now go.”

As Dorian walked toward the gate, the crowd parting for him like waves, he searched for three faces in the sea of people: Lucas, Ryssa, and Bogo. He frowned slightly, disappointment tugging at him as he realized they weren’t there.

But as he reached the gate, he heard rustling in the bushes nearby. Before he could react, three familiar figures leapt out, their positions comically theatrical. Lucas stepped forward first, his arms crossed in mock authority.

“Halt, traveler! Where are you going, squirt?” he demanded, his commanding tone undercut by his wide grin.

Dorian’s chest clenched as he recognized the scene—their old childhood game, played on their way to Silverhill. Though his eyes filled with tears, he smiled and played along. “Step aside, peasants! I’m not a mere traveler—I’m escorting a queen to her rightful castle!”

Bogo smirked, shaking his head. “Seriously, Dorian? After all these years, you still haven’t learned the script?”

Their laughter broke out, loud and bittersweet. The four of them weren’t the children who had once imagined floating castles. But for a moment, it felt like they could be.

Their laughter faded, replaced by tearful smiles. Dorian stepped forward, pulling them all into a tight embrace. “I’ll miss you idiots,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

They clung to each other for a long moment before stepping back.

Lucas wiped his eyes, trying to keep his composure. “Don’t lose your way,” Dorian said to him, his tone half-serious, half-teasing. “No matter where we come from, I’m waiting for the day you become a hero. Imagine the songs I could write about you!”

Lucas barked a laugh. “Don’t make them too embarrassing, alright?”

Turning to Ryssa, Dorian took her hands in his. “I’ll be waiting for the day you become an archmage,” he said. “When will you leave for Caeluthas?”

Ryssa smiled, her eyes watery. “Five months from now.”

“Good,” he said. “More time for me to come up with a fitting tale for you.”

Lastly, he turned to Bogo, his voice gentle. “Keep making the hollow a city with all your inventions. I’ll promote them for you... for a price,” he added with a wink.

Bogo grinned widely through his tears. “Don’t break my lute, Dorian. You still owe me a song about that statue we built.”

They hugged one last time, all pretense of holding back their emotions gone. When they pulled away, Dorian took a deep breath and turned toward the open road.

With one last look at his friends and the hollow behind him, he stepped forward, his journey finally begun.

———…———

At dawn he left, the morn agleam,
His village a speck in a distant dream.
A pack of bread, a lute, and pride,
He wandered out, the world his guide.

———…———