Page 3 of Unseen Eye (Aetherian Chronicles #1)

As I step out of my bedroom, freshly changed, I find Kendry in the kitchen, calmly assembling a quick breakfast of bread and cheese. He doesn’t acknowledge my outburst from earlier, and I settle into my usual seat at the worn wooden table, reaching for a sprig of rosemary nearby.

Kendry sets a plate in front of me, glancing at the herb in my hand as I absentmindedly strip off its leaves. The scent fills the room, a familiar comfort in our quiet morning ritual. After a few bites, he finally speaks, his tone careful. “You want to talk about it?”

I don’t ask what “it” is. The look he gives me says enough: last night’s dream, this morning’s frustration, the questions I don’t dare ask.

“You know, you could actually tell me something about her,” I say, the words slipping out before I’ve really thought them through.

Kendry pauses mid-bite, his eyes flickering with something I can’t quite read. For a moment, I think he’ll deflect, brush it off like he always does. But instead, he sets down his bread and looks at me, as if weighing his words carefully.

“Your mother…” he begins slowly, “she had a way of seeing things differently. It wasn’t just about skill or strength for her. She believed in something bigger.” He hesitates, his gaze distant. “But sometimes, when people see things others can’t, it sets them apart… in ways that aren’t always easy.”

I hold my breath, feeling the familiar ache of curiosity mingling with a sense of loss. This is more than he’s ever given me before, yet it feels like he’s still holding back the most important piece.

“What do you mean by ‘something bigger’?” I ask, unable to contain my need for more. “What was she trying to do? What did she see that was so different?”

Kendry’s brow furrows, and I can see the gears turning in his mind. For a moment, I think he might finally share something meaningful, but instead, he shifts in his seat, his gaze dropping to the table. “It’s complicated,” he says softly. “Some things… they’re better left in the past.”

My disappointment is sharp, but I try to hide it. “But it’s my past too. She was my mother, Kendry. I have a right to know.”

Kendry looks away, his silence telling me more than his words ever could. The weight of his unspoken thoughts hangs heavy in the air, and I feel the distance between us growing. It’s frustrating, knowing there’s so much more beneath the surface, yet being kept at arm’s length.

“Please,” I urge, trying to soften my tone. “I need to understand.”

He finally meets my gaze again, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes, knowing too much can be a burden, Eva. But I promise you, I’ll share what I can when the time is right.”

With that, he picks up his bread again, a clear signal that the conversation has come to an end.

I sit back, disappointment settling in my chest, wondering just how long I’ll have to wait for the answers I crave. Kendry, seeming to sense the shift in my mood, clears his throat, his gaze steady but softer.

“And the dreams?” he asks after a moment, as if he’s hesitant to bring it up. “They’ve been… intense lately, haven’t they?”

I nod, caught off guard by his directness.

Usually, I try to shake these dreams off.

But this one—it clings in a way that’s hard to explain.

I shrug, trying to sound casual despite the unease in my chest. “I don’t know what to say.

This one just… felt different. More real.

Maybe I should quit reading so much before bed,” I add with a half-hearted smile, as if that’s all it was—a strange story winding its way into my sleep.

Kendry doesn’t respond right away, watching me closely as I strip the leaves from the rosemary, the repetitive motion oddly soothing. But the image of the man with the crown and his twisted smile keeps intruding on my thoughts, unsettling the calm I’m trying so hard to maintain.

Kendry nods, buttering a slice of bread. “Maybe,” he says, though his tone isn’t exactly convincing. It’s the same look he gave me every time I’d ask about my mother or why my training never seemed to end—as if he’s letting me off the hook, but not really buying my excuse.

“Dreams can be strange that way,” he says thoughtfully, his gaze distant. “Sometimes they show us things we’re not quite ready to see.”

A flicker of frustration wells up in me. “Or maybe they just remind me of things no one’s telling me.”

He hesitates, as if choosing his words carefully. “Or maybe,” he says quietly, “they’re guiding you toward something you’re meant to understand… in time.”

I let his words settle, a mixture of frustration and intrigue swirling within me.

Before I can think of a response, Kendry does, his tone lightening.

“Speaking of things meant to be understood, are you planning to give Mr. Whitfield your story about Eldorin today?” He gives me a small smile. “I quite enjoyed that one.”

I nod, still a little surprised that he does.

It’s not like this has always been easy for him.

In the beginning, he was against the whole idea of me sharing my stories, claiming it was “asking for trouble” and that some tales were better left unspoken.

I didn’t listen, of course. I kept at it, sneaking out drafts until he found out and finally relented—but only on the strict condition that he’d read each one first. “For accuracy,” he’d say, though I’ve never been convinced that’s the whole truth.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I say, watching him closely. “There’s something about Eldorin and his library that just captivates me. I can picture every detail in my mind.”

As I say it, an image from my dream flickers in my mind woven together with the stories from Kendry. A hall of endless shelves that seem to spiral into the heavens. I’d give anything to spend even a few days there, unraveling the mysteries that ripple through its endlessly enchanting walls.

Kendry nods in agreement. “You captured his essence well. Your stories have a way of bringing these gods to life.”

After we finish eating, I gather my things to head to the bookstore. The walk there is another part of my routine that I cherish, giving me a chance to clear my head.

***

The path to the village is a familiar mix of gravel and dirt, with the occasional tuft of grass breaking through.

I’ve walked this route more times than I can count, enough that I could probably navigate it blindfolded.

Despite how well-worn it is, the path isn’t often traveled by anyone but Kendry and me, given how tucked away our cottage is.

As the trees start to thin, the village of Pinebrook gradually comes into view.

Pinebrook is a quaint village nestled in the heart of Providence, on the edge of the forest. This region, ruled by King Alaric, is renowned for its lush landscapes and fertile lands situated between the towering peaks of the Silverpeak Mountains to the north and the expansive Mystwood Forest to the south.

A breeze rustles through the willows along the riverbanks, carrying the faint hum of traders bartering in the village square.

Pinebrook sits in a valley where the Delta River winds its way through, its clear waters sparkling under the sunlight.

Unlike many villages that rely solely on rivers for trade, Pinebrook thrives at the crossroads of trade routes, with the forest and mountains adding to its bounty.

The riverbanks, lined with willows and wildflowers, give the village a picture-perfect charm, further boosting its bustling commerce.

King Alaric has ruled Providence for longer than I’ve been alive.

In his early years, he was praised for his natural charisma and genuine compassion.

He would often mingle with the common folk, listening to their needs and finding ways to help.

Providence saw advancements in agriculture, education, and trade, bringing prosperity to the kingdom and keeping its people content.

However, the harmony has begun to fray. Lately, Alaric has grown more distant, as he rarely leaves the castle.

The southern tribes, uneasy with Providence’s growing power, have become bolder, their skirmishes escalating into devastating raids that scar the once-thriving borderlands—just like the ones twenty-three years ago.

By the time I reach the village, the afternoon sun bathes the streets, causing heat to radiate off the charcoal gray stone.

Flowers bloom in well-tended gardens, their vibrant colors contrasting with the lush greenery of vegetable patches.

The scent of freshly baked bread wafts through the air, blending with the fresh, natural scent of the forest.

I walk past familiar landmarks: the blacksmith’s forge, where the clanging of metal rings in the air; the tailor, with its window displays full of the latest fashions, and the bustling marketplace, where vendors are setting up their stalls for tomorrow’s market.

Further down the street, the cobbler’s workshop emits a comforting scent of leather and polish. Old Mr. Ferris was always busy repairing boots and shoes, and pretty much anything that even thinks about being made of leather.

The village square buzzes with life. At its center stands an ancient pine tree, the namesake of the city, its sprawling branches casting a wide shadow.

Pine cones have begun to form, a sure sign that fall is approaching.

Nearby, a stone fountain trickles steadily.

Across the square sits the local tavern, The Boar’s Head, famous for its hearty meals and boisterous evenings.

The scent of roasting meat drifts through the open door, mingling with the lively chatter of patrons inside.