Chronicles of Empyrhea Book One: The Threads of Destiny

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels filled the carriage as Ileina stared out of the window, watching the lush greenery blur past. The journey to Everemere took four hours, and for the first time in her life, she felt as if she was heading toward answers—toward a part of herself she had never known. The road stretched before her like a thread of fate, guiding her to the place her mother had once called home.

She turned to Stellan, who sat beside her, quietly reading a small journal. He had said little since they boarded, allowing her to process her thoughts, but she could tell there was a weight in his silence. He had promised her mother that he would protect her, and now, in some ways, this journey was a step away from that protection. But Ileina had to know.

When the train finally pulled into Evermere Expanse's Regional station, the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers greeted them. A figure stood near the entrance, his arms crossed, scanning the arriving passengers. Ira.

"You made it," Ira said with a small smile, taking Ileina's overnight bag from her hands.

"We managed to book tickets last minute," Stellan replied, stretching slightly from the long ride.

Ira led them to a nearby Inn where he was staying. The small establishment was warm and inviting, with dark wooden beams and soft candlelight flickering from the lanterns hanging above the entrance. After setting down their bags, they wasted no time and made their way to Gallad, a quaint town in the eastern part of the region's capital.

The town was picturesque, with cobblestone paths lined with willow trees, and clusters of small brownstone residences with charming wrought-iron balconies. At last, they arrived at a cozy four-family brownstone residence where a kind elderly couple greeted them at the door.

"You must be Helena's daughter," the woman, dressed in a simple floral apron, said with warm eyes. "You have her hair."

Ileina's throat tightened, but she nodded. "Yes. My name is Ileina. This is my guardian, Stellan, and my brother, Ira."

"I'm Elise, and this is my husband, Martin," the woman introduced, motioning to the older man at her side. "We used to rent an apartment to your mother many, many years ago. Please, come inside."

The brownstone had a cozy charm, with aged wooden floors that creaked gently underfoot. Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, casting golden patterns across the parlor. Elise and Martin guided them upstairs to the second-floor apartment.

"She lived here," Elise said softly as she pushed open the door.

Ileina stepped inside, hesitating at the threshold before fully crossing into the space her mother had once called home. The air was warm, carrying a faint scent of lavender, as though time had preserved a trace of her mother's presence. A delicate stillness settled over the apartment, as if it had been waiting for her return. The apartment was modest but inviting—a single-bedroom space bathed in soft, golden light from the late morning sun filtering through the window. A small sitting area was arranged by the window, where an old but well-kept armchair faced outward as if waiting for someone to return to it. The kitchen had wooden counters that bore the faint marks of years of careful chopping and preparation, and a tiny dining table in the corner, its surface polished to a subtle shine despite its age. A bookshelf lined one of the walls, still containing some of the books left behind by previous tenants. The bedroom was quaint, with white lace curtains and a simple wooden bed, tucked neatly beneath a window that overlooked the quiet streets below.

Ileina could almost see her mother moving through the space—sitting by the window, brushing her hair, setting fresh flowers on the table. A deep ache settled in her chest, an overwhelming longing for a woman she had never truly known.

She ran her fingers across the wooden table, tracing the faint grooves left behind by years of use. It was as if she could feel the echoes of her mother's presence—mornings spent sipping tea, evenings filled with quiet contemplation. Ileina stepped toward the bookshelf, her gaze scanning the spines of worn novels and handwritten journals. She pulled one free, its cover smooth beneath her fingertips. The handwritten notes in the margins spoke of a someone thoughtful and introspective, someone who sought solace in words when one could not voice her thoughts aloud.

Her fingers brushed over the edge of the windowsill, where tiny indentations suggested someone had once drummed their fingers absentmindedly while staring outside. Ileina moved to the small bedroom, her breath hitching as she took in the neatly arranged bed with its pale blue quilt, folded at the edges with meticulous care. Sitting on the nightstand was a ceramic vase, empty now but still speckled with dried remnants of earth. Had her mother placed fresh flowers there each morning? Had she gazed out the window as Ileina did now, wondering about what lay beyond?

The longer she stayed, the more she could see her mother here—moving through the apartment, humming softly as she brewed tea, tending to potted herbs in the window, or sitting curled up with a book in the chair by the fireplace. It was an illusion of presence, and yet, it felt heartbreakingly real.

Elise gave her a moment before gently handing her a worn photograph. "This was taken at my birthday celebration. We invited the tenants and a few close friends."

Ileina took the photo with trembling fingers. Her mother's face stared back at her, smiling radiantly. Beside her stood another woman, slightly taller, with dark curls framing her face.

"That's Sofiya," Elise said. "Your mother's closest friend and colleague. If anyone knows anything about your father, it would be her. She still works at the flower farm, just to the south of town."

Tears welled in Ileina's eyes as she studied the image, her fingers gripping the edges as though afraid it might vanish like a fleeting dream. Seeing her mother so full of life, standing beside Sofiya with an effortless smile, was almost too much. This was the woman who had carried her, loved her, and fought to protect her—but whom she had never truly known. The ache in her chest deepened, an unspoken longing rising within her. Her mother's features were so familiar—the same eyes, the same curve of her smile. She swallowed the lump in her throat and held the photograph to her chest.

"Thank you," she whispered.

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The next morning, they traveled to the flower farm where Helena had once worked. It was a sprawling expanse of color, fields of flowers stretching toward the horizon. The scent of roses, lilies, and lavender filled the air, mingling with the crisp morning breeze.

A man greeted them at the entrance and, upon hearing their purpose, led them deeper into the farm, where a woman stood near a row of wild daisies. Her hands were dusted with soil, her face shaded beneath the brim of a straw hat.

"Sofiya," the man called. "You have visitors."

Sofiya turned, and the moment her gaze fell on Ileina, she paled.

"Helena?" she breathed, taking an uncertain step forward.

Ileina's heart clenched. "No... I'm Ileina. Helena's daughter."

Tears filled Sofiya's eyes as she reached out, hesitating, before finally cupping Ileina's face with trembling hands. "Stars above, you look just like her," she whispered.

For a long moment, she simply stared, as though caught between disbelief and nostalgia. Then, taking a shaky breath, she smiled. "Your mother would be so proud."

Ileina swallowed hard, emotions threatening to overwhelm her. "I've come to learn about her. And... if you know anything about my father."

Sofiya's expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flashing across her face.

She exhaled slowly. "Let's sit. There's a lot I need to tell you."