Lia's Intuition

The air in the small, cluttered hut of Old Man Hemlock hummed with a tension that had little to do with the flickering fire. Lia, her brow furrowed in thought, traced the rough-hewn grain of the wooden table with a fingertip. The parchment, now creased and re-folded countless times, lay between her and Harald, its faded script a constant, silent question. Harald, ever the pragmatist, was focused on the practicalities of their journey, his eyes scanning the crude map Hemlock had provided. But Lia’s gaze kept drifting, snagging on the unfamiliar symbols that dotted the edges of the letter, symbols that felt both alien and strangely familiar.

“It’s more than just a claim to a throne, Harald,” she murmured, her voice barely disturbing the quiet. “It’s a puzzle. And the pieces are scattered, deliberately so.”

Harald looked up, his expression open and a little weary. “What do you mean, Lia? The letter says our parents were… wronged. That we are the rightful heirs. That’s enough for me.”