The Hub of the Wheel

The mist, a soft shroud woven from the breath of the world, began to fray at the edges. Where it thinned, pale hills emerged, their curves softened by the lingering silver fog. Dewdrops, like tiny, captured stars, clung to the blades of grass, glinting with the promise of a sun not yet fully revealed. Along the winding path, a solitary pine stood sentinel, its needles dark against the diffused light.

Bleddyn ap Pwyll, his robes the colour of twilight, continued his walk, the polished wood of his staff tapping a quiet rhythm against the damp earth. He met the old sage, Confucius, where the path curved around the ancient tree. For a long moment, the mist drifted between them, a silent mediator.

“Good morning, traveller,” Confucius’s voice was like the rustle of silk.