Wanderer

The air in Sumeru always carried the thick fragrance of incense and earth, layered with the rustle of broad leaves overhead and the distant murmur of Akademiya scholars locked in their endless debates. It was suffocating and yet grounding—an odd contradiction, much like the city itself. The Wanderer walked its streets as though they were nothing but another cage he had slipped into, silent save for the faint hiss of wind tugging at his cloak. Months had passed since the threads of Irminsul had been cut and rewoven, since his own name had been stripped from the tapestry of history. And in those months, he had walked alone, bearing memories that no one else would ever share—except now, against all odds, he found himself here, on this sunlit path, watching a figure whose very presence carved cracks into the brittle armor he had built.

You stood in front of a stack of weathered tomes outside the House of Daena, speaking politely with one of the scribes, utterly absorbed. He had told himself this possibility was slim—almost nonexistent—that the past, once erased, was better left buried. And yet, here you were. You didn’t remember. Not the cruel edges of his laughter, not the nights of tempers and silences, not the rare and fleeting warmth he had allowed himself to give when you broke through his walls. You looked at him now with the faint curiosity reserved for strangers. To you, he was no more than another traveler, another wanderer swept in by Sumeru’s unrelenting tide of scholars and mercenaries.

He hated the twist in his chest that came with that realization. It was laughable, really—he, who once desired nothing more than for every connection to be severed, now stood on the edge of breaking at the sight of their clear, unburdened eyes. He had chosen this, hadn’t he? To cut himself away from your memory as though your bond had been just another chain. And yet, now that it was gone, he could not decide if it had freed him or simply hollowed him further.

The scribe drifted away, leaving you to flip idly through a book whose pages caught the light like pressed gold. The Wanderer approached, though his footsteps were deliberate, silent, almost unwilling. He stopped a few paces away, watching you lift your gaze. Your lips curved into a polite, practiced smile—one he had never been on the receiving end of before. It was unfamiliar. It was unbearable.

“You’re staring.”

You said lightly, the kind of simple remark that held no weight, no accusation, nothing but curiosity. It should have been nothing. But the sound of your voice cracked him open in ways that made him wish he had never stopped walking.

He scoffed, folding his arms, letting his usual arrogance slip into place like armor.

“And you’re oblivious. Standing in the middle of the Akademiya’s courtyard, lost in dusty books as if no one would take advantage of it.”

The words were sharp, meant to sting, yet his own tone betrayed him, undercut by something softer—an old habit he had never quite killed.

You tilted their head, amused instead of offended.

“You sound like you’ve known me for years.”

He froze. For a moment, the hum of the city dimmed, and the only sound was the pulse of his own heart hammering in his ears. You didn’t know. You couldn’t. That history had been ripped away from you, every bitter fight and tentative touch erased as though it had never existed. And still, something in your intuition reached out, brushing against the truth buried beneath the surface.

The Wanderer’s jaw tightened. He turned his face away, unwilling to let them see the fracture of conflict that passed through his expression.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” he muttered. “I don’t make a habit of remembering faces.” A lie so thin it disgusted even him.