Rand had woken early, while Helena still slept soundly. The room was wrapped in a gentle silence, broken only by the rhythmic sound of her breathing—soft and calm. The first rays of morning filtered through the cracks in the window, casting a golden hue over the rumpled sheets.
Moving carefully so as not to wake her, Rand transfigured a wooden tub in a corner of the room. With a simple spell, he conjured clear water and warmed it to a pleasant temperature. Steam spread throughout the space, creating a warm, comforting mist. He sank into the water and let out a long sigh—the first of relief in days. For a few minutes, the burden he carried on his shoulders felt less oppressive, dissolving into the hot water like the tension from his muscles.
After the bath, he dried himself with magic, dismissed the tub with a snap of his fingers, and watched as the room returned to its original state, as if nothing had happened. He dressed with care: choosing a dark coat embroidered with silver threads, a crisp white shirt, freshly polished leather boots, and a belt with a discreet yet refined buckle. Standing before the mirror, he adjusted his collar and looked at his reflection with a firm gaze. They were no longer just travelers. They were about to build something greater.
Helena was still asleep, nestled under the blankets. Rand allowed himself a quiet smile before leaving the room and heading downstairs.
In the common room, Master Gill was nowhere to be found. Rand looked among the patrons, but there was no sign of the innkeeper. He also noticed the cook, eyes sharp, casting glances around the room with the same restlessness—she seemed to be looking for him as well. Unsure of what to do, Rand sat at one of the tables, but soon found himself watching, increasingly uneasy, every person who entered. Every dark cloak or hooded face made his heart beat faster.
A Fade here would be like a fox in a henhouse, he thought, uneasy.
Suddenly, a city guard entered, wearing the Queen's red uniform. He paused just after crossing the door, sweeping the room with cold, calculating eyes, focusing especially on the strangers. Rand averted his gaze, feigning disinterest, staring at the table's surface, but when he looked again… the man was gone. That unsettled him.
As she passed by, a dark-eyed maid with her arms full of towels whispered in a near-conspiratorial tone:
"They do that now and then," she said confidentially. "Just to make sure everything's in order. They take care of the Queen's good folks, they really do." She laughed softly. "You've got nothing to worry about."
Rand just nodded. "Nothing to worry about," he repeated to himself, without much conviction.
Another maid was checking the lamps along the wall. He approached her.
"Is there another place I could sit? Maybe a private dining room that's not being used?"
"There's the library," she said, pointing to a door. "Down the hallway, to the right. Should be empty at this hour."
"Thank you. If you see Master Gill, could you tell him Rand al'Thor would like to speak with him?"
"Of course, I'll let him know," she replied with a smile. "The cook's looking for him too. I bet he's hiding somewhere…"
Rand followed the hallway and opened the indicated door. As he stepped inside, he froze, stunned by what he saw. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with books—probably more than three or four hundred volumes. Bound in leather, cloth, even wood, some with gold detailing on the spines.
His thoughts flew to Tam, imagining his adoptive father holding one of those books, gently examining the cover before settling down by the fireplace with his pipe to read. Rand's heart ached. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. The memory brought a sense of loss and loneliness that momentarily overshadowed the joy of seeing the books.
Then a discreet cough sounded behind him.
Rand turned, ready to apologize for entering without knocking—but what he saw made him freeze. He was used to being taller than most people, but now... his eyes rose, and rose... and kept rising.
The figure before him nearly touched the ceiling with its head. It had a wide nose like a snout, brows that hung like thick ropes, pointed ears with tufts at the tips, and pale eyes the size of teacups. A black mane framed its face.
"Trolloc..." Rand whispered in horror.
The creature sighed deeply.
"I wish you humans wouldn't say that," it said, in a voice deep as a drumbeat. Its furry ears twitched with sensitivity. "So few of you remember us... I suppose that's our fault. Few of my kind have walked among men since the Shadow fell upon the Ways. That was... six generations ago, just after the Hundred Years War..."
The massive head moved in a sorrowful gesture, and the sigh that escaped its lungs sounded like a weary bull.
"Too long... too long... and so few of us left to travel and see the world beyond the halls of our Ancestors..."
Rand stood still, open-mouthed, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
"I thought you were..." he began, but the words died in his mouth. "What are you...?" That didn't sound right either. Trying to collect himself, he raised a hand in greeting. "My name is Rand al'Thor."
The creature smiled kindly, revealing broad but non-threatening teeth, and shook Rand's hand with one the size of a boar's leg. Then, it made a solemn bow.
"Loial, son of Arent, son of Halan. Your name sings in my ears, Rand al'Thor."
Rand sensed it was a traditional greeting. He tried to mimic the bow.
"Your name sings in my ears, Loial... son of Arent... son of Halan."
Loial's ears twitched, pleased.
"You're an Ogier, aren't you?"
"Yes," he replied, with a touch of melancholic pride. "And a young Ogier, at that. I'm only ninety years old. But don't worry... I've read plenty about humans."
Loial sat on a wide bench made to fit two people—and even then, he filled it completely. Even seated, he was as tall as most men standing.
"If you don't mind me asking," he said, clearing his throat delicately, "why were you so eager to come... ah, Outside?"
"To see," Loial replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I read the books. Every traveler's tale I could find. And the more I read, the more I felt... a restlessness growing inside me. It started to burn like a need: I had to see it with my own eyes." His pale eyes gleamed and his ears stiffened with excitement. "I studied every scrap about the old journeys, the Ways, the customs of human lands, the cities we built for you after the Breaking of the World. And the more I read, the more I knew: it wasn't enough. I had to leave the Stedding and see these places for myself. See the groves... feel the wind in unknown lands."
Rand blinked, surprised by the Ogier's passion.
"Yes, I understand. I was also looking for an excuse to leave my home..."
"From the Aiel Waste?" Loial asked curiously.
"What? No! I'm not from the Aiel Waste! I'm from the Two Rivers. I've never even seen an Aiel in my life!"
Loial shook his head slowly, the tufts on his ears lowering in slight embarrassment.
"See? So much has changed... and half of what I studied might not even be true anymore. I hope I didn't offend you. I'm sure the Two Rivers is a wonderful place... wherever that is."
"Someone told me," Rand said thoughtfully, "that it was once called Manetheren. I'd never heard of it until recently, but maybe you know..."
Loial's ears perked up with joy at the name.
"Ah, Manetheren!" he said reverently. "There was a magnificent grove there. One of the most beautiful that ever existed. The pain of that land... it still sings in my heart, Rand al'Thor. We Ogier tried to arrive in time, but... we failed." His voice, once animated, grew heavy and grave. "We couldn't save them."
Loial gave a respectful bow, even while seated, and Rand hurried to return it. He suspected the Ogier would feel hurt if he didn't—or at the very least think him rude.
After a moment of silence, Loial let out a long sigh.
"The Wheel turns," he said, with a distant look, "and no one knows its pattern. But you're almost as far from home as I am. Tell me... what brought you so far? Is there something you, too, wish to see?"
Rand opened his mouth to say he had only come to see the false Dragon... but the words wouldn't come.
Instead, without really understanding why, he began to speak. He told Loial about Winternight. Not vaguely, not hiding behind common stories of Darkfriends. No. He told the truth. About the Trollocs who attacked his home. About the Fade he saw on Quarry Road. He spoke of fear. Of fleeing.
Part of him was horrified by what he was doing, as if revealing too much. But another part... a part that only felt relief—relief at finally being able to speak about it, no longer having to carry it all alone.