The Walker Between Worlds: Ch.2 What is Best in Life? -B.K. StarDew
I sit there in silence while I contemplate what to say to the keepers of the first forge. Not wanting to portray myself as a madman who must be destroyed... I simply wait for questions which I know the answers will come to me for I now know all things for I have become a Walker Between Worlds... 🪷
The Hall of the First Forge is quiet.
The Keepers do not crowd around you.
They do not demand answers.
Instead, they return to their work.
One tends the sacred fire.
Another sharpens a bronze blade.
A third quietly records the history of the clans onto thin sheets of hammered copper.
Only Elder Arcturus watches you.
He notices that you do not rush to speak.
"I expected questions," you say.
"They will come," he replies. "But a vessel filled too quickly spills its contents."
The silence is not empty.
Finally, one of the youngest Keepers approaches.
He cannot be more than sixteen winters.
"I have only one question."
You remember the crystal forest.
The blue light of the Veil.
The young Keeper seems surprised.
"But you walked through."
You think for a long moment before answering.
"Because courage is not the absence of fear."
"It is choosing to walk despite it."
The young Keeper bows his head.
"You see?" he says quietly.
"You did not begin with the greatest mystery."
"You answered the question that was truly being asked."
The old Keeper studies the flames.
"There will be some who doubt your story."
"There will be others who believe every word."
"And still others who care less about where you have been than about the kind of person you have become."
"Those are the ones who will truly hear you."
That night, long after the hall has fallen asleep, you step outside.
The stars wheel slowly over Hyperboria.
For just an instant, you think you hear crystal leaves singing on the wind.
Perhaps it is only memory.
Perhaps it is something more.
You no longer feel the need to know everything.
You know enough to continue walking.
Enough to guide without demanding that others see exactly as you do.
The title Walker Between Worlds no longer feels like one who possesses all knowledge.
It feels like one who has learned to travel between different ways of seeing the world—with curiosity, courage, and humility.
The First Forge burns behind you.
The stars burn above you.
And between them stands a single traveler, ready for whatever road awaits next. 🌌
I smoke a pipe and look into the stars and whisper the name Aster to myself thinking of my friend from the realm through the tear. "May you walk well my friend" and I go to sleep and have visions of somebody in the future a monk I assume writing on some kind of paper made of fire everything that had happened and he began to speak to me "Brynn you have done well my child now you have truly become a king. Sleep well and know that I am with you always." I awake and tell elder Arcturus about my dream.
The dawn comes softly to Hyperboria.
A pale golden light spills across the snow, and the smoke from the First Forge rises in a single straight column into the still morning air.
The embers of your pipe have long since faded.
Before sleep claimed you, you had whispered into the night,
"May you walk well, my friend."
The wind carried the words away.
Whether they reached Aster or not, you cannot know.
Yet speaking them brought you peace.
You stood in a place unlike any you had ever seen.
There were no crystal forests.
Instead, there was a quiet room filled with shelves upon shelves of books.
A solitary monk sat at a wooden table.
He was dressed in simple robes, and before him lay sheets that glowed as though woven from living flame. Yet they did not burn. As his pen touched them, words appeared in lines of golden light.
He was not writing to change the past.
As though every choice, every kindness, every question deserved to be remembered.
His face seemed both young and impossibly old.
"You have done well, my child."
"Now you have truly become a king."
Not a king crowned by gold.
Not a king feared by armies.
But one who had learned that the first kingdom to govern is one's own heart.
The monk set down his pen.
"And know that I am with you always."
The room dissolved into light.
You awaken with the first birdsong.
After breaking your fast, you find Elder Arcturus tending the First Forge.
He listens without interruption as you recount the dream.
When you finish, he remains silent for a long while.
"I cannot tell you who the monk was."
He places another piece of charcoal into the sacred fire.
"Perhaps he was a messenger."
"Perhaps he was your own wisdom taking a form your mind could understand."
"Perhaps he was only a dream."
"And perhaps those possibilities are not as separate as we imagine."
Arcturus turns to face you.
"But there is one thing in your dream that interests me."
"The words, 'Now you have truly become a king.'"
He walks to the great anvil of the First Forge and lays his weathered hand upon it.
"When you first came to us, you sought secrets."
"Then you sought certainty."
He looks at you with kind eyes.
"You seek understanding."
"That is the beginning of wisdom."
Outside, the snow begins to melt beneath the warmth of the rising sun.
Arcturus smiles one last time.
"Whether your dream came from beyond the Veil or from the deepest chambers of your own soul, do not cling to it as a command."
"For even gifts must be carried lightly."
The hall falls quiet again.
And somewhere, beyond the mountains, beyond the Veil, beyond what can be known with certainty, the memory of a crystal forest and a traveler named Aster remains—not as proof, but as a light that continues to guide your steps.
Elder Arcturus watches as you gather your cloak, your pipe, a waterskin, a whetstone, and a simple loaf of dark bread.
Only the things a traveler truly needs.
When your pack is tied, you kneel one last time before the First Forge.
The white-gold flames dance as they always have, yet now they seem less like a mystery to be solved and more like an old friend whose warmth you will carry with you.
"The mountains are no longer enough for you."
The old Keeper laughs, the sound echoing through the hall.
"They were only where your journey began."
He reaches into the fire with a pair of iron tongs and withdraws a small bronze pendant shaped like a flame.
He places it in your palm.
"This is not a badge of authority."
"When people praise you, remember the fire belongs to no one."
"When people mock you, remember the fire still burns."
"When people ask questions, listen before you answer."
You fasten the pendant around your neck.
The younger Keepers gather at the doorway.
One shy child steps forward.
You kneel so your eyes are level with theirs.
"But even if I am far away, remember this."
"You do not have to cross a magical Veil to become wiser."
"Every time you choose kindness over cruelty..."
"Every time you choose curiosity over fear..."
"You begin walking your own path."
"So can anyone," you reply.
The great doors of the First Forge swing open.
Morning sunlight pours across the snow.
You take your first step down the mountain.
Behind you, the Keepers raise no banners.
They sing no songs of conquest.
They simply watch a traveler begin another journey.
Far above, an eagle circles once before disappearing into the blue sky.
Elder Arcturus speaks so softly that only the wind seems to hear.
"The greatest kings are remembered not because they ruled many people..."
"...but because they awakened the good already living within them."
With that blessing behind you, you walk toward the villages of Hyperboria—not to command, not to compel, but to share stories, ask questions, and encourage others to seek wisdom with open hearts.
And though no one else can see it, you sometimes feel, just at the edge of the morning light, the faint shimmer of crystal leaves dancing in a wind from another world, reminding you that every act of love is itself a bridge between worlds. 🌄
My chaos star medallion from my father swings from my neck as I approach the city of Valarien. A trader approaches me and offers to trade me housing for my chaos star medallion I refuse however saying "I have no need for a room for all the space of the cosmos has been given to me by my father. I will give you this though friend, a simple question. What is best in life? Is it money is it food? Women?"
The walls of Valarien rise from the valley like weathered granite, their watchtowers crowned with raven banners that sway in the mountain wind.
Merchants crowd the gates.
The air is alive with the scent of fresh bread, pine smoke, horses, and iron from the smiths' quarter.
Your chaos star medallion, the gift of your father, catches the morning sun as it swings against your chest.
A merchant notices it immediately.
"A fine piece," he says. "Old craftsmanship. I'll trade you a room in my inn for that medallion. Warm bed, hot meal, and enough ale to make winter forget your name."
You place your hand over the medallion.
"I have no need for a room."
"The whole cosmos has been given to me by my father."
The merchant blinks, unsure whether you are a poet or a fool.
"But I will give you something instead."
He folds his arms with a grin.
The bustling market seems to fade for a moment as the merchant scratches his beard.
At first, he prepares an easy answer.
Then he notices something in your expression.
You are genuinely asking.
He looks down at his rough hands.
"When I was young," he says, "I'd have said silver."
"I would have said my wife."
"Then my daughter was born."
"I would have said family."
"Last winter, sickness nearly took them both."
He looks toward the city where a little girl is laughing as she chases a stray dog through the square.
"I realized what was best wasn't owning them."
"It was being grateful that I could still walk beside them."
The market noise returns.
The merchant looks back at you.
"I suppose my answer changes as life changes."
"What about you, traveler?"
The people nearby continue buying and selling, unaware that in the middle of the market, a simple question has become something much larger than a bargain.
The chaos star rests against your chest, waiting as you consider your reply.
The best thing in life is to know yourself, if one knows thyself they know the whole universe and are content with whatever may happen to them in it. Whether good or bad... That is my teaching I hope it may serve you well. 🙏
Not because he has no answer—
But because your words have given him one more question than he had before.
He rests a hand on the worn wooden cart beside him.
He repeats the phrase slowly, as though testing its weight.
"When I was younger, I thought knowing myself meant knowing what I wanted."
A faint smile crosses his face.
"Now I wonder if it means knowing who I become when I don't get what I want."
"I will remember your words."
"May they serve you well."
The merchant reaches into his cart and offers you a small loaf of fresh bread.
"Not as payment," he says with a smile.
You accept it with gratitude.
Nearby, a few people who had overheard the conversation exchange thoughtful glances. One young apprentice quietly repeats your words to himself.
An old woman selling herbs smiles knowingly.
"Every generation finds its own way of saying that."
She taps her temple gently.
"But every generation must discover it for themselves."
You continue into the streets of Valarien.
No herald announces your arrival.
No crowds gather around you.
You are simply another traveler wearing a weathered cloak and a chaos star medallion, carrying little more than bread, a pipe, and a story.
Yet behind you, the conversation lingers.
The merchant looks up at the morning sky and murmurs,
"Perhaps today I'll spend less time counting my coins... and a little more time counting my blessings."
The market goes on as always.
But one small corner of it has become, if only for a few moments, a place of reflection rather than trade.
And somewhere, beyond sight, the Echo seems just a little closer—not because anyone proved a great truth, but because a sincere conversation invited another person to look inward.
The market is alive with the sounds of barter and laughter.
You stop before a stall draped with thick wolf pelts, soft fox fur, sturdy leather cloaks, and finely woven wool lined with rabbit fur. They remind you of the old barbarian garb of the northern clans, yet they are crafted with the careful hands of Valarien's artisans.
The woman behind the stall notices your respectful bow.
She is middle-aged, with strong hands marked by years of sewing and tanning hides.
"You have good manners," she says with a smile. "Not everyone who comes to market remembers that."
You admire one of the cloaks.
"My family has made them for three generations."
You hesitate before speaking honestly.
"I would like one, but I have no coin."
"I am only a simple traveler."
"Perhaps there is work to be found in this city?"
"If you know of any, I would be grateful."
The woman studies your face.
She sees no arrogance there.
She folds a cloak across her arm and thinks for a moment.
She points across the market to a blacksmith's forge.
"The smith has been complaining all week that he needs someone to split charcoal and carry water."
Then she gestures toward a stable near the city gate.
"The stablemaster is always looking for an extra pair of hands."
"And..." she adds with a knowing smile, "...the monastery on the eastern hill welcomes travelers willing to copy books, sweep floors, or tend the gardens. They rarely pay much, but they never send an honest worker away hungry."
She looks back at the furs.
"If you earn enough coin, I'll still be here."
"Unless someone with deeper pockets buys everything first."
"A person who is willing to work for what they desire is already wealthier than many who carry heavy purses."
She returns to arranging her garments as another customer approaches.
You leave the stall with no new cloak—but with something just as valuable:
The streets of Valarien stretch before you, each road offering not only work, but another chance to learn the hearts of the people who live within its walls.
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