Denia Cojoc

Summer of 4704

Three years before the Goblin Raid on Sandpoint   Denia Cojoc wound one of her long black braids around her fingers, her amber eyes fixed on the rugged expanse of the Lost Coast. The wagon creaked beneath her as the caravan trundled forward, each turn of the wheel pulling them closer—closer to Sandpoint, closer to him. She had thought of little else since they veered from the well-worn Cyrusibakari route onto the Kasapakari, the shift in course stirring something restless in her chest.   Beside her, Big Petru guided the reins with the patience of stone, while Petru—never Little Petru—sat humming under his breath, oblivious to her impatience. They would not hurry. Not even for her.   The last time she was in Sandpoint, she had spoken to the boy—brief words, fleeting, but enough to linger. He had been quiet, withdrawn, his gaze shadowed by something unsaid. Mystery suited him. It made her want to pull him into the light. Back then, she couldn't convince him to dance with her. This time, she would.   The wagon rolled past Sandpoint’s welcome sign, and she traced the words aloud, as if speaking them into existence: “Welcome to Sandpoint. Please come to see yourself as we see you.” Beneath the inscription, a mirror glinted, and for a brief moment, she saw her own reflection staring back—amber eyes, dark braids, a girl on the edge of something she couldn't name.   As the caravan settled in a circle outside town, the pull in her chest grew stronger. She fought the instinct to slip away into the streets, to seek him out immediately. Instead, she turned to the Gnome fortune-teller for a harrow reading. Grandma could have done it, but Denia knew her grandmother’s protectiveness would cloud the cards.   The gnome’s fingers moved deftly over the deck, flipping over a single image: The Crows. Most would call it an ill omen. Denia saw it differently. She had noticed the faint silhouettes of birds carved into Sandpoint’s wooden facades, quiet remnants of something old, something waiting. Maybe it was a sign that she belonged here.   Maybe it meant something else entirely.   Because no one ever saw Denia leave Sandpoint.   For two weeks, the Cojoc family combed the town, their voices threading through the streets, calling her name. Every alley, every shadow, every whisper turned up nothing. When the caravan finally left, they carried only silence where Denia had once been.   And every time they returned to Sandpoint, they were welcomed not with answers, but with renewed grief—the hollow ache of a clan still waiting for the lost daughter who never came home.