STRIDER

When the world was newly mapped and its edges still smoked, there came a figure the chroniclers never named — only titled. The Strider: one who strides. Where others waited for roads to be built, this one walked the unbuilt ground, and the roads came after, following the prints left behind.

They say the golden globe underfoot was never a throne but a wheel — that the world turned because the Strider kept walking, and would fall still the day the walking stopped. So the figure never rested. Cloak white against every storm, shield gilt against every doubt, and a chain worn open at the wrist: not a shackle, but a vow — bound to the road, and free of all else.

The old tale ends without an ending, which is rather the point. The Strider is out there yet, somewhere past the last drawn border, still crossing the map on foot. And those who take up the colors are only those who decided to walk as well.

— told freely at the fire, and owned by no one —