The days after the raid melted into each other like softened wax. Whistlehollow mended itself slowly, not with magic, but with hands and stories. Farmers shared tools. Healers moved from home to home. Children laughed again—quietly, carefully—as though afraid their joy might invite another disaster.
Rina sat on a worn bench near the village center, sharpening a curved knife. Her eyes flicked up often, watching the path that led into the woods. Not for bandits. For something else. She'd sent a message with a trader passing through—a coded note hidden in a bag of dried rosemary. No one in Whistlehollow knew. No one needed to.
She looked toward the Hale home—or what remained of it.
The walls were rebuilt now. Corvin's mother insisted on doing most of it herself, and Rina helped when she could. They didn't talk about the fire. Or about Aleron's glow. That moment had become sacred in its silence.
Inside, Corvin knelt by Aleron's cradle. Aleron still slept, unmoving but peaceful. Corvin had begun whispering stories to him, half-mumbled adventures involving dragons and sunflowers and bees who wore crowns. When he thought no one was looking, he would draw in the dust with a stick—strange symbols, flicks and curves that mimicked spell circles.
One afternoon, Corvin stood on a stool beside the fireplace, arms outstretched. He shouted, "Defend!" and flicked his wrist in a way that looked suspiciously familiar. A spark didn't appear—but a few stray embers shifted in the hearth.
His mother clapped. "That's my brave knight."
But Rina watched. And remembered.
Corvin had grown more protective. If Aleron's blanket shifted, he fixed it. If a bee came too close, he waved it away. He had even started sitting cross-legged beside Aleron's crib and chanting his own "spells." Some were just words. Others were almost melodic.
Villagers started calling him "mage-blooded," half in jest.
"He'll be summoning rain clouds next," one elder chuckled.
"He already controls the boy's heart," said another.
Rina didn't laugh. She watched Corvin more than the others did. She saw how his eyes flickered with concentration when he practiced gestures. How he seemed to sense when Aleron stirred, even slightly.
And at night, when she walked past their shared room, she often heard Corvin whispering. Not prayers. Promises.
"I'll protect you next time. I'll be strong too."
A festival came—a small one. The Harvest Eve. Nothing like the grand celebrations of noble cities, but rich in color and music. Ribbons were tied around the oldest tree in the village. Bread was baked in sun-shapes. Lanterns carved from squashes lined the paths.
Corvin wore a fox mask and refused to take it off.
He dragged a blanket behind him and sat next to Aleron's cradle during the whole evening. He whispered things beneath the mask—soft chants, names he'd invented, spells only he understood. Some of the children laughed at him.
He didn't care.
At the festival's height, a troupe of traveling performers arrived—jugglers, a flutist, a man with dancing birds. The entire village gathered to watch. But Corvin didn't move. He kept his eyes on Aleron, holding one of his tiny hands through the bars of the cradle.
"He's waiting," he whispered. "I'll be here when he wakes up."
Rina stood by the tree, speaking with the village headman about winter prep, when she saw the outline of a rider in the distance. It wasn't Magister Eluin this time. Just a cloaked traveler. They stopped at the edge of the fields, spoke briefly with a farmer, and rode on.
Still, her grip tightened on her blade.
Not today. But soon.
She would have to leave, eventually. Not for good. But the threads of the past still pulled at her. The Queen's fate. The truth behind the royal child lost in fire.
That night, after the festival, when the village lay quiet beneath the stars, Rina stepped outside. She looked up at the sky and closed her eyes.
She remembered silver armor. A crown of ivy. A queen's smile. The sounds of war in the distance.
She pressed a hand to her chest.
"I'll find you," she whispered.
Inside, Aleron stirred once during the night. Not enough to wake, but enough for his fingers to twitch.
Corvin gasped.
He clutched Aleron's hand and whispered, "I knew you'd come back."
Inside the dreamscape, Aleron stood alone beneath a tree of light.
A flicker passed through the system:
[Stasis Progress: 2 Years, 9 Months Remaining...]
[System Update: Ember Spark – 89% Mastery]
Far away, a whisper came again. Nyx's voice.
"You know," she said, voice bright as mischief, "most people don't bother saving anyone when they're barely two feet tall. You've got style."
He didn't speak.
Nyx giggled. "You're doing better than most gods I know."
The stars above him shifted into constellations shaped like foxes.
"Rest well," she said. "They'll need you sooner than you think."
Aleron smiled faintly.
The stars pulsed again.
And the world exhaled, waiting.