A year had passed since the priest's ashes scattered into the forest wind.
Whistlehollow, nestled in its quiet corner of the realm, had returned to its steady rhythm. The fields had grown golden again, the stream sang more clearly through its shallow bed, and life—simple and good—continued on.
But Rina had changed.
In her attempt to shield Aleron from all harm, she had unknowingly drawn eyes to their doorstep. It was too much magic, too many layers of protective enchantments. A beacon to those who understood its language.
So she stopped.
She unraveled her wards and softened her reach. She let the air breathe again. No more mana flares, no more nightly summons.
"Less protection is more protection," she muttered one evening, sipping bitterroot tea by the fire. "I get it now."
In the cradle near her feet, Aleron slept, unchanged. He cooed and cried. He reached toward soft lights, sometimes smiled in his sleep. But to the world, he was a normal baby. A quiet boy. A sleepy one.
The capital city of Velmora had fared less peacefully. In the year since the attack on the royal palace, Regent King Thalan von Velmora had worked tirelessly to rebuild. New banners were raised across the city gates. Schools re-opened under new governance. The Royal Academy, once partially destroyed, was being restored stone by stone.
And most importantly, trust was beginning to return.
The world had not ended that day. But it had changed. Whispers of war blamed the neighboring kingdom, but some murmured of something more—an unseen hand, a deeper rot.
None of it reached Whistlehollow directly. But traders brought fragments of the tale in coins and rumors. Farmers listened, then returned to their soil. Life pressed on.
One of the few things that did change in Whistlehollow came in the form of another child.
His name was Corvin Hale.
He was born just weeks after Aleron, the son of a potter and a seamstress. His eyes were a shade of pale steel, framed by soft lashes and charcoal hair that refused to stay brushed. He was quiet, often more still than babies his age, and rarely cried.
Yet wherever he went, animals seemed to linger.
The village cats rubbed against his cradle. Birds hovered closer when he was in the garden. Even the village dog—grumpy and territorial—sat guard outside his window more than once.
Rina noticed.
When Corvin's mother came to visit Rina with baskets of bread or herbal soaps, she brought the boy with her. Corvin would sit in his mother's lap or crawl across the rug until he found himself beside Aleron's cradle.
There, he would rest a hand on the edge and stare.
Not with the blank innocence of infancy, but something deeper—quiet fascination.
He didn't speak, of course. But once, when Aleron was fussing with soft cries, Corvin reached over and placed a tiny hand on Aleron's blanket. The crying stopped.
The mothers exchanged a glance.
"He's always calm when Corvin's around," Rina's guest said. "Strange, that."
Rina hummed but said nothing. She noticed more than she admitted.
That night, the wind was still.
In his sleep, Aleron stirred.
He dreamed of books. Of stars. Of a chalkboard scratched with too many notes.
He was William again, hunched over a desk in a great marble hall, a single lantern flickering beside him. The scent of old ink and leather filled the air. His fingers moved in rhythm, writing theories faster than his mind could process them.
Across from him sat a blurred figure. Someone familiar. A rival. A friend?
"I told you," the voice laughed, echoing strangely. "Your compression theory is flawed."
William grinned, defiant. "Only if you ignore the flux equation."
They argued. They laughed.
Then something cracked.
The ink bled off the pages. The lantern flickered and died. The room stretched into nothingness.
William turned—no, Aleron turned.
The world was silent.
[Stasis Recovery: 67% Complete]
[Primary Consciousness Integrity: Stable]
[Dream Layer Active]
Outside the dream, Aleron let out a soft sigh and turned onto his side.
Corvin, seated in his mother's lap nearby, blinked slowly and reached for the corner of Aleron's blanket. He tugged it up, carefully, before settling back down with a gentle babble.
Rina, brewing herbs in the kitchen, turned to glance into the room.
Just two children. One asleep, the other watching.
But she felt it in her gut—something was shifting.
Something slow and patient.
Something old.
And the world—no matter how quiet—was waiting.