Smoke still clung to the air the morning after the raid.
Whistlehollow, though scarred, still stood. The fire had not spread beyond the Hale home, and thanks to the sudden resistance near its edge, many villagers survived. A few structures were gone—one barn, two homes—but lives had been spared.
Rina stood among the ruins of the Hale house, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The walls were blackened. The smell of scorched oil and singed wool lingered. She crouched low near a half-burned table, fingers brushing the ash. A faint pulse of warmth still echoed through the wood.
She didn't understand what had happened.
When she found the boys, Corvin was bruised and stunned, and Aleron was... glowing. Faintly. Just for a moment. She hadn't questioned it. She hadn't let herself. The gods worked in strange ways.
"They were lucky," she muttered. "That's all."
She told herself that again as she turned to help haul charred beams from the wreckage. Other villagers moved around her—rebuilding, comforting, counting losses. It would be weeks before the full toll was clear.
She glanced at the village center, where temporary shelters were going up. Children played as if nothing had happened. Life returned quickly in places that didn't have time to grieve.
But she couldn't shake the image of Aleron's hand—curled, glowing faint red—and the way Corvin had shielded him, trembling, eyes wide with awe.
Corvin clung to Aleron like a shadow.
He barely spoke that morning. His mother said it was the shock, and perhaps that was true. But Corvin's eyes followed Aleron's every breath. When the other children came to offer toys or snacks, Corvin ignored them. He just sat beside the crib, tracing invisible shapes in the air.
Once, he held a stick and mimicked a gesture he'd seen—fingers curved, a flick of the wrist, as if summoning fire.
He whispered the nonsense word he remembered Aleron mouthing: "...fyr."
His mother watched, puzzled. "He's just playing," she said. But her voice wavered.
At night, Corvin snuck from his bed and sat beside Aleron's cradle, watching his chest rise and fall. Sometimes, when the wind howled outside or a shadow passed the window, he would whisper, "Don't go back to sleep. Not forever."
Three days later, a mage from Velmora arrived.
She rode a grey mare with emerald saddlecloth and wore forest-green robes with silver trim. Her hair was tied in a knot, her eyes sharp and tired. She introduced herself as Magister Eluin, sent to inspect magical anomalies tied to the bandit raids in the region.
She was professional, quiet, but her presence carried weight. The villagers stepped lightly around her.
Rina guided her to the Hale house ruins.
Magister Eluin moved with calm precision. She cast a detection spell, her fingers weaving blue strands of light across the air.
The spell hovered, pulsed, and dimmed.
"Unusual burn patterns," she murmured. "Residual mana—but faint. Not divine. Not summoner class."
Rina said nothing.
"It could've been an old alchemist's ward reacting with fire," Eluin said after a moment. "Or a leaking potion ignited. Nothing structured. No formal casting pattern."
She made a note in her ledger and moved on. But her brows were furrowed. She walked the perimeter twice more than needed.
When she passed Aleron's cradle later that afternoon, she paused.
Just for a moment.
Her gaze lingered. Then she looked at Corvin, who sat nearby drawing in the dirt with a stick—strange spirals and flame-like patterns.
"You're quite the artist," she said softly. Corvin didn't reply.
She tapped her pen to her lip, then turned and walked away.
That evening, Rina sat outside under the stars.
Aleron rested inside, wrapped in soft blankets, chest rising steadily. Corvin had finally fallen asleep, curled beside him like a watchful pup.
Rina sipped from a chipped cup and stared at the horizon.
"Too much magic in this world," she whispered. "Too much that can't be explained."
She thought of her own path, of the roads she hadn't walked yet—the secrets she still needed to uncover. She had her own mission. But this village... this boy...
She would protect him, no matter how strange things became.
Inside the quiet of Aleron's mind, the stars stirred again.
[Stasis Progress: 2 Years, 11 Months Remaining...]
[Spell Proficiency: Ember Spark – 78%]
[Partial System Access: Enabled for High-Stress Scenarios]
He was dreaming again.
Light filtered through trees that did not exist. Winds whispered in languages forgotten by time.
And then—
A voice.
Soft, distant.
"...Aleron..."
It was Corvin's.
Faint. Calling through the veil.
He couldn't answer.
But he heard it.
And he smiled.
The stars pulsed gently in time with his breath.
And the world kept turning.