A year and a half passed like a quiet breath.
Whistlehollow remained peaceful, untouched by the tensions rising in nearby regions. Though news drifted in through travelers and merchants—tales of shifting borders, rebellious cities, and a throne once thought empty now echoing with whispers again—the small village stayed simple, hidden in its valley cradle.
Aleron remained quiet.
At least, that's what most believed.
There were moments—fleeting and strange—when he would suddenly laugh during supper, or grumble when Corvin teased him, or whisper something under his breath that no child his age should know. Once, Eira claimed he called her a walking turnip.
"I swear he did!" she told Corvin, eyes wide. "He looked at me."
Corvin only smiled. He'd seen more. In quiet hours, Aleron would sit up in his crib, trace strange symbols in the air, and chuckle at dreams only he understood. Sometimes he'd listen—really listen—as if the world whispered back. Other times he would stare into a candle's flame, expressionless, until Corvin gently turned him away.
"He's not asleep," Corvin said one day. "He's just... not all here."
Eira narrowed her eyes. "Like a ghost?"
"Like a sun that hasn't risen yet."
He was there, but only in pieces.
Corvin had grown taller, calmer. His connection to his blessing deepened in secret ways. He didn't speak to animals, not directly—but he no longer had to. They understood him. Even the wind seemed to shift around his words. Children followed him without question. Dogs refused to bark when he walked by. Sometimes, when someone cried, he simply stood near them—and the tears stopped.
Eira, on the other hand, had become the village's small storm. She climbed trees, jumped from roofs, and had broken three practice swords by the end of the last harvest. She was fierce, protective, and occasionally reckless.
"She's got something in her blood," the blacksmith muttered once. "She moves like fire looking for fuel."
She protected Aleron and Corvin fiercely. When a bully from a nearby farm mocked Aleron for being "a broken doll," she kicked him into the mud.
"I dare you to say that again," she growled.
He didn't.
When she wasn't brawling or climbing, Eira could often be found near Aleron, poking at him with a stick or daring him to blink. "If you talk today," she said once, "I'll give you half my bread. Deal?"
Aleron didn't move.
"Rude," she grumbled, and took a bite of bread anyway.
That winter, a trader brought tales from the capital. He spoke of Velmora's banners seen again along the coast. Of a man claiming to be of royal blood stepping from exile. Of tensions in the western isles where monstrous creatures had begun to stir.
Rina listened in silence. Her hand never left the hilt of her hidden dagger.
"Velmora's embers reignite," the trader said. "Old blood moves. The stars shift."
That night, she watched the sky until dawn. When Corvin asked her what she saw, she simply said, "Clouds that refuse to break."
But her knuckles were white around her tea cup the next morning.
In the stasis realm, Aleron stood before a silver gate.
God's Whisper flickered gently beside him like a hovering scroll.
[Stasis Duration Nearly Complete]
[Final Pulse Challenge – Internal Mana Flow Stabilization]
He had learned much. Trained deeply. Formed spells from theory and memory and invention. He'd fought illusions and navigated ancient libraries of thought. Nyx had appeared once or twice—always upside-down—making jokes about overcooked stars and unfinished tea.
But now... now it was time.
Aleron looked back. He saw memories—Corvin's laughter, Eira's sharp voice, Rina's quiet strength. He saw the village. He saw peace.
He felt the pull of the world.
"I'm ready," he whispered.
The gate opened.
In the Hale home, the fire had long gone out.
Corvin stirred in his sleep, jolting upright at the sudden stillness in the air. It was as if the house had paused to breathe.
Across the room, a soft light pulsed from Aleron's blanket.
He blinked, sat up, and rubbed his eyes.
"Aleron?"
The boy in the cradle stirred.
Then, slowly, he sat up.
His eyes opened—not dazed, not empty.
Aware.
He looked at Corvin.
Then at Eira, who was beginning to grumble awake under her blanket.
"Hi," Aleron said, voice quiet but clear.
Corvin stared, stunned. The blanket slipped from his hands.
Eira sat up groggily, hair a mess. "Did... the dumdum just talk?"
Aleron smirked.
"Finally."