The leather bindings were retied, but nothing was the same. The cord around Corvin's wrists was no longer a mark of shameful captivity, but a self-imposed vow. A reminder of a threshold not yet crossed. He had returned from the mountain a man who had glimpsed a fundamental truth: that true power did not always roar; sometimes, it hummed.
His work continued, but the quality of his silence changed. It was no longer the stubborn silence of defiance, but the focused silence of a man listening. He observed the Aethelburgers with an intensity that was no longer predatory, but analytical. He watched how a song could synchronize a team lifting a heavy log, easing the strain. He saw how a discordant argument between neighbors was resolved not with shouted ultimatums, but with a shared cup of tea and a murmured conversation, often mediated by Elara or a respected elder. He saw strength in flexibility, power in patience.
