The first thing Wade truly saw in this new life was light—not the sterile fluorescence of hospitals, but the soft flicker of firelight dancing against wooden walls.
His eyelids felt heavy, his limbs small and sluggish. Sounds came in soft bursts. The world was too large again. Everything was color and shape and warmth—but it wasn't empty. This place moved with life.
His vision slowly cleared.
A man leaned over him.
Massive shoulders. Soot dark skin, dusted with flecks of coal. A thick beard traced a square jaw. He looked like a blacksmith carved from stone—except for the smile.
Wade had never seen a smile like that.
Not aimed at him.
Not that warm. Not that proud.
The man's eyes were a rich, molten brown, glowing gently in the firelight as if they held embers of their own. His calloused hand reached down and cupped Wade's tiny head as though it were the most fragile thing in the world.
"Ah," the man said, voice thick with joy, rumbling from deep in his chest. "He's got his eyes open. Just like his sister—wide and stubborn."
Another voice answered—a woman's voice, soft and clear, with the grace of falling snow.
"Oh, look at him," she whispered. "He's beautiful."
Wade turned his tiny head, blinking upward.
And there she was.
She knelt beside the man, her silver hair falling over one shoulder like moonlight made silk. Her eyes caught his and held them—deep, luminous, and strange, colored somewhere between violet and green. She smiled, and Wade felt the entire room soften.
She was… impossibly beautiful.
Not in a model or magazine way. But in that ancient, unshakable way that made you believe some things deserved to exist. Her presence didn't demand attention—it invited it.
She reached out and picked him up with practiced tenderness, pressing his tiny body against her chest, wrapping him in her warmth. Her skin was soft, her heartbeat steady.
Wade clutched at her instinctively.
"Oh," she said, "he's strong."
"Of course he is," the man said, laughing. "He's ours."
Her smile brightened. "He'll be protected. Always."
Wade didn't understand their words—not fully—but he understood their meaning. It was written in their voices, in the way the man curled his large hand around his wife's back, in the way she cradled Wade like he was the single most precious thing she had ever touched.
A shadow darted past the firelight, and then another—a pair of children, barefoot, loud, laughing.
"Let us see!" one cried.
"He's awake? Is he awake?!"
Two faces appeared in Wade's line of sight.
The first was a boy, perhaps ten, with untamed dark hair and a toothy, too-wide grin. His cheeks were smudged with ash, his clothes wrinkled and torn at the knees. His eyes—flashing gold-orange like sparks—lit up when he saw Wade.
The boy immediately began babbling words Wade didn't understand, his hands fluttering like he wanted to poke the baby but knew better. Barely.
Beside him was a girl, two years younger, calm where the boy was chaos. Her hair was the same silver as the mother's, but cut short in a wild bob. Her eyes were sharper, more focused. She looked at Wade not like a toy, but like a mystery she already wanted to solve.
"His hands are so small," she said seriously.
"He's squishy," said the boy.
"Riven," the mother said in warning.
"I didn't touch him," the boy said—Riven, apparently—"I just looked!"
The girl smirked. "You're going to scare him."
"I am welcoming him," Riven declared, puffing his chest out. "Little brother, listen up. I'm the strongest in this house. You wanna survive? Stick with me."
"He has Earth's arms around him and Fire watching his back," the mother murmured, smiling. "What more could he need?"
Wade was still trying to comprehend any of it. His head was spinning, his eyes drooping. The exhaustion of rebirth crept in, but for the first time in either life, he fought to stay awake.
He wanted to see them again.
He wanted to remember this.
Later—days or maybe weeks—he came to understand them.
Their names were Theren and Mira.
His father, Theren, was a fire wielder by trade and a woodsman by necessity. He was strong and broad shouldered, the kind of man whose presence could stop arguments and whose laughter could fill a house. He looked like he could break a tree in half, but his hands were always gentle when they touched his children.
His mother, Mira, had Earth magic in her blood and starlight in her eyes. She could coax vegetables out of dry soil and whisper old songs to help babies sleep. She spoke softly but never without weight—like someone whose words were chosen as carefully as stones for a foundation.
They told him his name was Wade. They gave it to him not because of meaning or tradition, but because they liked the way it sounded when said with love.
And no matter what he lacked—no matter what he would lack—they gave him that love freely.
When Riven scorched a fence by accident, they clapped.
When Lira learned to hover two inches off the ground, they cried.
When Wade reached for a spoon with trembling hands, they called it magic.
When he failed to summon a spark of power on his seventh birthday, they pulled him close and said, "You don't need it."
They never looked disappointed. Never looked afraid. Not even once.
Even when the world whispered behind them, "The boy has no magic."
Even when other parents urged caution—"Some are born broken."
Theren would put an arm around Wade and smile with all his teeth. Mira would kiss his forehead and say, "He's not broken. He's just waiting."
They loved him like he was still the most important thing in the world.
And so, even without fire or wind, lightning or stone…
Wade smiled, and thought, Maybe this is what it means to be alive.
On quiet nights, Wade would lie between them by the fire, tucked beneath wool blankets, the scent of lavender and smoke clinging to the fabric. Mira hummed lullabies older than the stars. Theren's hand rested gently on Wade's chest, as if anchoring him there—reminding him this time, no one was leaving.