The dawn came quietly, almost cruelly quiet.
Oisla woke to the ache in his legs, the sting of scratches along his arms, and the pounding in his head that had not left since the night before. Beside him, Gable lay curled in the dirt, his thin frame shivering, his face blotched from tears that had dried unevenly in the night.
The world felt heavy. Not just on Oisla's shoulders, but in the very air. The smell of smoke still clung to him, though the fires of Baibars lay far behind. Every breath carried the taste of ash.
For a moment, he wished it had all been a nightmare. But when he looked at his hands, the grime and dried blood told him it was not. His father's voice echoed faintly in his ears—Run. Live.
He pulled his knees to his chest, watching the horizon blush pale with morning light. Somewhere out there, his mother and grandmother were supposed to be safe. But what did safe even mean now?
Gable stirred beside him, coughing softly. His eyes opened, red and swollen. He blinked at Oisla, and for a while neither said a word. Words felt like stones they had no strength to lift.
At last, Oisla broke the silence. "We… we should move."
Gable only nodded. His face was blank, too hollow for someone so young, but his hand reached for Oisla's, and Oisla gripped it without hesitation. The warmth of another palm, however small, was enough to keep them walking.
The forest thinned as they moved, revealing a narrow path scattered with leaves. Birds sang overhead, as if mocking them with their careless joy. The boys trudged on, each step a battle against the fatigue dragging at their limbs.
And then Oisla froze.
Ahead, near the bend of the path, stood a figure—stooped, leaning heavily on a stick, her white hair tumbling in loose braids.
"Grandma…" Oisla's voice broke into a whisper.
Mara turned at the sound. Her eyes, sharp even beneath the folds of age, widened. For a heartbeat, she did not move, as if afraid the vision would vanish if she reached for it. Then she dropped her stick and stumbled forward.
"Oisla! My boy!"
Oisla ran. His legs gave out before he even reached her, but she caught him in her arms, pulling him tight against her chest. He buried his face into the folds of her shawl, breathing in the scent of smoke and lavender, the only anchor he had left to the life that was gone.
"I thought—" His voice cracked. "I thought I'd never see you again."
"Hush, hush," Mara whispered, her hand stroking the back of his head. Her own voice shook, though she tried to steady it. "I told you, didn't I? I told you I'd see you before you grew taller. The gods aren't cruel enough to break that promise yet."
Gable stood a few paces back, staring at them with wide, lost eyes. Mara noticed him and opened her arms. "And who's this soul, looking as though the world's ended?"
Oisla pulled away just enough to answer. "Gable. He… his father—" His throat closed, but Mara's eyes softened with understanding.
"Then he's ours now," she said simply. "Come here, child."
Gable hesitated, but when Mara wrapped her arms around him, he collapsed into her embrace, sobs shaking his body. Mara held them both, her strength more than her frail frame should have allowed. In that moment, Oisla almost believed the world might heal again.
When at last they broke apart, Oisla noticed two men standing just behind Mara. They were strangers, though their presence seemed grounded, as though they belonged here by the river's edge.
"This here is Xinon," Mara said, nodding to the taller of the two, a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and scars tracing his arms like rivers. "And that's Jim-Yok," she continued, gesturing to the shorter man whose lean frame and sharp features gave him the look of someone always listening, always ready.
"They were with me when the cart turned off the road. We lost the others, but we found each other. And now we've found you."
Xinon inclined his head. "You're Dael's boy, aren't you? You have his look. Strong jaw. Stronger spirit."
Oisla lowered his gaze, shame prickling his chest. "He's gone."
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the murmur of the river nearby.
Jim-Yok finally spoke, his voice low. "Then you'll carry him forward. That's what sons are for."
They made their way down to the riverbank together, the ground soft beneath their feet, the air cooler here. The water glittered in the morning light, rippling gently over stones worn smooth by time.
For the first time since Baibars fell, Oisla felt the urge to breathe deep. The river smelled clean, untainted by smoke or blood.
Xinon set down a bundle he carried, unwrapping it to reveal a small catch of fish glistening silver in the sun. "Not much, but enough," he said.
Jim-Yok crouched near the stones, gathering dry branches. "Firewood's easy to find this close to the bank. Let's eat while we still can."
Mara guided Oisla and Gable to sit with her beneath a low tree whose roots curled into the water. She stroked their hair, humming softly—a tune Oisla remembered from his childhood, when storms had scared him and his mother had not been near.
The fire crackled soon after, flames licking gently at the wood. The fish hissed as Xinon laid them over the heat, their skin blistering, the smell rising sharp and savory. For a while, no one spoke. The river's voice filled the silence, and for the first time in days, the silence was not cruel.
Oisla leaned against his grandmother's shoulder, his eyes half-closed. Beside him, Gable sat quiet, staring into the fire as though trying to memorize its warmth.
Mara's voice broke the stillness, soft but steady. "We've lost much. More than words can hold. But we still have each other. And as long as we share fire, food, and memory, we are not lost."
Her words sank into Oisla's heart like stones into deep water. He did not fully understand them yet, but he felt their weight. He felt their truth.
By the time the fish was ready, the sun had climbed higher, painting the river gold. They ate in silence, each bite simple but grounding, each swallow a reminder that they were still alive.
Oisla chewed slowly, staring at the fire, then at the water beyond. He thought of his father, of the house now gone, of the village that once had been his whole world. He thought of what Mara had said—we are not lost.
And though grief still sat heavy in his chest, though fear still coiled in his stomach, he let himself lean into the warmth of the moment. The fire, the river, his grandmother's hand resting on his back.
For the first time since the night of screams, Oisla Faverish allowed himself to hope—if only for the space of a meal by the river's breath.