The Blackwood in midwinter was a world hushed and holy, its breath caught in veils of frost that draped the ancient trees like offerings to the Architect. The air was sharp, a crisp edge that nipped at my cheeks, yet it carried a purity that seemed to hum with the universe's quiet pulse. Snow dusted the ground, softening the forest's edges, and the branches above glittered with ice, catching the pale sunlight in fleeting, prismatic sparks. I was nine today, born in the chill of 1000 AC, or so the clan's reckoning marked it. Elara, half a year younger, was not yet eight, but she had declared with a fierce certainty that our birthdays should be one. "They're lonely alone," she'd said a week ago, her voice steady despite the flush on her cheeks, her hazel eyes alight with a warmth that pierced the cold. "We're like the sun and moon, Elias. We belong together." Her words had stirred something deep within me, a resonance I hadn't felt in my first life, cut short at seventeen by a shattering crash, nor in that false reality where I was a fleeting threat. Here, with Elara, I was something new—a boy, perhaps, learning to weave my heart with another's.
We had chosen a hollow for our work, a natural sanctuary cradled by the roots of an ancient oak, its trunk a broad shield against the wind's bite. A woven mat, dyed in the clan's muted greens and browns, softened the frozen earth beneath us, its fibers worn but warm with memory. A small fire crackled in a stone-ringed pit, its flames dancing low, casting a golden glow across Elara's face. Her breath puffed in soft clouds, her cheeks flushed with cold, and her eyes darted between me and the bundle of branches she'd gathered—pale, smooth wood, stripped bare by winter's relentless hand. She held them with a reverence that made my chest tighten, as if she sensed their potential before we'd even begun. My satchel rested beside me, the woven map she'd given me last year tucked within, its silver threads pulsing with her nascent aether, a gift that had shaken my carefully guarded heart. Today, we would create something together, something to bind us, to mark this midwinter as ours.
"What should we make?" Elara asked, her voice a clear note in the quiet, like a bell ringing through the frost. She shifted, tucking her legs beneath her, the branches balanced across her lap, her fingers tracing their smooth surfaces as if reading their secrets. "Something big, maybe? Or small, but… special?" Her brow furrowed, a familiar sign of her mind at work, and I felt a smile tug at my lips. She was younger, yes, but her heart was a flame, bright and unyielding, burning through the walls I'd built in the Duke's Keep, where I'd learned to hide my thoughts behind a child's mask.
I traced my fingers along the oak's frost-rimed root, feeling the faint hum of aether within its dormant core. The Blackwood was alive, even in winter, its energy a quiet thread woven into the Architect's design. "Something that lasts," I said, my voice low, steady, like the stream we'd walked months ago. "Something that speaks of us, of this moment, but also of the patterns that hold the world. A marker for our shared day." The idea felt right, a tangible vow to anchor the bond we'd forged since that vagrant attack, when my aether had chased the fear from her eyes. I glanced at her, catching the spark of excitement in her gaze, and added, "What do you think?"
Her eyes lit up, twin stars against the fire's glow, and her smile was a burst of warmth in the cold. "A carving," she said, her voice rising with conviction. "Like the clan's totems, but ours. Something we both make, so it's… us." She paused, her fingers tightening around a branch, then added, softer, "With aether, maybe? Like you showed me by the stream." Her words sent a quiet thrill through me, a memory of that sun-dappled afternoon when she'd first felt the aether's pulse in a stone. Her sensitivity was still fragile, a seedling reaching for light, but her eagerness was a fire I wanted to nurture, to shield from the shadows that loomed beyond the Blackwood—Valerius, the Montala Church, the unrest stirring in the kingdom.
"Yes," I said, nodding, my heart quickening. "A carving, infused with aether. Just enough to make it ours." I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, and met her gaze, searching for the shape of her thought. "What form should it take? Something simple, but true."
She tilted her head, chewing her lip, her breath catching in the cold air. "Spirals," she said at last, her voice firm, certain. "Two of them, locked together. Like the patterns you talk about, the ones that weave the world." Her hands moved, tracing invisible curves in the air, her fingers dancing with a grace that belied her age. "One for you, one for me. Together, always."
I stared at her, my breath hitching. Spirals—interlocking, endless, a perfect echo of the Architect's geometry, the patterns I'd seen since I was old enough to think, patterns I'd shared only with her in hushed whispers by the fire. She'd listened, not just with her ears but with her heart, weaving my truths into her own. "Spirals," I echoed, my voice thick with something I couldn't name—gratitude, perhaps, or something deeper. "Perfect."
We set to work, the cold fading in the heat of our purpose. I showed her how to choose the right branches—sturdy yet pliable, their grain smooth and alive under my fingers. She tested each one, her small hands careful, deliberate, and settled on a slender piece, pale as moonlight, that seemed to hum with potential. I chose another, slightly thicker, its bark peeling to reveal a creamy core, vibrant with the forest's quiet life. My knife, a gift from Elara's father, gleamed in the firelight as I guided her in shaping the wood. We worked slowly, our movements a quiet rhythm against the crackle of the fire, the distant hoot of a winter owl, the soft sigh of snow settling on the branches above. The spirals took shape under our hands, her cuts uneven but earnest, mine precise but patient, each stroke a silent conversation, a weaving of our hearts.
"Like this?" Elara asked, holding up her spiral, her eyes searching mine. The edges were rough, her hands still learning the knife's weight, but the shape was there, raw and honest, a reflection of her spirit. I nodded, showing her how to smooth the curves with a smaller blade, my fingers guiding hers without touching, a dance of trust and care. The Blackwood seemed to lean in, its energy a quiet witness to our work, and the fire's warmth wrapped us in a cocoon of light, holding the winter at bay.
As we carved, I spoke of the aether, my voice a steady thread for her to follow. "The wood isn't just wood," I said, my hands moving over my spiral, tracing its grain. "It's alive, part of the Architect's design. The aether flows through it, like it flows through us, connecting everything. When you carve, you're shaping its energy, its place in the pattern." I let a trickle of aether flow from my core, guiding it into my spiral—a faint warmth, a subtle hum that made the wood feel vibrant, alive. "Try it, Elara. Like the stone by the stream. Let your warmth flow, just a little."
She closed her eyes, her brow furrowing in that familiar way, her lips pressed tight with focus. Her hands gripped the spiral, her knuckles pale against the wood. For a long moment, there was only the fire's soft pop, the rustle of snow, and the rhythm of her breathing, steady and deep. I focused my own aether, letting it brush against hers, not to guide but to amplify, like a breeze stirring a flame. I felt her awareness stretch, fragile but fierce, reaching for the wood's hidden pulse, seeking the Architect's quiet song.
Then, a shimmer—faint, almost imperceptible—danced along her spiral. The wood warmed, not from the fire but from her, a soft glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. Elara's eyes snapped open, wide with wonder, her breath catching. "I did it!" she whispered, her voice trembling with awe. "Elias, I felt it! It's warm, but… different. Like it's singing, but not with sound." Her hands shook, not from cold but from the thrill of discovery, and her smile was a beacon, brighter than the fire, chasing away the winter's chill.
"You did," I said, my chest tight with a pride that felt new, raw. "You felt the aether, Elara. You're touching the Architect's design." I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of her spiral, feeling the faint echo of her energy—raw, unrefined, but unmistakably hers. It was a spark, a seedling of the power she'd one day wield, and I vowed to protect it, to nurture it as fiercely as I guarded my own.
We worked in silence for a time, the only sounds our knives against wood, the fire's gentle crackle, and the occasional whisper of the wind through the oak's branches. The spirals grew smoother, their curves more defined, until they were ready to join. I showed her how to fit them together, their edges locking with a soft click, a perfect union. "Like us," Elara said, her voice soft but certain, her eyes meeting mine, bright with something deeper than friendship, something that echoed the woven map she'd given me.
I nodded, my throat tight. "Exactly." I wove a cord of braided grass around the joined spirals, its fibers rough but strong, tying them as one. "Now, we make it ours." I placed my hands over the carving, and she mirrored me, her small palms pressing against mine, the wood caught between us. I let my aether flow, a gentle current that wove through the spirals, and urged her to do the same. "Don't force it," I murmured. "Just let it be you."
Her eyes closed, her face serene, and I felt it—a soft pulse, her aether mingling with mine. It was faint, a whisper against my own, but it was enough. The carving hummed, a quiet resonance that seemed to echo the Blackwood's heartbeat, a shared breath of energy that bound us to this moment, to each other. The spirals glowed faintly, not to the eye but to the soul, a testament to our vow, our shared path.
We hung the carving on a low branch of the oak, its spirals swaying gently in the wind, catching the firelight in soft glints. Elara leaned against me, her shoulder warm against my arm, her breath steady now. "Our birthday," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, heavy with meaning. "Every midwinter, we'll come back here. To this. To us."
I nodded, my heart full in a way I hadn't known was possible. "Every midwinter," I echoed, my voice thick. "No matter what." In my first life, I'd known no one like her, no one who saw the world as I did, who trusted me enough to share its hidden currents. In that false reality, I'd been alone, a threat to a system that feared my questions. But here, with Elara, I was home. The carving was more than wood and aether—it was a promise, a vow that whatever lay ahead—Valerius's schemes, the Montala Church's shadow, the unrest stirring in the kingdom—we'd face it together.
The wind stirred, carrying the scent of frost and pine, and the Blackwood hummed its quiet approval. The spirals swayed, their faint glow a beacon in the dark, a testament to our shared path. I looked at Elara, her face illuminated by the fire, and saw not just a girl, but a partner, a light I'd protect with everything I had. The Architect's design was vast, complex, but in this moment, it was simple: her, me, and the spirals we'd carved together, a vow woven in wood and spirit, a thread to hold us through the winters to come.