FEW MINUITES BEFORE BIRTH
Ok.... being killed was never part of Ezra's to plan to becoming the most famous and well respected runesmith, maybe that was something a bit far off but at least he was getting there along the line he may have dabbled in some illegal trade that may have put a target on his back, but which successful person hasn't at least done something illegal????.
Anyway, here he is floating through darkness until he sees a light he isn't sure is behind him or in front of him
Then seeing some runes that even he couldn't hope of having the possibility of deciphiring being bound to him defiantly sent some shivers in his spine he wasn't sure was present in his current form.
PRESENT
"Ezra," she murmured. Her lips brushed the crown of his head, sticky with sweat and curls. "Ezra Heartstone. Our little teardrop."
Ezra didn't understand the words, not really—but the name vibrated through him. Familiar. True. A tether to both lives.
Roana wept, and not quietly.
Tears spilled freely, soaking into Ezra's swaddling blanket. "You came late," she laughed through her sobs, "but worth every hour. You stubborn little thing."
Bram crouched beside them, resting one hand on Roana's back, the other gently brushing Ezra's cheek with a thick thumb. "He's strong," he said, voice low and rough. "Loud too."
Roana sniffled. "Like someone I know."
"I wasn't that loud," Bram grinned.
"You were born during a lightning storm. You roared, Bram."
They laughed, tired and free. The kind of laughter shared only by people who had survived something.
Ezra's small eyes fluttered open. Just for a moment. His gaze was unfocused, the firelight refracting in the newborn gloss of his pupils.
And in that moment, both Roana and Bram fell quiet.
"He's watching us," Bram said.
Roana nodded slowly. "Or trying to."
Ezra didn't blink. Couldn't. His mind—a mixture of newborn instinct and an echoing past—drifted. They didn't look like anyone he remembered. No uniforms. No badges. No war.
No one here was trying to use him.
Roana held him closer, tucking him against her chest where her heartbeat was strongest. Ezra felt it again. That rhythm. That sound of living.
"He's warm," she whispered. "He's really ours."
They stayed like that for a while—wrapped in a hush only new parents know. The room smelled of herbs, blood, and firewood. The midwife had long since stepped out, leaving the family to their moment. Outside, snow fell thick and soft.
Through the window, a crescent moon peeked between clouds.
Somewhere far beyond that moon, something ancient stirred.
Unseen, four figures scattered across distant lands all paused—simultaneously. Each one held a strange, rune-etched bell. They didn't speak. Didn't see each other. But they all felt it. A ripple. A pulse in the very fabric of the world.
And then it passed. Like a dream you can't recall.
They returned to their lives, unaware that the fifth bell had just been born.
Back in the cottage, Bram had climbed into the bed beside Roana, arms wrapped around his family. The fire cracked. The snow whispered against the windows. And for the first time in probably long time, Ezra slept without concern.