The Hearthstone cottage smelled of woodsmoke and herbs. A week had passed since Ezra's birth, and already the rhythm of the household had shifted to make room for him.
Roana rarely let him out of her wight for long. Even when she laid him in the woven cradle by the fire, her eyes lingered, always watching. Every stir, every sound pulled her attention, only to see the most adorable little ball of flesh . She hummed and sang sometimes stopping to tend the fire to keep him warm while rocking gently, soft old lullabies sung in the dialect of the Vale. The kind of songs that she remembered her parents singing to her and stitched them into the history of a family.
Ezra listened. Even though he didn't understand a single word
Sometimes when Roana would look at him she would see a hint of intelligence, like a little sparkle in his eyes that she came to find cute .
Ezra hated himself the way his entire supposedly genius mind succombed to this tiny weak vessel!!!
His tiny body demanded sleep, food, warmth. But behind the haze of instinct, his mind that remembered a death he had no choice over was awake. It made everything sharper. More unbearable. More annoying.
Roana smiled at him the way only mothers did, with patience that had no edge. She brushed his cheek with her finger, whispering, "There you are. Always looking at me with those eyes. Like you're trying to read me."
Ezra blinked. Slowly. Carefully.
She laughed at that, leaning down to kiss his brow. "You'll be clever, won't you? Just like your father."
Bram entered then, shoulders dusted with snow, boots clumping on the floorboards. He carried a basket of kindling under one arm, and his other hand clutched a string of wild herbs tied together. His voice filled the cottage before he did.
"How's our little lion today?"
"As restless as you," Roana teased, adjusting Ezra in her arms.
Bram leaned over her shoulder to peek at the boy. Ezra's eyes followed him, steady and curious, far too deliberate for an infant. Bram chuckled. "Look at that. Staring me down already. You'll be a handful."
He pressed a kiss to Roana's hair, then brushed a knuckle across Ezra's small hand. Ezra's fingers twitched, wrapping weakly around it. That simple gesture—so natural, so instinctive—pulled a rare softness from Bram's face.
"He's strong," Bram said again, quieter this time. Pride warmed his voice. "Stronger than I expected."
Ezra tried to listen. He couldn't speak, couldn't understand them, couldn't reveal what churned inside. and the furstration of that ate him up inside
As evening fell, Roana settled into the rocker with Ezra, while Bram tended the fire. The flames crackled. The snow whispered. For the first time since his death, Ezra felt something unfamiliar to his old life of control and consequence:
Peace.
Yet, beneath it, something stirred. A pulse. A shadow of the golden rune that had wrapped his soul before birth.
He wasn't here by accident.
The bells hadn't rung for nothing.
The world was waiting.
And Ezra, swaddled in wool and love, waited with it.
Perfect — that's a strong emotional close for the "first week" scene. Since you want to continue from there, I suggest we extend Chapter Three by moving into the next day or so, still keeping the newborn atmosphere but gently expanding the sense of family, place, and Ezra's awareness.
Here's a continuation draft that follows naturally from your last lines:
The next morning dawned pale and quiet, the snow still heavy on the roofs and hedges of the Vale. Light leaked through the shutters in thin, golden slits. The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving the room in soft shadows. Ezra stirred first, a restless cry rising from the cradle. Roana was there instantly, as though she had never slept.
Her hands lifted him, practiced now, though still a little clumsy with his tiny weight. She hushed him, kissing the crown of his head. "Shh, my love. The sun's barely risen. Even the birds are still dreaming."
Ezra squirmed against her shoulder, the sharp ache of hunger twisting through him. His body's needs still ruled him like an iron chain, while silently cursing himself for his lack of control Roana laughed under her breath, settling into the chair by the fire as Bram stirred awake in the loft above.
"You've spoiled him already," Bram's voice rumbled sleepily as he climbed down the ladder. He rubbed a hand through his tousled dark hair.
Roana only raised a brow at him, smiling. "Spoiled? A babe can't be spoiled. He needs me, that's all."
"He'll have you dancing to his tunes very soon." Bram said in a playful tone as he bent to stir the fire back to life, coaxing it with practiced movements until the flames caught. Then he turned, catching sight of Ezra watching him intently. He paused. "Look at him. Like he understands every word."
The disconnect gnawed at Ezra. Still, there was something magnetic about the way his parents looked at him not with calculation, but with awe. With wonder. Something his old life had never offered him.
By mid-morning, Bram had gone out to tend the animals, leaving Roana with Ezra and the cottage's quiet. She wrapped him close in a wool blanket, carrying him outside to see the snow. The air was sharp, and her breath rose in little clouds.
"See this, Ezra?" she murmured, turning him so his tiny face peeked from the folds. "This is your home. White hills, black trees, sky like glass. You were born into beauty."
Ezra blinked at the glittering frost, dazzled by the way the light fractured across it. He couldn't name it yet, couldn't reach for the words, but the memory of knowing what he saw burned faintly in him.
Roana lowered her face to kiss his cheek. "And you were born to change it, I think. I feel it, when I look at you."
For a moment, Ezra's chest tightened. Her words brushed too close to the truth he could not explain. He was here for something more. Something that reached beyond the warmth of hearth and home.
When Bram returned, stamping the snow from his boots, Roana was laughing — a light, bubbling sound — as Ezra flailed his hands, fascinated by the snowflakes melting on his skin. Bram stopped in the doorway, watching them, his expression softening.
In that moment, the Hearthstone cottage felt less like wood and stone and more like the center of the world.