The sun rose slowly, diffusing soft gold over the familiar rooftops of Kael's hometown, and the first rays warmed the windows of their home just enough to stir motion within. The aftermath of Kael's birthday celebration—one of the most joyfully chaotic days they'd had in years—lingered like the scent of sweet bread and candle wax. Streamers drooped, dishes piled on counters, and a few half-emptied mugs lay forgotten on the porch.
Kael stood in the middle of the main room, holding a crumpled ribbon in one hand and surveying the disarray. "Well," they murmured, "I guess that's the mark of a good party."
Rys entered from the back garden, brushing dirt from his palms after tending the herb pots Kael's mother had once loved. "Didn't think you'd be awake yet."
"I could say the same," Kael said with a tired smile.
"I figured I'd clean outside before it gets too hot." He stepped closer, then leaned against the doorway, watching Kael with the kind of calm fondness that had become second nature over the last year.
Together, they worked in near silence, the kind that spoke of comfort rather than awkwardness. Kael carefully gathered the stray decorations, folding the more salvageable ones. Rys handled the mess in the kitchen. Eventually, Kael's father joined in, humming tunelessly as he packed away leftover sweets and sorted through stacked plates.
It was a soft morning, steeped in the quiet ache that followed laughter and celebration. For all the happiness of the day before, there was still a faint hollowness in the air—like Kael's mother's absence had been just slightly more noticeable through all the cheer.
By midday, most of the home had been returned to order. Kael stepped outside for fresh air, walking barefoot across the sun-warmed stones of the porch, where a small wrapped bundle rested on the edge of the bench. Curious, they picked it up and found a folded note tucked under the string.
"Happy birthday. I didn't want to crowd the party. You already know how I feel about gatherings. But I'm proud of you. Stop by soon." —Sef
Kael's lips pulled into a crooked smile. The package held a charm—crude in design but clearly hand-carved—a polished wooden wolf with streaks of blue etched through its eyes. Sef had always been guarded but fiercely loyal in her own way. That she'd left something at all meant more than Kael could say aloud.
They sat down, the charm in their palm, when Rys wandered over with two mugs of tea. "Something from Sef?"
Kael nodded and passed the note over.
Rys read it, then chuckled softly. "She's getting soft."
"I wouldn't say that to her face."
"I'm not suicidal."
They shared a quiet laugh. The silence afterward was different this time. Not empty—more reflective.
"I've been thinking," Rys said, taking a sip from his mug. "Now that things are settled again... I might try for another rank."
Kael blinked. "You're going to start traveling again?"
"Not too far," Rys replied. "I still want to be here most days. But... I've been Branch for too long. I want to feel like I'm growing again."
Kael looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "I get it."
"You think I'm ready?"
"I think you've been ready. Just didn't want to push you."
Their gazes held for a moment too long. Then Rys looked down into his mug, swirling the dregs. "It's weird... I know we've talked about everything, all the possibilities with your curse and what that might mean for us... but I still catch myself hoping."
Kael didn't look away. "Me too."
It wasn't a romantic moment, not exactly. But it wasn't entirely platonic either. Somewhere in the strange space between friendship and uncertainty, they found peace in knowing they didn't need to rush what came next.
The minor event that would mark the day happened later that afternoon.
Kael received a letter from Mirek—unusual in that the older healer preferred face-to-face interaction whenever possible. Inside, along with congratulations and an invitation to visit, was a formal request from the local annex. Mirek had submitted Kael's new healing spell, along with their authorization, for inclusion in the annex's teaching library.
Kael reread the letter twice, stunned.
"They want to teach it?" Rys asked, peering over their shoulder.
"Looks like it," Kael said, fingers tightening around the parchment. "It would go into the apprentice-level training books. My name would be listed as the origin."
Rys's expression brightened. "That's huge."
"It is... and terrifying."
"You've been shaping magic that even old masters can't replicate," Rys said. "It was only a matter of time before word spread."
Kael nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of it. For all their effort in quiet practice, isolated refinement, and cautious experimentation, to see their work ripple outward into the broader world was a strange mix of pride and vulnerability.
They folded the letter carefully and placed it on the mantel.
As the sun lowered and the sky took on warm hues, Kael walked through the house once more. The ribbons were gone, the floors clean, the dishes drying on racks. The birthday had passed, and with it came the slow settling of everything that had changed over the last few years.
And yet, the feeling that lingered most was not the absence of what was lost—but the quiet strength of what remained.
---
The next two months passed in a quiet rhythm Kael hadn't realized they missed. There were no far-off cities or deadly ruins to comb through—just the comfort of home, and the steady beat of daily life. Kael still accepted the occasional mission, but they kept close to the town's outskirts, rarely taking jobs that pulled them away for more than a day or two.
Rys kept to a similar pattern. As a Branch-ranked adventurer, he had long focused on local tasks—escort duties, beast control, helping rebuild damaged farmland after a recent storm. He pushed himself more now, subtly but steadily edging toward the next rank. Kael noticed, even if Rys never boasted about it.
One bright morning near the midpoint of the second month, Kael returned from the guild annex with a letter. Rys was trimming the hedges, sleeves rolled up and hair damp with sweat. Kael stood on the porch, reading it once, then again, then tucking it away with a faint smile.
"What's that?" Rys asked.
"A letter," Kael said vaguely. "From someone I didn't expect to hear from."
Later that day, just after midday, a familiar voice rang out from the edge of the property.
"Still pretending you're retired, or are you actually retired now?"
Kael looked up sharply, already smiling. "Linelle."
The archer strode across the lawn with her usual swagger, her long braid streaked with gold and that ever-present spark of mischief in her eyes. She dropped her satchel just short of the porch and leaned against one of the support beams.
"You didn't mention you were back for good. Or at all."
"I didn't think I was," Kael said. "And I didn't know you still wrote letters."
"I don't," she shrugged. "Except to people who owe me drinks."
Kael laughed and stepped aside to let her in.
The two spent the afternoon catching up. Rys gave them space at first, but eventually wandered back in with a pitcher of cold juice and an arched brow. Linelle eyed him with mild amusement.
"Not bad," she said, when Kael made introductions. "Didn't expect you to have someone around full-time."
Kael blinked. "We're not—" Then paused. "Well, actually..."
"Mm. Thought so." Linelle grinned but said no more.
The rest of the day passed in easy conversation. They shared memories from the road—some funny, some sharp with the edges of danger. Linelle didn't stay the night, but she lingered past dusk, and before she left, she nudged Kael with a sly elbow.
"I don't know if this arrangement is forever, but it suits you," she said. "Don't mess it up."
Kael tilted their head. "Are you talking about home? Or...?"
"Yes," Linelle replied with a wink.
After she left, Rys and Kael found themselves sitting on the porch again, shoulders brushing.
"She's intense," Rys said.
"She's a hurricane," Kael agreed.
"Did you two ever...?"
"No," Kael said quickly. "It was never like that."
They sat in silence for a while longer. The crickets had begun their nightly chorus. Fireflies blinked lazily at the edge of the woods.
Kael finally added, "She helped me a lot, back when I didn't know which way was forward. That matters. But it's not what you and I have."
Rys gave a slow nod. "Good. I wasn't jealous. Just curious."
Kael smiled, resting their hand lightly over Rys's. "Even if she guessed, she doesn't know anything we haven't told her."
Rys smirked. "Well... I could always write her back and clarify. I do enjoy dramatic penmanship."
Kael nudged him with a laugh, and the night drifted on without pressure, full of unspoken things made easier by trust.
___
The days grew shorter. Crisp winds began to replace the lazy warmth of late summer, painting the edges of leaves in amber and gold. Two more months passed, and in that time, life shifted in subtle but undeniable ways.
Kael's focus remained on the nearby regions. While they didn't explicitly say they were avoiding long-distance missions, it was clear enough that they wanted to remain close to home—for Rys, for their father, and perhaps for themselves. For healing. For grounding.
They still worked through the guild, of course, accepting contracts that offered some challenge but never put them too far from the ones they cared about. One such contract—clearing a series of magically animated scarecrows terrorizing a farm—resulted in Kael spending nearly a full week with an old companion: Revi, a sharp-tongued swordmage who had once been paired with Kael for a two-week dungeon mapping expedition deep in the Midrim.
Revi had always had a flair for theatrics and a wardrobe to match. They met Kael at the farm wearing deep crimson robes stitched with silver thread and a spellblade strapped to each hip.
"You still smell like forest and bad decisions," Revi said as Kael approached.
Kael smiled. "And you still dress like a playhouse villain."
They embraced without hesitation, both glad to see a familiar face that had shared the grind and grit of adventuring life. The mission went smoothly enough—Revi's precision with blades and Kael's strategic spellwork made for an efficient pair—but what lingered was the time between: the quiet chats over firelight, the long silences that didn't need to be filled, and the occasional shared laughter that echoed deeper than expected.
It wasn't flirtatious. It wasn't quite platonic, either. There was a warmth to it, a familiarity built not on romance but shared weariness and mutual respect.
On the third evening, as they prepared dinner in the farmhouse kitchen the guild had arranged for them, Revi leaned against the counter and said, "You seem... softer. Not weaker—softer. Like the weight you used to carry isn't quite crushing you anymore."
Kael stirred the pot on the stove, thoughtful. "Some of it's still there. I just got better at sharing the weight."
Revi nodded. "The boy?"
Kael hesitated. "Yeah. Rys."
Revi didn't tease. "Good. You deserve something that's real."
Kael appreciated that. Not approval—Revi had never offered empty praise—but acknowledgment. A simple, honest affirmation that didn't ask for more than Kael was willing to give.
When they returned home, Kael found Rys mending a part of the fence with their father. Kael joined them without a word, sliding into the rhythm of the work, but later that night, Rys asked quietly, "Revi seemed... important to you."
Kael didn't deny it. "They are. But not like you are."
That was all it took. Rys didn't ask again. The trust remained.
As the days cooled further, Kael began spending more evenings indoors, working on spell design and refining a few of the subtler techniques they'd begun building earlier in the year. Rys would often sit beside them with a book or help cross-reference materials from the library annex in town. Sometimes, they spoke little. Other times, they talked until the candles burned low.
Kael's father, too, seemed to find his place in this quiet stretch. He took on more work at the carpentry guild again and began mentoring a few younger apprentices. He no longer hovered as he once did but always made sure Kael knew he was there—present, supportive, quietly proud.
Then, one particularly windy afternoon, a letter arrived from Mirek.
Kael read it aloud at the table. It was mostly mundane—a status update on Mirek's recent training projects, some notes on potion theory, and a side comment that he was still experimenting with Kael's rhymed healing incantation, now using it in his teachings for higher-level apprentices.
"Your spell's been making the rounds," Rys said as Kael folded the letter. "Do you think that's what you'll be known for someday? Healing magic?"
Kael looked down at their hands. "Maybe. Or maybe I'll just be known for surviving everything I shouldn't have."
Rys leaned over and bumped their shoulder. "Not alone, though."
Kael smiled.
The weeks melted on. As autumn edged closer to winter, preparations began quietly for a different kind of day—not a celebration, not something to be dressed up for. Just a day remembered, marked, honored. A day that would never be ordinary again.
___
The wind had teeth now.
By late autumn, frost crept across windows in the early mornings, and the sound of boots crunching through dried leaves became the backdrop to daily life. It was in these quiet days—short, sharp, and tinged with cold—that Kael felt the year beginning to fold in on itself.
The house had grown quieter, not with sorrow, but with calm. Rys still stayed often, though not every night. Kael's father gave them space without ever pulling away. And Kael themselves moved with more surety, even in silence. The ache was still there—would always be—but it no longer ruled the rhythm of their days.
Midway through the first of those last two months, a new letter arrived. This one was from Sef.
"Guess who's coming to visit," Kael said over tea one morning, holding the letter with a grin tugging at their lips.
"Let me guess," Rys said. "Someone with no regard for personal space?"
"Correct."
Sef arrived a week later, hair braided with copper rings, armor clinking despite the travel cloak tossed lazily over her shoulders. She wasted no time. The moment she stepped through the door, she dropped her bag, pulled Kael into a hug, and gave Rys a sly grin over Kael's shoulder.
"You treating them right?" she asked.
Rys, caught halfway between laughter and indignation, just nodded. "I try."
Kael rolled their eyes and stepped back. "You're incorrigible."
"Comes with being amazing," she replied.
The visit lasted three days, and though it was short, it left Kael lighter. They spent one evening sitting on the back porch, Sef describing the latest skirmishes in the Borderlands she'd helped suppress, while Kael filled her in on the quieter victories of home. Rys mostly listened, content to sit between them, occasionally tossing in a sarcastic comment that made them both laugh.
Before Sef left, she pulled Kael aside. "You look... at peace. I didn't think I'd ever see that again."
Kael nodded. "I didn't either. But I think I'm finally building something new."
Sef's smile softened. "Hold onto it. Whatever this is, whatever you're building—hold it close."
The morning she left, Kael gave her a folded note. "New healing spell I've been working on. Might come in handy."
Sef raised an eyebrow. "From the legendary Kael? I'll treasure it."
As her figure disappeared down the frostbitten road, Kael turned and found Rys watching them, hands in his coat pockets.
"She really does care about you," he said.
Kael gave a soft nod. "She's one of the few that stuck around when everything fell apart."
They stood together a moment, quiet, until Rys reached out and took Kael's hand. It was cold but steady.
As the days ticked by, Kael returned more frequently to the lake—the same spot where they'd once nearly drowned in their own grief, where they'd sat for hours in silence after the funeral. Now, it was a place of reflection rather than sorrow.
They'd sit with a journal in hand, sometimes sketching magical glyphs or experimenting with spell phrasing. The healing incantation that had already begun to gain traction in the wider magic community had inspired Kael to attempt other forms of lyrical magic. Some succeeded. Most fizzled. But the act of creating brought a kind of joy they hadn't expected.
Kael's father noticed the shift, though he didn't always say so. Instead, he helped build a covered bench by the lakeside—nothing extravagant, just a small place Kael could sit, shielded from wind and rain, when they came to think or write.
"You're more like her than you realize," he said one afternoon as they installed the final brace.
Kael turned to him. "I know. That's why I keep coming back here."
He smiled, eyes heavy with both sadness and pride. "She'd be proud of who you've become."
"I hope so."
"You don't have to hope."
As the anniversary drew closer, Rys began to cook more—meals Kael's mother used to make, or at least close renditions. They didn't speak much about what was coming. It was always there in the air between them, unspoken but understood.
Kael's father, too, began preparing in his own way—repairing the fence around the grave plot, cleaning up the small stone marker he'd carved by hand after the funeral, making sure everything looked as it should.
The night before the anniversary, Kael stood at the lake again, alone.
The moon hung low, pale against a starless sky. Kael breathed deeply, eyes closed, letting the wind press against them like a memory.
They didn't cry. Not this time.
But they whispered a thank-you, just loud enough for the wind to carry it.
For the strength. For the love. For everything.
___
The morning of the anniversary broke with gray skies and a cold mist that clung to the ground like a veil. The world felt quieter than usual, as if even the birds had chosen silence out of respect.
Kael rose early. Rys was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of tea and a small box wrapped in plain paper.
"I didn't know if today was one for gifts," he said softly, pushing the cup toward Kael. "But… it felt right."
Kael didn't respond at first. They simply sat down, wrapped their hands around the warm ceramic, and let the silence sit between them for a few breaths before unwrapping the box. Inside was a thin silver chain with a pendant shaped like a tree—delicate, almost translucent, with a small piece of polished obsidian embedded in the trunk.
"It's for remembering," Rys murmured. "Roots and shadows. Strength and pain."
Kael's fingers closed around the pendant. "It's perfect."
After breakfast, the two of them prepared a small basket of food—Kael's mother's favorite dishes, or as close as they could replicate—and carried it to the lake. Kael's father met them there, dressed in his formal cloak, hair tied back neatly despite the wind.
The grave was simple, untouched except for the cleaned stone and the new flowers Kael had planted a few days earlier. They stood together—Kael, Rys, and Kael's father—around the plot in silence for a long while, letting the breeze carry their memories like whispers.
Kael finally spoke.
"Two years," they said. "And I still hear her laugh when I cast a spell wrong."
Rys smiled, brushing a tear from his cheek. "She would've teased you endlessly."
"I would've deserved it."
Their father chuckled under his breath. "You did. But she'd also be the first to brag about everything you've done."
They laid out the food, not as a meal, but as an offering. A remembrance.
One by one, they each shared a story.
Kael's father spoke of the day they first met Kael's mother—how she corrected his sword form in the middle of a training match and made him fall in love and fall on his ass at the same time.
Rys talked about the way her presence filled a room even when she didn't say a word.
Kael said nothing for a long time. Then finally:
"She's the reason I survived. Not just because she protected me that day, but because even after she was gone, her strength stayed with me. Every day since… she's been the reason I kept moving."
The silence that followed was heavy. Sacred.
Afterwards, they packed up slowly and returned home. Kael spent the rest of the afternoon writing in their journal, occasionally glancing at the pendant around their neck.
Evening came, and with it, a quiet sense of closure. Not that the grief was gone—far from it—but it had taken a shape now. Something they could hold. Something that had made room for joy.
Rys returned just after sunset with a small bouquet of winter blossoms and a bottle of wine from the tavern. Kael raised an eyebrow.
"You know you're not great with wine."
"I know," Rys replied with a grin. "But I figured this was a night for things we're not great at."
They ate together by candlelight, the house quiet except for the occasional pop of the fire. They didn't talk about the past anymore. Instead, they shared dreams—half-serious musings about what the next few years might hold.
When the bottle was nearly empty and the candles had burned low, Rys reached across the table and took Kael's hand.
"No matter what happens," he said, "no matter who your fated mate turns out to be… I want you to know, I'm glad I've had this time with you."
Kael's expression softened. "So am I."
They leaned across the table, their lips meeting in a kiss—not desperate or searching, but quiet, reverent. It lingered with the taste of wine and memory.
When they pulled apart, Kael exhaled slowly.
"It wasn't the kind that breaks curses," they said quietly.
"No," Rys agreed, though his smile didn't falter. "But it was real."
Kael stood, rounding the table to wrap their arms around him.
"I love you," they whispered.
"I love you too."
They stayed there for a while, wrapped in warmth and silence, before retiring for the night. No tears. No regrets.
Only love, and the promise of another day.