The road to Vareth was quiet that morning, its mist curling like smoke through the forested slopes. Sunlight bled softly over the horizon, gilding the leaves and the faint roofs of cottages below. It was the last name on Alaric's list—one final hope before the trail went cold for good.
His horse's hooves pressed into damp earth as he passed beneath the wooden arch of the village gate. The air smelled of dew, herbs, and distant woodsmoke—cleaner, gentler than anything in the capital. For a fleeting moment, he almost forgot his purpose. Almost.
A woman arranging herbs outside her home looked up as he approached.
"Good day," he greeted politely, his voice calm. "I'm searching for a herbalist. Someone skilled—perhaps well-known here?"
The woman tilted her head, studying the stranger's fine gloves and tired eyes. "Ah, you must mean Rion. He lives near the eastern slope. His shop's closed today, but you'll find it easily—just follow the path past the fields. His children are often playing there."
"Thank you," Alaric said, inclining his head before urging his horse forward.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed a young man unloading sacks near a cart—Thomas, a broad-shouldered beta who often helped at Rion's apothecary. The stranger's quiet authority and the faint glint of gold in his eyes sent a warning through Thomas's gut. That wasn't a wandering traveler. That man moved like a soldier—no, like a predator.
And someone needed to warn Rion.
The forest opened into a wide meadow bathed in pale sunlight. Wildflowers brushed at Alaric's boots as he dismounted, the air humming softly with bees and the rush of a nearby stream. It was peaceful here, untouched by the noise of courts and kingdoms.
Then he saw them.
Two children ran through the tall grass, laughter spilling bright and wild into the wind. They were twins—perhaps four years old—identical in height but distinct in spirit. One had dark hair and striking emerald eyes, sharp and observant even in play; the other, softer in demeanor, with his amber eyes that caught the light and laughter that rang like tiny chimes.
Something inside Alaric went still.
It was the emerald-eyed one who caught his attention first—the surety in his steps, the faint furrow in his brow, the quiet protectiveness in the way he reached for his brother's hand. Yet when the other twin turned, sunlight catching the curve of his cheek and the delicate droop of his lashes, Alaric's breath faltered.
That face. That expression.
It wasn't himself he saw reflected in that boy—it was Rin.
For a long moment, he stood there, motionless in the meadow, his heart thudding with a weight he could neither name nor deny. Could it truly be…?
If the boy resembled Rin, then… could this mean Rin was here? Living quietly in this place, married perhaps, with children of his own?
The idea hit harder than he expected. A faint ache stirred behind his ribs—half disbelief, half something heavier, more bitter.
He stepped forward slowly, careful not to startle them. "Good morning," he said gently. "I seem to be lost. I was told there's a herbalist nearby. Would either of you know where his house is?"
The older boy's green eyes narrowed slightly, cautious. "Why are you looking for him?"
Before Alaric could answer, the younger one piped up brightly, "You mean Papa?"
The word struck something deep inside him, so soft and sharp it almost hurt.
Papa.
Alaric managed a faint smile, crouching slightly to meet their eyes. "So he's your father? Then I'm fortunate to meet his sons."
The older boy took a small step forward, chin lifted. "We're not supposed to talk to strangers," he said seriously. His voice carried that hint of authority that didn't fit his age—a calm watchfulness that reminded Alaric faintly of someone else.
"But he's sick," the younger one whispered, frowning up at his brother. "Look at him. He looks tired. Papa always says we should help people who need it."
The older sighed, exasperation flickering in his eyes before he looked back to Alaric. "Fine. But only up to the house," he muttered. "Papa can decide."
Alaric inclined his head, tone soft with restrained amusement. "That's very wise of you. Lead the way, then."
The younger grinned, pleased, and tugged his brother's sleeve. "Come on! This way!"
They walked together through the winding meadow path. The older boy led with quiet assurance, keeping his little brother close and occasionally glancing back to make sure the stranger followed at a safe distance. The younger, meanwhile, hummed under his breath, skipping every few steps and stopping now and then to gather wildflowers.
"What's your name, mister?" he asked suddenly, tilting his head.
"Alaric," he answered before he could stop himself.
The boy wrinkled his nose. "That's hard. Can I call you Al?"
His brother shot him a look. "Don't ask that!"
Alaric chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. "It's all right. You may call me that if you wish."
Something about walking beside them—the easy laughter, the scent of wild herbs, the quiet rustle of grass—unraveled him. The world he'd known for years had been made of silence and duty; this, though fleeting, felt alive. Human.
After several turns, the trees parted, revealing a modest house nestled at the forest's edge. Herbs hung drying beneath the eaves, their scent drifting faintly through the air—mugwort, chamomile, and beneath them, a trace so familiar his chest tightened.
"There," the older said, pointing ahead. "That's Papa's house."
Alaric stopped, staring at the small home that seemed to pulse with a memory he wasn't ready to face.
The younger boy dashed ahead, calling out as he reached the open door, "Papa! We brought a patient! He looks tired!"
A figure moved within—quiet, graceful, and achingly familiar even in silhouette.
Alaric's hand closed around the lavender sprig still tucked in his coat, his heart echoing the child's call like a distant heartbeat.