The forest deepened around them, shadows coiling beneath the trees like sleeping beasts. Gale circled ahead, wings whispering through the cold air. Bramble's stride was steady, each step a quiet drumbeat on the earth.
Alira leaned weakly against him, her breathing soft and slow.
For a while, the only sounds were hoofbeats and the distant crackle of fire dying behind them.
Then—
something shifted.
A cold ripple washed through the night.
A presence.
Soft. Ancient.
Like a woman's voice whispering from behind the trees.
Come.
Kael's eyes fluttered as the forest blurred at the edges.
The moon smeared into a pale streak of light.
His grip on the reins loosened.
"Kael?" Alira whispered, sensing his body sag.
The world tilted.
Bramble snorted sharply.
Kael slipped sideways out of the saddle, falling hard onto the earth.
"Kael!" Alira cried, voice cracking. She reached for him, hands trembling. "Kael!?"
But he didn't hear her.
The cold rush swallowed him whole—
—and the forest vanished.
He was no longer on the ground.
No longer in the saddle.
Nowhere that made sense.
He stood in the old training hall.
Except… he wasn't standing at all.
He was watching.
A small boy sat cross-legged on the polished stone floor, jaw clenched, elbows trembling, sunlight turning drifting dust-motes into floating sparks. The hall was exactly as Kael remembered it—wide pillars, warm air, the faint scent of old spellbooks and polished wood.
But Kael wasn't that little boy anymore.
He wasn't the one sitting on the floor.
He was the man standing beside him—
watching his younger self, untouched by scars or fire or failure.
And though Kael had no body here…
he still felt the weight of seeing the boy he used to be.
A distant part of him knew this was wrong.
He had no body.
No weight.
Only vision.
The whisper curled around him again, soft as silk.
"Look. Remember."
The boy sat very, very still—
or at least, pretended to.
And opposite him stood Oric Vaelaris.
High Elf. Ageless. Beautiful in a way reality had no right to allow.
He looked exactly as Kael remembered: white-gold hair cascading to his waist, layered robes that fluttered despite the still air, eyes full of ancient amusement.
Oric sighed, dramatic and fond.
"You're clenching your teeth again, little lord."
The boy's mouth popped open immediately.
"S-Sorry, Master Oric."
Kael—older Kael—felt something twist in his chest.
He had forgotten how small he once was.
How desperately he wanted to impress this elf.
"My dear boy," Oric murmured, crouching gracefully, "there's no need to apologize. I simply need you to stop grinding your teeth like a goblin gnawing on a rock."
The boy flushed crimson.
"I'm trying. It's just… it's really hard to control."
"Of course it is."
Oric tapped the boy's chin with one elegant finger.
"Your magic is waking. Magic is dramatic when it wakes — loud, emotional, and entirely too fond of setting your sleeves on fire."
The boy winced.
"…Should I be scared?"
"Only if you insist on panicking."
Oric smiled—radiant, mischievous, impossibly kind.
"Now sit straighter. Breathe. Pretend to be calm even if you aren't. That is half of magic."
The boy inhaled shakily.
Older Kael found himself stepping closer without truly moving.
He wanted to reach out.
Tell the child version of himself he remembers this day.
Tell him everything will go wrong and right and wrong again.
But the whisper pulled at him:
"Watch."
Oric's voice softened, became almost ancient.
"Mana is not a beast to fight. Not an order to shout. Invite it. Gently. Like a guest you wish to stay."
Two slender fingers touched the boy's chest.
"If you force it, it flees. If you fear it, it hides. But when you welcome it…"
His smile softened.
"…it listens."
The boy closed his eyes.
He breathed.
He waited.
Then—
something brushed his fingertips.
Soft. Cool.
Alive.
His eyes flew open.
"I—I can feel it! Master, I really feel it!"
Oric's eyes sparkled.
"Well done," he whispered, clapping his hands lightly. "If I applauded properly, it might scare the poor thing away."
The boy straightened, excitement trembling through him.
"Does this mean I can learn smiting magic now?!"
Oric's expression became beautifully, painfully strained.
"And serenity lasted a mighty three seconds."
"What?"
"Explosions must wait," Oric said solemnly. "You have not yet mastered keeping your sleeves unburned."
"That was one time!"
"It was three."
The boy groaned.
"So… healing practice again?"
"But of course."
Oric pressed a hand to his heart in mock despair.
"If I teach you fire spells first, you'll burn down this hall, the manor, the hillside, and half the countryside. I prefer my scenery uncharred."
The boy slumped, shoulders drooping dramatically.
He muttered under his breath,
"…Why are we even starting with this?"
Oric lifted an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
The boy brightened suddenly—far too confident for someone who had nearly set the hall on fire three times.
"Well… once I grow a little more, I won't need training, right?" he said, straightening with newfound pride.
"I'm a lord's son. We're blessed with divine magic. All I have to do is take an oath, and boom—"
He snapped his fingers.
"Everything unlocks. Magic grows on its own. Right?"
Older Kael winced.
Oric stared at the boy.
Then stared harder.
Then pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose like a man struck by a particularly violent headache.
"Oh stars," he breathed. "They told you that version."
The boy blinked, confused.
"…That version?"
Oric lowered his hand, expression hovering somewhere between disbelief and gentle pity.
"The version told to noble children when their parents do not wish to explain effort."
The boy frowned. "But… but everyone says we're gifted! That we're blessed with divine light. That our magic grows stronger automatically."
"Yes," Oric said dryly, "just like how gardens magically grow without watering, and swords sharpen themselves overnight."
The boy opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Oric sighed, sweeping a hand through his hair with unnecessary elegance.
"My dear little lord, being born with potential does not mean being born with mastery. Divine magic is not a toy waiting on a shelf. It is not something you unlock because of a surname."
"But—"
Oric held up a single finger.
The boy froze.
"In my three hundred and twelve years of life," Oric began, "I have met many noble children who believed magic would bloom the moment they hit a certain age."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Do you know what happened to them?"
The boy swallowed. "They became powerful?"
"They burst into tears," Oric said cheerfully.
"Because nothing happened."
Older Kael barked a silent laugh.
"You want divine magic?" Oric continued, standing tall again.
"Then learn to guide your mana. Learn to shape it. Discipline it. Invite it."
He tapped the boy's forehead lightly.
"Magic is a craft, little lord — not an inheritance."
The boy's confidence wavered.
"So… taking an oath doesn't give us power?"
"It gives you poetry," Oric said. "And perhaps a ceremony with flowers."
The boy's shoulders sank.
"But magic," Oric murmured, touching the boy's chest again,
"comes from here.
From you.
Not your bloodline.
Not your name.
You."
The child stared at him, eyes round, pride melting into something quieter, more uncertain.
More humble.
"Then… I have to work for it?"
"Yes," Oric said brightly.
"Isn't that wonderful? You will earn your strength. Not borrow it."
The boy hesitated.
"…But what if I'm not strong enough?"
Oric's expression softened instantly.
Oric's words lingered in the warm air of the hall.
"Little lord," he whispered, thumb brushing the boy's cheek, "you are more than strong enough."
The child breathed in sharply, eyes shining with hope he didn't yet know how to hold.
And then—
A voice rose from behind him.
Low.
Tired.
Worn by years of sweat and blood.
"No, Master Oric."
The training hall dimmed.
Light bled at the edges.
The air wavered like heat over stone.
The boy didn't hear it.
But Oric—
Oric's head turned, eyes narrowing slightly… as if he sensed a tear in the memory.
The older Kael stepped closer, unseen, half-formed, as though the dream were struggling to contain him.
His voice cracked as it left his throat.
"I wasn't strong enough."
The child version of him smiled up at Oric, bright and hopeful, unaware of the shadow standing just beyond him.
"Not then."
The hall flickered.
The dust motes froze midair.
Oric's elegant fingers paused on the boy's cheek.
His gaze shifted—somewhere past the child, past the memory—
as though he could almost see the fractured, bleeding man watching him.
"…Who said you weren't?" he murmured, voice suddenly layered, echoing oddly, as if speaking to two versions of the same soul.
Older Kael's jaw tightened.
His hands curled into fists that didn't truly exist.
"I was weak."
His voice trembled with a bitterness too old for the hall around him.
"Weak, pathetic… I lost everything. I couldn't save anyone."
The training hall darkened, sunlight draining into gray.
The boy's smile froze, unaware.
Oric's expression softened—not with pity, but something deeper.
Something ancient.
Knowing.
A whisper curled through the space.
Not Oric's.
Not the child's.
Come back…
The woman's voice.
The one from the forest.
The one tugging at him.
The hall quivered like rippling glass.
Older Kael looked down at the child version of himself—the bright-eyed boy who believed magic would answer to him, who believed effort was optional, who believed heroes were unbreakable.
"That boy…" Kael whispered, voice trembling,
"…he didn't know he'd fail."
The hall flickered once.
Twice.
Then began to crumble.
And Oric's voice—gentle, patient, unbearably kind—cut through the collapsing memory:
"Strength is not born in children, little lord…
It is forged in men."
The training hall cracked like glass—
light splintering, voices fading, Oric's silhouette stretching into shadow—
—and then the world lurched.
Not a fall.
A tearing.
Kael's mind snapped back into his body like a whip returning to its handle.
Cold earth pressed against his spine.
His lungs seized as if he'd been underwater for too long.
Silver and black streaks swirled across his vision.
For one terrifying heartbeat, he didn't know where he was—
the training hall, the burning forest, the fire, the boy he used to be—
all twisting together like tangled threads.
"Kael!" a voice cried, soft and panicked.
"Kael, please—wake up!"
Hands shook his shoulders frantically.
Light footsteps shuffled beside him.
Something warm pressed against his cheek.
He blinked.
Alira hovered over him, eyes wide with fear, her trembling hands cupping his face. Moonlight made her look impossibly fragile—like one strong breeze would shatter her.
"Y-you weren't responding," she whispered, breath shaking. "You just… fell. I tried shaking you and calling you but— but you wouldn't wake up."
Kael exhaled slowly, grounding himself.
Shapes returned.
Sound returned.
The forest closed in around them again.
Bramble snorted anxiously nearby.
Gale circled above, letting out a sharp, worried cry.
"Hey…" he rasped, trying for a smirk but failing halfway.
"…princess… relax. I'm alive."
She let out a shaky breath—a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh.
"I-I'm not a princess," she whispered, voice trembling.
"But you weren't moving. I—I thought something horrible happened…"
Kael pushed himself up on his elbows. A wave of dizziness smashed into him so hard he nearly collapsed again.
Alira steadied him instantly.
"S-Slowly… please."
He blinked, breath ragged.
His mana felt drained.
His limbs heavy.
His heart still echoing with the ghost of Oric's voice and the sting of his own words.
He ran a hand over his face.
"Damn…," he muttered, forcing a slow exhale. "Guess I… overdid it."
Alira's brow creased.
"You're… exhausted?"
Kael huffed out a tired laugh.
"Yeah. Happens when you burn down a camp, carry a girl, outrun goblins, and get dragged into—"
He stopped himself abruptly.
"—into… nothing. Never mind."
Alira didn't push.
She simply knelt closer, keeping her hand gently on his arm as if afraid he'd fall again.
Kael inhaled slowly.
"We're stopping," he said finally, voice low, steady. "I'm not pushing further tonight."
Alira blinked. "S-Stop? Here? In the forest?"
Kael glanced around at the trees, the quiet, the distant rustle of leaves.
"Yeah. It's fine."
He forced himself to sit properly, though his arms shook.
"We'll make camp. Just for the night."
Alira bit her lip.
"Are… are you sure? I can keep going if you want. I don't want to slow you—"
Kael cut her off, lifting a hand weakly.
"Relax. I'm not doing this for you."
He gave her a crooked grin, tired but teasing.
"I'm doing it because I'm about ready to pass out. Can't have my new paycheck wandering off while I'm unconscious."
Alira's face flushed.
"I-I'm not a paycheck…"
He smirked faintly.
"…Not yet."
She puffed her cheeks—barely noticeable, but there—and looked away.
Kael dragged in another slow breath.
"Alright," he murmured, finally pushing himself to his feet with her help. "Let's make a camp. Somewhere close, somewhere hidden."
Alira nodded quickly and slipped under his arm again, steadying him even though she looked barely strong enough to support herself.
He snorted softly.
"Careful. If we both collapse, Bramble's gonna have to drag us."
She let out a tiny, embarrassed laugh.
Together, they moved slowly through the trees, Alira keeping a trembling hand on his arm as Kael searched for shelter. At last, he spotted a patch of ground nestled beneath a curve of thick roots and drooping branches — hidden enough to keep them unseen, open enough that they wouldn't stumble in the dark.
"…There," he murmured.
He half-guided, half-stumbled toward it, bracing himself against the trunk of an old oak. His legs finally gave out, and he let himself slide down the bark until he was seated on the cool earth. His breath came uneven, eyelids heavy with exhaustion.
"Gods…" he exhaled, head tipping back. "That's better."
Alira knelt beside him instantly.
"A-Are you feeling worse? Should I get water? Or—"
"Alira."
His voice was quiet but firm.
She froze.
"I'm fine."
A small exhale.
"I just need to rest. That's all."
She swallowed, hands knotting in her lap.
"Oh…"
Kael cracked one eye open, giving her a lazy, half-lidded look.
"Hey. Don't look so worried. I'll be back to normal by sunrise."
He smirked weakly.
"Hate to admit it, but I'm tougher than I look."
She stared at him for a long moment, then looked down shyly.
"I-I know."
Kael blinked.
"…What?"
"You're strong," she whispered, barely audible.
Her voice shrank to a whisper.
"And... I trust you."
Kael stared at her — genuinely thrown.
He had no quick remark.
No teasing.
No smirk.
Just quiet.
The forest wind rustled softly around them, cool and steady. Gale perched above them in the branches, feathers fluffing as he settled. Bramble lowered his head to graze nearby, snorting gently every so often in Kael's direction — as if checking he was still alive.
Kael let his head fall back against the tree with a soft thud.
"Alright…" he breathed, voice softer now. "Just a few hours. Then we hit the road."
Alira nodded, curling up on the grass beside him, close enough to feel safe but still shy enough to keep a small distance.
Kael shut his eyes.
"By midday," he murmured, drifting already, "we'll reach Fallowbrook."
Alira's breath caught in her throat.
"My village…"
"Mm."
Kael's voice faded into the wind.
"We'll see what's waiting there."
Silence settled between them — gentle, fragile, hopeful.
The forest watched over them.
The fire was long behind them.
The road ahead waited.
And with that quiet promise…
They rested.