Though the light had returned, the village bore scars that could not be hidden. The huts were fewer, the boats damaged, and the fields covered in ash. Hunger still lingered, and the people's strength was thin.
Yet there was resilience in their hands. Mothers wove new mats, fathers rebuilt walls, children carried water from the river. Each task was done with quiet determination, as if the storm, the fire, and the mountain had taught them endurance.
But not all hearts were at peace. Dario watched from the edge of the square, bitterness in his eyes. "She saved us, yes," he muttered to himself. "But she makes us weak. We depend on her too much."
He spoke to a few villagers in hushed tones. "What if she is wrong next time? What if her whispers fail? Will we follow her blindly into ruin?"
The seeds of doubt began to stir again.
Lira felt it. She walked through the village, thumb tucked in her mouth, listening. The wind whispered faintly: Shadows remain. Trust will be tested. Be strong.
She looked at the villagers, their faces weary but hopeful, and she knew the battle was not only against storms or fire—it was against doubt itself.
That night, as the stars glittered faintly above the ash-stained land, Lira whispered to herself: "Silence must be stronger than fear."
And the wind answered: Yes.