For a long moment after Garrick’s footsteps fade, I just stand there in the doorway.

  Outside, the morning is still young. The light is thin, washed pale by a high, faint mist. Somewhere along the wall, a bell tolls the changing of the watch. Fallowspire exhales—merchants starting to shuffle their shutters open, a cart rattling faintly over cobblestone, a dog barking twice and then giving up on heroics.

  Behind me, the house breathes too.

  I can feel their eyes even before I turn.

  Aibell stands just a few steps away, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hair a tangle from sleep. Ciara sits propped against the far wall, Aine still half-curled in her lap, Eammon hovering near her knee. There’s a quiet dread in the room now, like the moment before thunder.

  The question sits between us, already asked by Garrick, already heard by them.

  What will you do?

  I close the door gently, shutting out the morning. The house dims again, lit only by the slant of light through the cracked shutter and the glow of low coals in the hearth.

  Aibell is the first to speak.

  “What did he want?” she asks, though her voice says she already knows.

  I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I move past them, set my pack on the table, and begin to check it. It’s a habit more than anything—a ritual to give my hands something to do when my thoughts are already too full.

  Waterskin.

  Dried roots.

  Spare bandage wrap.

  Flint.

  A handful of crushed leaves tied in a leather strip.

  Eammon’s small voice breaks the rustle of canvas.

  “You’re going.” he says. Not a question.

  I pause.

  Slowly, I look up.

  He stands there in his oversized tunic, fists balled, chin lifted in stubborn imitation of someone far older.

  Aibell shoots him a warning look, but she doesn’t retract the words for him.

  I straighten.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I say.

  Ciara’s eyes narrow, searching my face. She looks exhausted, but there is a sharpness in her gaze now that grief hasn’t dulled.

  “You have,” she murmurs. “You just haven’t said it out loud.”

  Aine stirs in her lap and she smooths the girl’s hair almost absently.

  “You think if you slip away before the day is fully awake, it will hurt less,” Ciara continues softly. “For us. Or for you. I don’t know which.”

  I let the pack’s flap fall closed.

  “You’re safer here,” I say. “The captain has offered you shelter. Healers. Food. A city with walls and soldiers that know how to use their blades. That’s more than most people get in times like these.”

  “And you?” Aibell asks.

  The question is simple. It lands like a stone dropped in a well.

  “I keep moving,” I answer. “That’s what I do. What I must do. When I stay too long in one place, bad things happen.”

  Eammon takes a step closer.

  “Bad… like Blackthorn?” he asks, voice small.

  I force myself not to look away.

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, the only sound is the faint crackle of coal shifting in the hearth.

  Aibell’s brows draw together, her jaw working as if she’s biting back words. Then she takes a breath and lets them come anyway.

  “Kaelen… you are not the one who burned Blackthorn,” she says, each word carefully measured. “You are the one who pulled Eammon out from under the timber. You are the one who carried Ciara through the fire. You are the one who fought those wolves so we could reach the gates.”

  “You’re also the one,” Ciara adds quietly, “who could have left us for dead. But didn’t.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s safe to stay with me,” I say.

  Aibell steps closer, her blanket falling slightly open, revealing the bruises along her wrist where she pulled at wreckage and clung to terrified children.

  “It doesn’t mean it’s safe to be anywhere,” she counters. “Blackthorn had simple folk, stout beams, a decent inn, crops that grew, and a priest who blessed the harvest. It still burned. My father still died.”

  Her voice tightens, but she pushes on.

  “You don’t get to decide which dangers we’re allowed to face.”

  I blink.

  That… unsettles something inside of me.

  “Aibell—”

  “No,” she says, and there’s a tremor in it now, but she doesn’t back down. “Listen for once. You talk like we are sacks to carry or stones to set down where you please. We’re not. We’re people. We’ve already chosen.”

  Eammon nods fiercely beside her.

  “We’re coming with you,” he declares. “Wherever you go.”

  Aine wakes at that, blinking up at her mother.

  “Go… where?” she whispers.

  Ciara’s arm tightens around her.

  “We’re not leaving,” I say, more sharply than I intend. “You’re not coming with me. The whole point of bringing you here was to put distance between you and the thing that follows me.”

  A silence falls at that.

  Heavy.

  Uncompromising.

  Ciara’s eyes glisten.

  “Do you truly think,” she says softly, “that we will be safe if you leave?”

  “You’ll be safer than if I stay,” I say. “The demon—”

  “We know about the demon,” Aibell cuts in. “We may not understand all of it, but we heard enough last night to know the shape of it.”

  She folds her arms over her chest.

  “You say it is drawn to the blade. You say drawing the blade is what calls it. So don’t draw it.”

  The simple logic makes something bitter twist in my chest.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It never is,” she agrees. “But you still managed not to draw it in Blackthorn. You managed not to draw it against the raiders on the road. You’ve been managing for years, you said so yourself.”

  Her gaze hardens.

  “When you say we’re safer without you, what you really mean is you’re tired of having to care if someone gets hurt when it comes. It was easier when it was just you, wasn’t it?”

  The words hit like a slap.

  My hand tightens involuntarily on Nemain’s hilt.

  The blade hums like a pleased viper.

  Sssshe hhhas yyyoou nnnamed.

  I let go at once, jaw clenched.

  “That’s not fair,” I say quietly.

  “Life hasn’t been fair for a long time,” Aibell replies, and the tremble in her voice now is not weakness—its anger being held in check. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost something? We all have. But we don’t get to run from each other because of it.”

  Ciara speaks again, softly. The rawness in her tone cuts deeper than any sharp edge.

  “My husband died screaming,” she says. “I won’t pretend to understand the weight you carry. But I do understand this, Kaelen—”

  She looks at Aine in her lap, then at Eammon, then at me.

  “—if you walk away now, you will be putting another grave in the ground. It just won’t be in the earth. It will be here.”

  She touches her chest.

  “In us.”

  Aine, not understanding, curls closer to her mother.

  Eammon wipes his nose on his sleeve in a harsh, angry gesture.

  “I hate the demon,” he declares suddenly, the words spilling out. “I hate it and I hate the sword and I hate that it makes you want to go away.”

  My throat closes.

  “That’s enough,” I murmur.

  He glares at me through damp lashes.

  “It’s not enough,” he insists. “You promised.”

  I blink.

  “When?” I ask.

  He looks almost offended I don’t remember.

  “In the fire,” he says. “You said you’d get us out. You did. But getting us out isn’t just dragging us through flames. It’s… it’s…” He struggles for the word. “…it’s after, too.”

  He looks at me with that small, bruised, stubborn face, and something inside me—something old and worn and deliberately walled-off—gives a reluctant, painful crack.

  I look away.

  The room is too small.

  The air is too full.

  “Kaelen,” Aibell says quietly. “You can leave, if you truly must. No one here has the right to chain you to this place. But don’t spit on what we survived together by pretending we’re nothing more than weight on your heels.”

  Her words are knives, but the wounds they open are not lethal—they are surgical.

  I let the silence hang.

  My heartbeat feels too loud.

  Nemain is warm at my side, silent now, as if even the blade is listening.

  Finally, I breathe.

  “I don’t know,” I say, and for once, it is not a mask or an escape. It is the plainest truth I have. “Everything in me says I should keep moving. That I should not… get attached. That I should not… collect more people to be buried when, this ends.”

  I look at each of them, one by one.

  Aine, blinking sleep from her eyes.

  Eammon, defiant.

  Ciara, hollowed but unbroken.

  Aibell, all sharp edges wrapped around a soft core she refuses to admit she has.

  “But…”

  The word feels heavy on my tongue.

  “…I cannot pretend you are just… strays I picked up on the road.”

  Eammon’s eyes brighten. Aibell’s shoulders drop a fraction. Ciara closes her eyes with a shudder.

  I sigh.

  “Give me time,” I say. “A little. I owe you that much. Let me think. Let me… find a way to make staying with you less of a death sentence.”

  Ciara’s brow furrows.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  I glance toward the east, beyond the cracked shutters. Beyond the house. Beyond the walls.

  To the abandoned garden.

  To the trembling sapling.

  To the faint, waking heartbeat of a grove.

  “I mean,” I say slowly, “that if I am to stand between you and what follows me, I need more than scars and a stubborn refusal to die.”

  I rest a hand lightly on Nemain’s hilt—not in invitation, not in threat, but in acknowledgment.

  “I need my strength back. The kind that doesn’t scream for blood.”

  Aibell studies me.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What I should have done years ago,” I answer. “I’m going to grow something.”

  Her eyes narrow, confused, but she doesn’t press.

  Instead, she nods—once, sharp.

  “How long?” she asks.

  “A few days,” I say. “Maybe more. I’m not sure yet.”

  Ciara looks between us.

  “And in that time?” she asks.

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  “In that time,” I say, forcing the words into the air, “I stay.”

  The room exhales as one.

  Aine relaxes against her mother. Eammon lets out a loud, unsteady breath he probably didn’t realize he was holding. Aibell closes her eyes, shoulders sagging just enough to betray how tightly she’d been braced.

  “You’re staying,” she repeats softly.

  “For now,” I say.

  She almost smiles.

  “For now is enough.”

  The decision hangs in the air long after I speak it.

  Not a grand vow.

  Not a sworn oath.

  Just three simple words:

  “I stay. For now.”

  But they shift the shape of the room all the same.

  Aine sags against her mother, already drifting back toward sleep. Eammon wipes his nose with his sleeve again, but this time there’s a small, stubborn smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ciara leans her head back against the wall, eyes closing for a heartbeat of exhausted relief.

  Aibell just watches me.

  She’s not smiling.

  But there’s a light in her eyes that wasn’t there before—something fierce, fragile, and frighteningly alive.

  I turn away before it can sink too deep.

  “Rest while you can,” I say. “The healers will be by again soon. I’ll speak with the captain.”

  Aibell’s brow creases.

  “About… what, exactly?”

  “About making sure I can protect you,” I say. “If I’m staying, I need certain things.”

  She doesn’t like the lack of detail; I can see it. But she nods anyway.

  “We’ll be here,” she murmurs. “Not going anywhere.”

  I believe her.

  Outside, the morning has thickened into proper day. The soft grey of dawn has given way to a pale, washed sky. Fallowspire is fully awake now—market stalls being dragged into place, hawkers calling their wares, the bitter-sweet smell of boiled grain and frying onions drifting on the air. Soldiers move along the walls with more purpose, armor catching the light in brief, bright flashes.

  I find Garrick near the inner gate, overseeing a rotation of guards. He stands with his arms folded, helm tucked under one elbow, watching two younger soldiers argue over the proper way to secure a shield strap.

  He senses me before I speak.

  “Druid,” he says, without turning. “You look marginally less like death.”

  “High praise,” I reply. “I’ve come with an answer.”

  He dismisses the squabbling soldiers with a curt gesture and turns to face me fully. His eyes search mine with the steady, patient weight of someone who has seen men decide things they cannot live with.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “I’ll stay,” I say. “For now. Until they’ve healed. Until I’m certain I can leave them without handing them to the wolves, or worse.”

  Garrick nods once, as if this is what he expected.

  “But,” I add, “it cannot be in the center of your city. If I remain, I want us housed at the edge—somewhere close to the walls, somewhere forgotten. Somewhere that gives you time to slam the gates in my face if everything I fear comes knocking.”

  One of his brows lifts.

  “You don’t ask for much.”

  “I’m asking for distance, not comfort,” I say. “And… one thing more.”

  His gaze sharpens.

  “Go on.”

  “I need ground,” I say. “Untended, unremarked. Soil I can work. A place where no one will look twice if something begins to grow where nothing should.”

  A long silence follows that.

  “A garden,” he says at last. Not quite a question.

  “A beginning,” I answer.

  Garrick’s jaw works as he thinks. Then he exhales, short and decisive.

  “There’s a strip along the eastern edge,” he says. “Old storage wards and a line of abandoned houses. We use them now and then for overflow, but mostly they’re forgotten. It’s quiet. Close to the wall. You’ll have space.”

  He nods toward the far side of the city.

  “Beyond that, there’s an enclosed patch of earth. Used to be a private garden for a minor lordling who died without heirs. Nobody’s claimed it since; too far from the main well, not worth the trouble. It’s overgrown now—choked, half-wild. But the soil’s good. That’s where you’ll plant whatever it is you intend to plant.”

  I allow myself a slow breath.

  “That will do.”

  “Of course it will,” he mutters. “You’re a druid. Give you dirt and you’ll turn it into an omen.”

  There’s no real bite in the words.

  He shifts his helm to his other arm.

  “I’ll have a detail escort your little troupe to the house within the hour,” he says. “I’ll send word to the healers to follow. Food will be brought. If you need tools, speak to the quartermaster. He complains like a priest with a broken nose, but he’ll find what you need.”

  “And the garden?” I ask.

  His mouth quirks, just slightly.

  “I’ll walk you there myself.”

  I blink.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know,” he answers. “But I want to see what you’re binding to my city.”

  There is no suspicion in his tone—only the practical caution of a man responsible for far too many lives.

  “That’s fair,” I say.

  His gaze turns toward the inner street, toward the place where I left Aibell and the others.

  “Tell them.” he says, quieter now. “Tell them they have longer than a single night to breathe.”

  Something in my chest loosens, just a fraction.

  “I will.”

  When I return to the house, the healers have come and gone, leaving behind the smell of bitter herbs and the faint sting of salve. Ciara’s bandages have been changed again; the wrappings are whiter, thicker. Aine has a smear of honey at the corner of her mouth. Eammon clutches half a loaf in one hand and a chipped wooden cup in the other.

  Aibell looks up as I step inside.

  “Well?” she asks.

  “Well,” I answer, “it seems Fallowspire is not quite done with us.”

  Eammon’s face lights.

  “We’re staying?” he asks.

  “For a while,” I say. “The captain has arranged a place along the eastern wall. It’s quieter there. Fewer eyes. We’ll be away from the worst of the noise, but close enough to the guards if anything… unusual happens.”

  Aibell’s shoulders drop in visible relief.

  “And the garden?” she asks, because she’s too sharp not to hear what I didn’t say to the others.

  I meet her gaze.

  “There’s a patch of neglected ground just beyond the houses,” I say. “Old, overgrown, forgotten. The soil’s good. It’ll do.”

  “Do… for what?” Eammon asks, crumbs dusting his tunic.

  “For something that might keep us alive,” I say.

  Ciara holds my gaze a moment longer than Aibell does. There’s unease there, but also trust—hard-won, carefully placed.

  “When do we move?” she asks.

  “As soon as you’re able,” I reply. “The soldiers are coming to help carry what we can. It won’t be much, but it’ll be ours for a time. We’ll make do.”

  Eammon puffs his chest out.

  “I can carry things,” he declares.

  “I know,” I say. “That’s what worries me.”

  He scowls at me, which is better than seeing him weep.

  The escort arrives not long after—four soldiers in plain mail, helms off, expressions carefully neutral. They help Ciara to a makeshift stretcher rigged from two spears and a shield; she protests at first, but one attempt to stand proves enough to silence her argument.

  Aine walks beside her, clutching her hand.

  Eammon marches ahead with his loaf and cup, determined to be a scout.

  Aibell moves between them all, checking, steadying, coaxing.

  I walk at the rear, Nemain heavy at my hip, feeling the weight of every step.

  Fallowspire shifts around us as we move—streets narrowing, houses thinning. The city’s heart falls away behind us, replaced by longer stretches of wall and the occasional shuttered warehouse. The air grows quieter here; the sounds of the market dim to a faint buzz, replaced by the hollow echo of our own footsteps.

  At last, we reach a cluster of tired buildings pressed against the eastern wall. One stands slightly apart—a squat, lopsided house with a roof patched in three different kinds of tile and a door that looks as though it has seen more fists than hinges.

  “This is it?” Aibell asks, eyeing it skeptically.

  “It has a roof,” I say.

  “Mostly,” she mutters.

  One of the soldiers—older than the rest, with a scar splitting one eyebrow—pushes the door open with his shoulder. Dust motes dance in the air beyond. The main room is small but dry; a narrow hearth sits against one wall, a sagging table against another. There are two inner rooms with low ceilings and battered pallets.

  “It will do,” Ciara says, before anyone else can weigh in. There is a quiet finality to it. “It’s not burning. That’s enough.”

  The soldiers help settle her on one of the better pallets. Aine curls up beside her. Eammon claims a corner near the hearth with predictable ferocity. Aibell moves like a woman used to making do, already mentally rearranging the space.

  Garrick appears in the doorway as the last of the blankets is laid down.

  He surveys the room, the walls, the ceiling.

  “It’s not a lord’s hall,” he says. “But it’s dry and close to the wall. I’ve set two men to keep regular watch on this stretch. They’ll know your faces. If anything feels wrong, send for them.”

  “Thank you,” Ciara says quietly.

  He nods to her, then looks to me.

  “Ready?”

  I adjust Nemain at my side.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  He jerks his head toward the back.

  “The garden’s through there. Small gate at the rear, then a short path. I’ll walk with you.”

  Aibell steps forward.

  “I’m coming too,” she says.

  I almost refuse. Old instinct—keep people away from rituals they don’t understand, from power that doesn’t forgive mistakes.

  But I see the resolve in her face and remember the way she stood between me and the door this morning.

  “If you come,” I say, “you listen. You don’t touch anything unless I ask. And if the air changes wrong, you leave.”

  Her eyes flash.

  “Understood.”

  Garrick gives me a look that says he will be watching both of us.

  “Don’t break my city,” he mutters.

  “I’ll do my best not to,” I reply.

  We step out through the back.

  The small gate groans when Garrick forces it open, hinges protesting after years of neglect. Beyond it, a narrow path winds between two stretches of wall, choked with weeds and broken stone.

  At the end of it, the garden waits.

  It is just as he described—walled off, half-forgotten, a rectangle of overgrown green hemmed in by crumbling stone. Vines strangle the remains of a trellis. Briars knot in dense, prickling patches. A few stubborn shrubs cling to life, their leaves yellowing but still present.

  Beneath the chaos, though—the earth feels rich. Waiting.

  My heart beats a fraction faster.

  “Yes,” I murmur. “This will do.”

  Aibell takes it in with a slow turn of her head.

  “It’s a ruin.” she says.

  “It’s potential.” I correct.

  Garrick folds his arms.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says. “If the ground starts bleeding or sprouting teeth, I expect you’ll shout.”

  “If the ground starts bleeding,” I reply dryly, “you’ll hear more than shouting.”

  He grunts something that might almost be a laugh and takes his leave, the path swallowing his footsteps.

  That leaves just Aibell and me in the wild, quiet space.

  She hugs her blanket tighter around herself.

  “So,” she says. “What now?”

  “Now,” I answer, sinking to one knee and pressing my palm against the soil, “I see if the world is willing to forgive me one more time.”

  Nemain hums faintly at my side, displeased.

  Good.

  The grove I’m about to coax into being won’t be for it.

  It will be for us.

  The garden is quiet in the late morning light—quiet in the way old wounds are quiet, crusted over but not healed.

  Aibell lingers by the wall, arms folded, watching me with the hesitance of someone who knows something important is about to happen but doesn’t yet understand what shape it will take.

  I step into the center of the overgrown plot.

  The air changes almost immediately.

  Not visibly, not in any way someone without my blood would notice—but the soil recognizes me.

  It always does.

  Even after everything I’ve lost.

  I kneel, slipping the small bundle from my pack: the sapling, carefully wrapped in cloth and tied with a cord woven from willow bark. When I pull it free, Aibell leans forward slightly.

  “That’s the seedling you spoke of?” she asks softly.

  I nod.

  “It’s more than that,” I say. “But yes.”

  Her voice is hushed. “What does it… do?”

  I smile faintly.

  “That depends,” I answer. “On me. On the land. On whether the world remembers mercy.”

  Nemain hums sharply at my hip, displeased at the very notion.

  I ignore it.

  Carefully, I dig a shallow hollow in the center of the soil—dark, rich earth giving way under my fingers. The weeds nearby quiver, their roots sensing the disturbance, sensing the call.

  Aibell’s eyes widen.

  “Kaelen… are they—moving?”

  “I told you not to touch anything.” I murmur.

  She clamps her mouth shut, but she stays.

  I lower the sapling into the hollow, cupping its young roots with my hands. The moment its base meets the soil, a faint tremor ripples outward through the garden—subtle, but unmistakable.

  Aibell flinches.

  “What was—?”

  “Life.” I whisper.

  My breathing steadies. My pulse syncs to the soft thrum rising beneath my palms.

  Then—I speak.

  Not in the common tongue.

  Not in anything humans would ever dare write down.

  But in the old speech—the language that roots understand, the tongue that once shaped forests, the syllables that carried the breath of druids into the bones of the earth.

  “Aen’vhal tairen… aen’vhal anor… lend me what is left. Give me what you can spare.”

  The weeds answer first.

  Their leaves curl inward, the green draining from them like breath from dying lips. One by one, the creepers slump, brittle stems bowing as their color seeps into the ground—drawn toward the sapling, toward me.

  Aibell gasps.

  “Kaelen—are you killing them?”

  “No,” I say quietly. “I’m asking them. And they’re giving what they choose.”

  “But why would they choose that?”

  I look up at her.

  “To belong to something new.”

  The sapling trembles.

  A faint glow pulses along its stem—soft, pale green, as though the light is seeped from the soil, not from the sun. Buds swell along its thin branches. Roots burrow deeper with impossible speed, winding like living tendrils into the dirt.

  The air hums.

  The ground warms beneath me.

  Nemain’s voice rises—sharp, insistent, hungry.

  Kaaaeeellleeenn…

  Nnnnot thiiiis.

  Nnnnot liiiife.

  Blooood… bleeeed… blooood…

  I press my palm firmly to the soil.

  “Be silent.” I command under my breath.

  To my surprise— the blade obeys or perhaps it sulks. Hard to tell.

  Either way, the ritual continues.

  Energy flows up through my arms, slow at first, then surging—warm, heavy, grounding. It fills my chest, a pressure both comforting and painful, like lungs drawing breath after being underwater too long.

  For a moment, I feel it:

  The grove.

  Not as it was—grand, ancient, vast—

  but as it wants to be.

  Alive. Tender. New.

  The sapling stretches upward with a soft crackle, its bark smoothing, its branches unfurling in thin, delicate arcs. Buds burst into tiny leaves; leaves shimmer with a faint sheen of pale light.

  Then—tiny motes of green drift from its branches.

  Seeds. Faint. Unformed. But there.

  Aibell’s breath catches.

  “Oh gods…”

  I exhale shakily.

  “It’s beginning.”

  The earth shimmers beneath my palms. Heat radiates upward, filling my bones with a strength I haven’t felt in years—gentle, steady, deep. Not the raw surge of power I used to command. Not yet. But a heartbeat, the start of one.

  My grove is not reborn.

  Not truly.

  But it is breathing.

  I open my eyes—the world sharper, clearer. The soil feels like a living thing beneath me, threads of life connecting me to every blade of grass, every trembling leaf.

  Aibell stares at me as though she’s seeing something sacred and unsettling at once.

  Nemain hums low, irritated, but distant—pushed back by the overwhelming presence of life.

  The young tree rustles, leaves brushing in a faint breeze that didn’t exist moments ago. I touch its trunk, feeling the pulse coursing through it—weak but real.

  “This,” I whisper, “is the first step.”

  Aibell kneels beside me, careful not to touch the soil.

  “You did this… for us?”

  I shake my head.

  “For the world,” I say. “For myself. For what may come.”

  Then, softer—

  “And yes. For you.”

  Her breath falters, but she says nothing.

  A shadow moves above us—clouds passing over the sun. A chill seeps briefly through the air, but it does not touch the heart-tree.

  Even in its infancy, it stands firm.

  “You should rest,” Aibell says quietly. “You look…”

  She searches for the word.

  “Spent.”

  “I will,” I say.

  But my hand remains on the young trunk a heartbeat longer.

  The grove is tiny.

  Barely more than a wisp.

  But it is mine.

  And it is alive.

  For the first time in years, that feels like hope.

  We move back to the house to rest for the day. The moment my back touches the cot, I collapse like a sack of potatoes. Sleep and exhaustion pull me in almost immediately and I realize, the ritual took more out of me than I anticipated.

  Dawn bleeds gently over Fallowspire, soft gold pushing through the cracks in the patched roof where we sleep. The house is still—a fragile quiet, interrupted only by the slow breaths of the children and the low sigh of wind through warped shutters.

  I rise before the others.

  The grove’s lingering warmth hums faintly beneath my ribs, a soft pulse carried from the walled garden to my bones. For the first time in years, I feel aligned. Not whole. Not healed. But… anchored.

  I step outside.

  The city is washed in pale morning light. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys. A rooster calls somewhere behind the eastern wall. Guards trade shifts with tired nods, spears catching the newborn sun.

  That’s when I hear approaching footsteps—steady, disciplined, unmistakably Garrick’s.

  He rounds the corner of the half-collapsed stable, helm tucked under one arm. His eyes find mine immediately. Even in the early light, his presence carries the weight of expectation… and something gentler beneath it.

  “Kaelen,” he greets, voice low but warm. “You’re up early.”

  “I could say the same for you,” I reply.

  He huffs a quiet, knowing sound. “I don’t sleep much.”

  Neither do I.

  For a moment, we stand in the quiet. Two men shaped by fire—different fires, same scars. The breeze carries the scent of dew and distant pine. Somewhere, the forge bellows ignite for the day.

  Finally, Garrick speaks.

  “I should say this properly,” he begins. “Not in a corridor… not between battles… but here, at dawn, when eyes see clearer.”

  He steps closer.

  “I want you to stay, Kaelen. Permanently.”

  The words fall like a stone in calm water—gentle impact, deep ripples.

  He continues, slower now, almost careful:

  “You and the people under your care… you’ve lost more than most can fathom. Fallowspire can give you stability. Walls. Supplies. A hearth to return to.”

  His gaze sharpens.

  “And… I believe this city needs you. Your strength. Your… nature.”

  There’s no flattery there. No manipulation. Just a soldier speaking plainly.

  I exhale.

  “I… am not easy to house,” I say quietly. “Or easy to keep track of. I carry danger with me wherever I step.”

  Garrick holds my gaze. “Every man carries danger, Kaelen. Yours just happens to wear a sharper edge.”

  A faint smile touches the edges of his mouth.

  “Besides… you saved lives that weren’t yours to save. That counts for something here.”

  The morning wind tugs at my cloak.

  Nemain hums softly at my side—irritated, restless—but distant.

  The grove behind the city wall pulses faintly in my mind, roots spreading, seeds stirring.

  This place could shelter them.

  This grove could grow.

  And I… I could become something more than a cursed blade’s unwilling tether.

  I meet Garrick’s eyes.

  “I accept, Captain,” I say quietly. “We’ll stay.”

  Not just for today.

  Not just for a week.

  But to build something.

  To grow.

  To protect those who now depend on me.

  Garrick lets out a breath I didn’t realize he was holding. Not relief exactly, but something close—like the easing of a burden carried alone too long.

  “Good,” he says, nodding once. “Then Fallowspire welcomes you… all of you.”

  He extends his hand.

  A soldier’s handshake.

  I clasp his forearm firmly.

  He squeezes back—a wordless promise of trust and mutual respect.

  In that moment, something shifts between us.

  Not friendship.

  But the first bricks of it, set gently in the morning light.

  Garrick releases my arm.

  “I’ll arrange proper quarters,” he says. “And… when you’re ready, I’d like you to meet the council. They’ll want to know who we’ve gained.”

  I nod.

  “And Druid,” Garrick adds, pausing as he steps away, “if there’s ever anything you need—supplies, protection, time, solitude—tell me. A man rebuilding a life deserves space to breathe.”

  His words settle somewhere deep.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  He smiles—small, respectful.

  “Dawn suits you, Druid. You look… like a man reclaiming himself.”

  He turns and heads back toward the main road, boots crunching softly over frost-kissed dirt.

  I stand alone in the pale gold light… and for the first time in a long time, I allow myself a truth I had buried beneath ash and blood:

  Maybe I was meant to protect again.

  Maybe I was meant to rebuild.

  Maybe—just maybe—this broken, battered city could be a beginning.

  Behind me, the house door creaks softly, and Aibell’s sleepy voice drifts out:

  “Kaelen? Are you alright?”

  I glance back, and a warm, quiet certainty settles into my bones.

  “Yes,” I say softly.

  “For the first time… I think I truly am.”