Lirien had been gone less than twenty-four hours when the bird arrived.
It came at mid-morning, while Aiden was helping Garrick reinforce the north fence with fresh-split posts. The sky was clear blue, the kind that makes yesterday's storm feel like a bad dream. Sunlight slanted through birch leaves, turning the new green of the communal field into something almost luminous.
The bird was no ordinary messenger pigeon.
It was larger—almost hawk-sized—with feathers the deep green of forest shade, edged in faint silver that caught light like dew. Vines thinner than thread twined through its primaries, alive and slowly swaying even when the wings were folded. Around one leg was tied a small scroll of pale birch bark, sealed with a drop of hardened sap that shimmered like amber.
The bird circled once above the Voss cottage, then descended in a perfect spiral and landed on the garden gatepost with eerie silence.
It turned one bright emerald eye toward Aiden.
Didn't blink.
Aiden set down the post-hole digger.
Walked over slowly.
The bird extended its leg without fear.
He untied the scroll.
The vine tether uncoiled itself like a living thread, brushed his wrist once—warm, curious—then retracted.
The bird ruffled its feathers, gave a single soft trill that sounded like wind through leaves, and launched skyward. It vanished north in seconds.
Aiden unrolled the bark.
The writing was elegant, flowing script that seemed to grow across the page rather than be inked:
Warden's Child of Willowbrook,
The Circle felt the land's sudden song three nights past. Our sister Lirien has returned with word of a boy who speaks to root and branch, who feeds fang and claw with kindness, who turned storm to gentle rain.
We do not summon. We invite.
When your feet grow restless and the green calls you beyond your village, seek the Verdant Grove in the northern hollows of the Silverwood. Show this scroll to any tree marked with the oak-leaf sigil. It will guide you the rest of the way.
Until then, tend your hearth. Guard your kin. Listen to the quiet voices.
The land remembers.
— Elder Rowan, Verdant Circle
Aiden read it twice.
Then rolled it carefully and slipped it into his tunic pocket.
Garrick had watched the entire exchange from ten paces away.
He walked over, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm.
"Letter?"
Aiden nodded.
"From the druids. They… know."
Garrick looked north toward the distant tree-line.
"They offering you a place?"
"An invitation. For later. When I'm ready."
Garrick exhaled through his nose.
"Good. Means they're not trying to take you now." He clapped Aiden on the shoulder. "Come on. Fence won't finish itself. And after—we train."
They worked through the morning.
Posts driven deep. Rails lashed tight. Aiden's small hands moved with unnatural precision—Village Weaver making knots self-tightening, Apprentice Carpenter ensuring every joint sat flush.
By noon the north fence stood stronger than it had in years.
Garrick set the last post with a satisfied grunt.
"Enough for today. Axe time."
They moved to the chopping block.
Garrick had prepared a new exercise: basic footwork and blocking.
He used a thick quarterstaff instead of the axe—blunt, safe, but heavy enough to teach respect.
"Defense first," Garrick said. "You're small. Speed and distance are your friends. Never stand flat-footed. Move."
He demonstrated—slow shuffle-steps, weight shifting, staff held in loose guard.
Aiden mirrored.
Stance of the Hearth warmed his soles, rooting each step.
Edge of Resolve hummed along the staff even though it wasn't edged.
Garrick swung—slow, telegraphed.
Aiden stepped left.
Blocked.
The clack of wood on wood rang sharp.
Again.
Right step.
Block.
Garrick sped up—still controlled, but faster.
Aiden moved—light, fluid, instinctive.
Apprentice Warrior Lv.3 drank the practice like dry soil drinks rain.
After thirty minutes Aiden's arms burned and his breath came short.
Garrick lowered the staff.
Grinned.
"Better. Much better. You're starting to feel the rhythm."
Aiden wiped sweat from his eyes.
"Thanks to you."
Garrick ruffled his hair.
"And whatever's inside you. Don't forget that part."
They walked back toward the cottage.
And that's when they saw the children.
A group of six—ranging from four to eight—ran across the green toward the communal field path.
Behind them—twenty paces back, shadows among shadows—walked the pack.
The lead weasel trotted openly now.
The big gray wolf loped beside it.
The others fanned out in loose formation.
The children didn't run from them.
They ran with them.
Giggling.
Pointing.
One little girl—Joren's youngest granddaughter—held out a crust of bread.
The white-blazed weasel accepted it delicately from her fingers.
No snapping.
No fear.
The pack escorted them all the way to the field gate.
Stopped.
Watched until the children were safely inside with the adults.
Then turned and resumed their slow patrol.
Villagers watched from porches and windows.
Some smiled.
Some crossed themselves.
Marta leaned on her gatepost and called to Garrick and Aiden as they passed.
"They're becoming part of the morning routine. Like sheepdogs with sharper teeth."
Garrick chuckled.
"As long as they keep the foxes away, I'm not complaining."
Inside the cottage, Elara waited with lunch—thick vegetable stew, fresh bread, a small bowl of moon-touched beans already shelled and glistening.
She noticed the scroll in Aiden's pocket immediately.
"From your druid friend?"
Aiden unrolled it.
Handed it over.
Elara read in silence.
When she finished, she folded it carefully.
Pressed it back into his hand.
"They see you," she said quietly. "Not just the miracles. You."
Aiden nodded.
"I'm not going anywhere yet."
She smiled—small, relieved.
"Good. Because I still need help with the herb sorting this afternoon."
After lunch she brought him to the lean-to workshop.
Dried bundles hung from the rafters: moonblossom, valerian, fire-lily, chamomile.
Jars lined the shelves—salves, tinctures, powders.
Elara sat him on a stool.
Handed him a mortar and pestle.
"Today we do it the old way. No system. No shortcuts. Just hands and patience."
She showed him how to grind dried moonblossom petals into fine dust—slow circles, even pressure.
How to blend valerian root with honey for calming poultices.
How to strain tinctures through muslin without losing potency.
Aiden followed every step.
No Verdant Touch flare.
No multipliers.
Just small, careful motions.
And somehow—somehow—it felt deeper.
Like learning the language his mother had spoken long before the system woke.
By late afternoon the lean-to smelled of earth and sweetness.
Elara wiped her hands on her apron.
Looked at the neat rows of jars they'd filled together.
"You have magic in you," she said softly. "But you also have this. The quiet part. The patient part. Don't lose it."
Aiden reached over.
Hugged her waist.
"I won't."
That evening he stood at the garden gate again.
The pack appeared on schedule.
This time the big gray wolf came closer—fifteen paces instead of twenty.
Sat.
Watched him.
Aiden opened the gate.
Stepped out.
Walked halfway.
Stopped.
The wolf rose.
Walked the other half.
Stopped.
They stood five paces apart.
Aiden extended his hand—slow, open.
The wolf leaned forward.
Nosed his palm again.
Cold. Wet. Steady.
Then it turned its head slightly—toward the north path where Lirien had disappeared.
A low rumble—not growl.
Warning?
Acknowledgment?
Aiden couldn't tell.
But he felt it through the new Minor Beast Bond—faint, like hearing a voice underwater.
Safe. Watch. Pack.
He nodded.
"Good watch," he whispered again.
The wolf dipped its head once.
Then turned and rejoined the others.
The patrol resumed.
Aiden went back inside.
Climbed to his loft.
Opened status under the blanket.
Verdant Warden Lv.7 → Lv.8
Beast Tamer Initiate Lv.10 → Breakthrough Complete
[Minor Beast Bond Lv.1 → Lv.2 – Link clarity improved; basic emotional sharing possible]
Apprentice Warrior Lv.3 → Lv.4
Village Guardian Progress: 91% → 94%
He closed his eyes.
Listened.
To the field breathing.
To the pack circling.
To his parents talking softly downstairs—about fences, about wolves, about a boy who was still theirs even as the world began to notice.
Tomorrow would bring more lessons.
More hands in soil.
More quiet circles around the village.
But tonight—tonight Willowbrook slept under watchful eyes.
Green eyes.
Yellow eyes.
And the small, steady eyes of a six-year-old boy who had become—without ever asking—the quiet center of it all.
[End of Chapter 13 – Book 1]