Year 400, Duskrend Wildlands
"Big brother Taka! Come help me water the plants!" Eri's voice rang out from outside, sharp and eager, bouncing against the mountain stone.
Takaya stepped out of the hall, still adjusting the sash at his waist. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint smell of damp soil and pine drifting down from the cliffs. Eri was already crouched near her little garden patch, a wooden bucket nearly as big as her wobbling in her grip.
He strode over and relieved her of the weight before she toppled with it. "You'll drown yourself before you drown the plants," he muttered, though there was no sharpness in his tone.
Eri puffed her cheeks. "I could've carried it! You just looked slow, so I called you."
"Oh, I see. So I'm just free labor now."
"Yes," she replied instantly, grinning wide. "Big brother Taka is the best at heavy things!"
Takaya let out a faint chuckle as he tipped the bucket carefully, water spilling out in a thin stream over the roots of the sprouting herbs. The soil darkened and drank it eagerly. Eri clapped her hands together, satisfied, before darting to another patch.
"Here! This one too!" she called, pointing at a thin stalk with pale leaves.
"You've got a whole army of these things," Takaya said, following her lead and pouring again.
"They're my friends," Eri replied, crouching low as though listening for a secret. "If I take care of them, they'll grow strong. Then Mama won't have to go into town as much for medicine."
Takaya slowed, eyes flicking briefly toward the tunnel road, then the lake beyond. Her words sat heavier than the bucket in his hands.
"You're a good kid," he murmured.
Eri's grin softened into something shy, but she still stood tall. "That's why I called you to help. Big brother Taka's strong, but he has to learn gentle too."
Takaya blinked at her, then huffed a laugh. "You're bossy."
"I'm wise," she corrected, sticking out her tongue.
By midday, Lira had pressed an axe into Takaya's hands and waved him toward the trees. "If you're healthy enough to wander, you're healthy enough to keep the fire alive," she said with a half-smile.
Eri, of course, darted after him before he could protest. "I'll come too! I can carry the small sticks," she declared, clinging to his sleeve.
The forest swallowed them quickly, shadows layered thick beneath the canopy. Eri skipped ahead, chattering about the sprouting flowers near the path, the strange squirrel with a split tail she'd seen the week before, the patterns she noticed in the clouds.
Takaya listened, but spoke little. He nodded when she glanced back for acknowledgment, his grip tightening slightly on the axe's handle. Words never came easily, and after so long drifting alone, he still found it strange having someone so close, so endlessly bright.
"You look stiff," the Veyl's voice coiled in his mind, low and amused. "Walking with a child is not a battle, Takaya. You don't need to hold your shoulders like you're about to fight."
Takaya's jaw tightened. Quiet.
Eri crouched to poke at a mossy stone, oblivious to his inner exchange. "Big brother Taka, look! Doesn't this rock look like a frog?"
He leaned down, humored despite himself. "…Maybe."
She giggled, pleased, and skipped ahead again.
Takaya paused for a moment, stacking gathered branches under his arm. The forest was still, almost too still. A prickling sensation traced the back of his neck, sharp enough to make his fingers twitch toward Solthar's absence. Something unseen watched from deeper in the trees.
When he looked, there was nothing. Only shadows shifting with the breeze.
He exhaled and kept walking, Eri's laughter pulling him forward.
Takaya hefted the axe and moved deeper into the trees, Eri bouncing at his side with a coil of rope slung over her shoulder like it was a prize. The afternoon light slatted down through the branches in long shafts, and dust motes spun in the quiet. It felt almost ordinary—an ordinary chore on an ordinary day—and he let himself fall into that small grace.
They worked in rhythms. He found a sapling low enough to chop without climbing, set his feet, and swung. The axe bit the trunk with a dull, satisfying thunk. He counted breaths—one, two—let the weight of the blade do the work, then shifted stance and struck again. The tree began to lean. Eri watched with solemn approval, chin tucked into her scarf.
"Hit it like this," she instructed, imitating his motion with two tiny sticks. "Not like a baby."
Takaya allowed a dry chuckle. "I didn't know I had a teacher."
"You do now," she declared, puffing her chest out.
They hauled the fallen sapling together, rolling it to the clearing. Takaya cut it into manageable lengths, each swing loosening a little more from the tightness in his shoulders. The breathwork helped; the motion steadied something that had been jangling inside him for months.
"You make it look easy," Eri said after a while, wiping her palms on her skirt. "I tried once and I dropped the stick and it rolled down a hill and Mama yelled."
"You could've caught it," Takaya said, loading two logs beneath his arm.
"Maybe," she shrugged. "But then I got dizzy. Trees are tricky."
"Not to you," he said, and for the first time that day his mouth loosened into something like a grin.
They stacked wood in two neat piles near the path. Lira would take half and store it; the rest would go straight on the hearth. The work was steady, honest—no sudden demands, no need to be watchful of every shadow. He felt the ache in his shoulder with each lift, but the movement was healing in its own blunt way: exertion, focus, repetition.
"Don't try to do too much," Lira called from the edge of the clearing, where she'd been tending a small firepit for drying herbs. "You're still bleeding easy."
"I'm not a cripple," Takaya snapped lightly, then winced because the muscles complained.
"No one said you were." Lira wiped her hands on her apron and studied him for a long beat. "Just be smart."
The Veyl sounded in his head, sardonic as ever. "Look at you—domestic lumberjack. How quaint. Don't chop your pride along with the wood."
"Shut up," Takaya muttered, shoulders bending to pick up another log.
Eri hopped up onto a stump and began sorting twigs, humming tunelessly. Watching her, Takaya thought of how small details—who stacked the bowls where, which herbs Lira used for a fever—could become an entire map of someone's life. He'd spent months with only survival and silence for company. The map was foreign and worth learning.
Time thinned into the work. The sun moved, and the air turned cooler. Each log they stacked made the cottage feel a fraction more secure. He liked that—simple actions that made a place safer. He liked the fact that hands and sweat could buy a night's warmth.
"Alright," Lira called after the final log was set in place. "That's enough for now. Help me bring some in before it gets dark."
Takaya hefted the last bundle, breath fogging in the edge of the shade. "On it."
Eri ran ahead, small feet scuffing the path, and Takaya followed with the wood, shoulders steady beneath the weight. No plan beyond the next step, no grand thoughts, just this: do the task, carry the burden, make the fire possible tonight. It was a rhythm he could live inside for a while.
They moved back toward the cottage together, the piles of wood clacking softly, a measured percussion that felt less empty than the long days of walking. The Veyl was quiet for a change, content to let the moment be what it was.
The cottage smelled faintly of woodsmoke and herbs by the time they carried the last bundle inside. The hearth glowed, coals smoldering low, and a pot of water simmered gently above the fire. Lira was already pulling the clay dish from the shelf, the one she'd used two nights ago when Takaya had caught the fish nearly as tall as Eri.
She glanced at the basket by the door. "We should finish the rest of that fish before it turns. Eri, bring me the strips I salted."
"Yes, Mama." Eri darted to the back corner where the fish was laid out on a flat stone, salt crystals glittering faintly on its surface. She carried the pieces over with both hands, careful not to drop even a sliver.
Takaya set the logs by the hearth and lowered himself to the floor, stretching his stiff shoulders. The smell of the fish hit him as Lira laid the strips across an iron pan and set them above the fire. It was sharp and briny, but rich too, promising more than the dry roots or bitter greens he'd choked down alone in the mountains.
Eri crouched beside him, chin propped on her knees. "Big brother Taka, you cut this fish in half with one swing, right? Like—whoosh!" She swung her arms dramatically, nearly hitting the wall.
Takaya snorted. "It wasn't that clean."
"It was!" she insisted, glaring up at him. "You should've seen it. Mama, tell him!"
Lira gave a faint smile while tending the pan. "She hasn't stopped talking about it for days. You'll never live it down."
Eri leaned closer, whispering as though it were a secret. "I'll remember it forever."
Takaya hesitated, then let the words come, low but firm. "I will too."
The fire crackled. The smell of sizzling fish filled the small room, making his stomach twist with sharp hunger. It had been years—no, a lifetime—since he'd sat in a place that smelled like home-cooking, with voices in the background that weren't hunting him or pushing him away.
Lira flipped the fish with practiced ease, the edges crisping to a golden brown. She ladled some broth from the simmering pot, poured it into clay cups, and set them on the low table. "Here. Drink. It will keep you warm until the food is ready."
Takaya accepted the cup, holding it carefully. The broth wasn't much—just boiled roots, a hint of green herbs, and lake water—but it was hot. The heat slid down his throat, easing something knotted inside his chest.
Eri slurped noisily beside him, broth dribbling down her chin. "Mmm! See? Even plain soup is good when you eat together."
"Try not to drown in it," Takaya said, raising a brow.
She puffed her cheeks and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Hmph. You sound like Mama."
Lira slid the fish onto three wooden plates and set them down. The meat was tender now, the salt baked into it, the skin crisp and flaking. She sat across from them, folding her legs beneath her. "Eat while it's hot."
They dug in. Takaya didn't bother with ceremony—he tore into the meat with his hands, savoring the smoky, salty flavor. It wasn't elegant, but it was filling, and every bite seemed to anchor him more firmly to the present.
Eri chewed noisily, her small hands working carefully to peel skin away from the tender flesh. "Big brother Taka, you're eating like a wolf."
"Better than eating like a bird," he said with his mouth half-full.
Lira shook her head, hiding a faint laugh behind her hand. "Slow down, both of you. There's enough."
The plates emptied fast. Conversation spilled with it—Eri's chatter about her plants, about a frog she saw near the lake, about how one day she would grow a flower so tall it touched the roof of the cottage. Takaya said little, but he listened. The words filled the quiet he'd carried for too long.
When the last scraps were gone, they leaned back against the walls, stomachs warm and heavy. The fire popped and hissed, and outside, the evening had deepened into a velvet dusk.
Eri curled up on the rug beside Takaya, eyelids drooping. "I want… more days like this," she murmured, almost asleep.
"You'll have them," Lira said softly, tucking a blanket around her. "Go on, rest."
Takaya sat still, watching the fire dance against the stone. The warmth of the food and the company pressed around him, almost unbearable in its unfamiliarity. He had lived in silence for so long that this simple evening—the meal, the voices, the comfort—felt heavier than any battle.
He looked at Lira briefly, then back to the fire. He didn't say anything, but he knew: this night would stay with him.
The night air smelled faintly of pine and damp earth as Takaya stepped outside, leaving behind the warmth of the hearth. The cottage door creaked softly behind him before clicking shut, muffling the sound of Eri's voice still humming faintly inside.
He exhaled, his breath rising in pale mist. The lake stretched wide and still before him, a sheet of black glass reflecting the moon's silver glow. Shadows of the mountains leaned over its edges, jagged and immense, and the occasional ripple shivered across the water where unseen fish stirred.
Takaya walked until the soft soil gave way to the rocky bank, then lowered himself onto a flat stone near the shore. The coolness of it seeped through his clothes, grounding him. For a while, he just sat there, elbows resting on his knees, Solthar's absence in his hands leaving them strangely empty.
"Peaceful," the Veyl murmured in his mind, voice smooth and mocking. "And yet here you are, brooding like a boy who doesn't know what to do with silence. You'd rather bleed than sit still."
Takaya ignored it, eyes fixed on the pale reflection of the moon in the water. The truth was, silence made him uneasy. For days, he had known only struggle, fear, and pain. Now there was warmth, food, and safety—and it pressed against him in a way that almost felt heavier than battle.
Footsteps crunched lightly on the soil behind him. He didn't turn. Whoever it was moved slowly, deliberately, not hiding but not barging in either. A moment later, Lira's voice carried softly through the night air.
"You always slip away when it's quiet."
Takaya turned his head slightly, just enough to see her walking toward him. She wore no shoes, only a loose shawl over her shoulders, her hair catching strands of moonlight. She stopped a few paces from him, gaze on the lake instead of him, and then lowered herself onto the same stone, leaving a careful space between them.
"I thought you'd be asleep," Takaya said. His voice sounded rougher than he intended.
"Sleep doesn't come easy," she replied. "Not when you've lived too long waiting for noises in the dark."
They both watched the water for a moment. Ripples glided outward from a fish breaking the surface, then vanished into stillness again.
"You look better," Lira said eventually, her eyes flicking toward him. "Color in your face, strength in your arms. Food agrees with you."
Takaya huffed faintly, almost a laugh but not quite. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was one." She let the quiet hang again before continuing. "Eri likes you. I can see it already. She doesn't trust easy."
Takaya shifted, unsure how to answer. "She's… different."
"She's brave," Lira corrected gently. "Braver than most adults I've met."
Takaya didn't argue. He didn't know how. His gaze followed the moon's reflection stretching across the lake like a pale path.
The silence deepened, but it wasn't empty this time. It was full, taut, as though something waited between them. Lira pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, her breath steady but deliberate.
Takaya sensed it then—the way she lingered, the weight in her posture. She hadn't come out here just to watch the lake. She wanted to speak, but was measuring the words carefully, like someone touching a scar.
The Veyl's voice whispered low, almost amused. "She's about to peel herself open. Will you listen, or turn away again? You always flinch when truth comes too close."
Takaya said nothing. He stayed still, eyes on the black water, but his ears sharpened to the shift in Lira's breathing beside him.
She sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale in the moonlight. "This place… it feels peaceful, doesn't it?" she said softly. "But peace is never where I came from."
Her words trailed, heavy with something that hadn't yet been spoken.
Takaya finally turned his head fully toward her, studying the side of her face. She didn't look much older than him—though her steady voice and calm presence carried the weight of someone who had lived far longer. For the first time, he noticed the small lines of tension at the corners of her eyes, not from age but from years of holding too much inside.
Lira's gaze stayed on the water, but her lips parted slightly, ready to continue.
Lira's lips trembled, but her voice steadied as she finally spoke.
"I never knew my mother." She drew in a long, careful breath, shoulders rising and falling beneath the shawl. "She died giving birth to me."
Her fingers tightened in her lap, pale knuckles pressing against each other. "My father… he never forgave me for it. He said I stole her from him before I even breathed. He didn't see me as his daughter—only as the reason she wasn't there anymore."
The words came slow, as if pulled from some locked box, one by one. Takaya said nothing, only listened, his gaze fixed on her profile.
"He'd look at me and say I had her face. Her eyes. That I was the mirror of the woman he loved." A sharp breath escaped her—half a laugh, half a choke. "You'd think that would have softened him. But no. It only made the hatred worse. Every time he looked at me, he saw the ghost of what he lost. And he punished me for it."
The lake stirred faintly, sending a ripple through the moon's reflection. Takaya didn't move. The night air felt colder now, sharper.
"As I grew older, so did his rage. His grief turned… cruel." She paused, tugging the shawl tighter, though no cloth could shield against memory. "There were days he wouldn't feed me. Nights he'd leave me outside until dawn. And when drink loosened his fists…" Her words trailed, but the silence said the rest.
Takaya's hand twitched against his knee. He forced it still.
"It went on until one night, when I was fourteen." Her voice dropped lower, steadier, though it shook at the edges. "He was drunk again. He grabbed me harder than he ever had before. And I—I snapped. There was a knife on the table. I don't even remember reaching for it. I just remember the sound of him hitting the floor."
Her breath came shallow now, mist curling from her lips. "I didn't stay to see if he lived. Maybe he did. Maybe not. I ran. I didn't stop until my legs burned, until my lungs felt like fire. And when I couldn't run anymore, I came here."
Her eyes shifted to the cottage behind them, dark and small against the trees. "I used to run here, when it got too much at home. My father… he'd always find me, drag me back to town. But for a little while, this place felt like mine. Like I could breathe."
She leaned forward slightly, staring into the lake's black glass. "I lived alone for years. Nearly a decade. The silence became my only company. I thought that was all life had for me."
Her hands loosened at last, falling to her knees. Her next words came softer, heavy with something warmer than pain.
"And then I found Eri. Four years ago. She was just a little thing, left behind by slavers who thought she was too sick, too strange to fetch a price. Thrown away like nothing." Her voice tightened, low and fierce. "I couldn't leave her. She looked at me with those eyes—scared, desperate—and I knew. I knew if I didn't take her in, I'd be no better than the people who abandoned her."
Takaya's throat ached, though he didn't know why.
"She gave me a reason to keep going. A reason to live. I wasn't just surviving anymore—I was… needed."
The silence returned, stretching long. Only the soft lap of water against stone filled it.
At last, Lira turned her head, meeting Takaya's eyes. In the moonlight, her face seemed carved from shadow and silver, too young and too old all at once.
Takaya blinked. For a moment, he thought he misheard. She looked so composed, so unshaken compared to him. Yet she was barely olde