It was Verrith who noticed the change first.
"We're close," he murmured, "The air tastes different. Less iron. More… orchard-sweet."
"Orchard-sweet?" Tervain repeated. "What does that even mean?"
Sky shrugged. "It means we're closer to the kingdom than the wilds. Crops grow there. Fruit. Grain. Civilisation leaks into the air."
Tervain sniffed the air as if trying to confirm it, though his nose wrinkled hopelessly. "Tastes like dirt and wet trees."
"That is because you have the palate of a boiled shoe."
"I've never boiled a shoe!"
"You didn't deny the rest of the comparison."
Tervain sputtered. He smirked. Verrith soon became quiet and walked behind them. He listened to them argue with mild amusement, even if he didn't show it much more than the smallest quirk of his mouth.
The path widened ahead. Not a real road, but a strip where the trees leaned just far enough apart that a small group could slip through without brushing shoulders against bark.
"We should stop soon," Sky said at last, his voice low but steady. "The ground's rising. We can set camp on higher land where the damp won't creep under our bedrolls."
Verrith nodded. Tervain hummed. Then they stepped off the natural path and into the brush, weaving between ferns and thick roots until they found a place where the trees formed a half-circle. A fallen trunk lay near the center—smooth, old, petrified in shape but soft with rot.
Moss blanketed the ground but not too thickly. The clearing was just wide enough to feel safe.
"This works," Verrith said.
Sky crouched and touched the soil. "Dry enough. The wind won't get trapped here. Good choice."
Tervain stretched his arms overhead with exaggerated relief. "Excellent! I am starving. We should make a meal worthy of the legends of—"
"You're not naming our group 'the legends.'"
"Why not? Legends need to eat."
"That is your reasoning?" Sky asked.
"Yes."
A sigh left Sky's mouth as he listened to Tervain's nonsense.
Verrith soon spoke, "I'll find some firewood."
"And I'll gather water," Tervain said.
Sky slumped down on one of the flat stones. "I'll… supervise."
Verrith didn't bother responding; he simply walked off. Tervain followed the stream, disappearing behind a line of tall shrubs.
And just like that the work was distributed in an instant.
Sky sat alone for a moment, letting the breeze wash over him. The clearing felt gentler than the woods behind them — fewer shadows, fewer sounds stalking them from unseen corners. He tilted his head and looked at his own shadow; it flickered, barely noticeable in the fading light. The voice that sometimes came from it was quiet today — almost contemplative.
"They're good," Sky murmured to himself. "Verrith pretends he's tired of me. Tervain probably is tired of me. But they're good."
[Does it feel better to go and say that aloud instead of just leaving it in your head or what] The shadow asked.
'Way to ruin the mood' Sky thought as he got annoyed at the shadow's remark.
It didn't take long for Verrith to return carrying an armful of branches.
He dropped them near Sky and knelt to break them into manageable lengths. "Did you supervise properly?" he asked without looking up.
"Expertly," Sky said. "Your wood was collected under my profound silent guidance."
"I'm certain it would've grown mold without you."
Sky clicked his young in mock offense. "Och, And here I was thinking of cooking for you two."
Tervain came back carrying a small pot filled with water. "The stream is clean. Cold, too. We can use it for soup."
Tervain set the pot down and sat by the unlit firepit. "We can make something warm," he said quietly. "We deserve at least that."
The first spark came from a stone strike. The second from Sky's breath where he blew on the spark that was on a pile of dried grass to coax the ember into life. The fire glowed red, then orange, then gold. Warmth spread out in a soft halo.
Tervain sat on the fallen log with a large pot balanced on his knees and a bundle of herbs at his side. "All right. Tonight we feast. Sky, hand me the spice leaf I brought and put it aside near you!"
He tossed it to him. He couldn't catch it—and the herb burst into flame as it was in contact with the fire shrinking instantly into blackened flakes.
Tervain froze.
Verrith looked at him.
Sky raised a brow.
"…I meant to do that," Tervain declared.
"You burned it," Sky said flatly.
"It was—ah—an offering. To the forest."
"You don't even like the forest."
"Which is why I offer it a spice leaf in hopes it will like me instead."
"Do you even listen to yourself when you talk?"
"No," Tervain admitted, "but I hear myself. That's close enough."
Verrith and Sky exhaled a tired sigh as they just focused on cooking.
They unpacked what little food they had left — strips of dried meat, a few preserved vegetables, a small pouch of herbs Tervain had collected earlier. Verrith handled the meat while Tervain measured the herbs carefully, crushing some between his fingers so the scent drifted warmly into the air.
Sky watched them, chin propped on his hands. "You two look like actual functional adults," he said. "It's terrifying."
"That's because we are," Verrith replied. "One of us more than the other."
Tervain didn't look up as he stirred the pot. "Be kind."
Sky blinked. "Wait — was that directed at me or him?"
"Yes."
"…"Sky decided to not drag this conversation longer and stayed quiet and took out his seasoning bag from his void.
"I'll add this too since today is our last day before we reach the kingdom."
"Yeah we should probably enjoy ourselves tonight" after Ian continued as he stirred the pot.
"Yeah we should" Sky said, agreeing with Tervian as Verrith sat quietly.
Within minutes, the scent changed. Rich. Earthy. Something that felt like home even though none of the three truly had one anymore.
"This is the last night we camp before the kingdom," Verrith said again repeating Sky's words.
Sky's eyes softened. "I know."
Tervain stirred the pot slowly. "I'm not nervous," he lied.
Verrith's gaze flicked to him. "I didn't say you were."
"You implied it!"
"No."
"You thought about it!"
Verrith shook his head. "You think for me far too often."
Sky snorted. "He thinks for everyone far too often."
Tervain pointed the wooden spoon at them. "It is called being helpful."
"It is called being dramatic," Sky corrected.
"Those are synonyms in my language."
"They are not synonyms in any language."
They settled around the fire, the heat settling into their bones.
The night birds began their half-melodies—the ones that almost sounded like human voices. But the three had grown used to this forest's mimicry. As long as the voices did not repeat words back, it was harmless.
Sky turned his head to look at Verrith and after a while of contemplating, he asked, "Are you nervous?"
Verrith paused his sharpening. His yellow eyes flickered toward the fire. "I'm… prepared."
"That's not an answer," Sky said.
"It's the one I have."
Sky rolled onto his stomach. "You used to live there, right? Before the collapse."
Verrith's left eyebrow twitched once — a tiny movement, but Sky recognized it.
"Yes," Verrith said. "A long time ago."
"You were part of the organized group in the kingdom after the destruction but were you part of anything special before??"
Verrith nodded. "A small one. We were… responsible for certain decisions after the collapse. For guiding who we could, helping where possible."
Sky plucked a blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers. "And after the war? After those nightmare knights appeared?"
A shadow crossed Verrith's face — not Sky's literal shadow, but something quieter.
"I survived," Verrith said. "Barely. And I kept running. For years. Until I found them." He adjusted his posture slightly. "The knights who remained. And later… Esther."
Sky sat up. "Your leader."
"Yes."
"What was she like?"
Verrith hesitated — not because he didn't want to speak, but because the memory was careful in his mind.
"She was strong," Verrith said finally. "And strange. She made decisions that no one else would make, but they were… right.
"Most of the time. She was sharp, and stubborn, and she could come up with strategies on the fly." His voice softened. "She saved me when I thought I would die."
Sky watched him closely. Verrith rarely spoke like this. It felt like seeing the gears beneath the armor, the vulnerable parts usually kept hidden.
Tervain stirred the pot and whispered, "She sounds admirable."
Verrith nodded. "She was."
They all fell silent again, listening to the gentle bubbling of the soup.
The stew simmered to a consistency Sky liked—thick enough to cling to the spoon, thin enough to warm the throat. Tervain served each of them a wooden bowl. Sky tasted it first.
His expression went blank.
It tasted better than it had any right to — the herbs softened the bitterness of the dried meat, and the vegetables added a grounding warmth that felt almost like home.
Tervain leaned forward nervously. "Well?"
Sky swallowed slowly. "Tervain."
"Yes…?"
"This is good."
He lit up. "Really?!"
"Don't get used to it," he said, but his voice held a smile.
Verrith ate quietly, savoring each spoonful.
The fire had burned down to a gentler glow now, orange embers flickering like scattered stars.
Sky glanced at Verrith. "And your dreams? Anything new?"
Verrith's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "No."
Tervain and Sky exchanged a look—not accusing, just concerned.
Verrith continued, "Nothing I need to talk about."
Sky didn't push. Tervain didn't either. But the tension in Verrith lingered quietly in the air, like a weight resting on the fire's edge.
Eventually, the conversation drifted. The air grew cooler. The forest hissed with soft wind. Their bodies grew heavy with exhaustion.
One by one, they lay down on their bedrolls.
Tervain murmured about something, as he stayed guard.
Verrith lay on his back, eyes open to the fragment of sky visible between the trees.
He exhaled slowly.
Then sleep took him.
— ✦ —
The dream didn't arrive abruptly, nor gently.
It formed, like mist gathering into shape around Verrith's thoughts, soft at first, then solid enough to breathe.
He stood in a dim and quiet place.
Not dark — but muted, like the world had been wrapped in parchment. Colors faded into tones of brown and gold, like an old library left in eternal dusk. Shelves extended in impossible directions, curving and folding into each other like the ribs of some ancient creature. Books lined them, thousands upon thousands, whispering faintly with every shift of the dream-breath.
Verrith recognized the place.
His memories of Tervain.
Footsteps echoed.
Verrith turned.
Tervain walked toward him through the endless shelves, carrying a single candle.
The flame illuminated only half his face — the gentle half — while the other half remained shadowed, unreadable. His face was seen and not being hidden by his helmet. He wore clothes different from the ones he wore now. Simpler. Younger. His blue-ish hair looked beautiful and not showing signs of rotting. He looked young.
"Verrith," Tervain said softly. His voice didn't echo — it folded neatly into the stillness around them. "You're dreaming."
Verrith nodded. He understood enough not to question it.
Tervain walked past him, running his fingers along the spines of the books. The flame flickered not because of wind, but because the books reacted to his presence, pages trembling slightly.
"How kind," Tervain murmured.
Verrith blinked. "What?"
Tervain stopped and turned slightly, eyes lowering fondly toward a book whose cover glimmered faintly. "You still remember this place."
"I don't think I ever forgot," Verrith replied.
Tervain smiled — soft, small, genuine. "You were always like that."
They walked together now, side by side between towering shelves. Verrith tried to look at the titles, but they shifted before he could finish reading them. Thoughts, moments, fragments — some belonged to Tervain, some to Verrith, and some blended so naturally he couldn't separate them.
"You came to me once," Tervain said. "When you were small. You asked me something important."
Verrith felt his chest warm — a memory rising like a lantern through deep water. He remembered himself as a child, standing awkwardly, hands fidgeting, trying to look brave.
"…what it meant to be kind," Verrith whispered.
"Yes." Tervain's voice softened further. "You asked that."
The shelves around them trembled, shifting into a smaller, intimate space — a table, two chairs, and a candle burning low between them.
The dream reshaped itself into a memory reenacting through feeling rather than vision.
Tervain sat. Verrith sat across from him.
Just as it had been back then.
"Do you remember what I told you?" Tervain asked.
Verrith nodded faintly, but he stayed silent. Something in him wanted to hear it again.
Tervain leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on the wooden table. His expression was the same as it had been when Verrith was young — calm, sincere, gently guiding without forcing.
"True kindness," Tervain said, "means being caring, compassionate, and generous — not only toward others, but toward yourself."
The candle's flame swayed gently, casting warm shadows across his face.
"People often forget," Tervain continued, "that kindness inward matters as much as kindness outward. You cannot love the world if you cannot love yourself. Not deeply. Not fully."
Verrith lowered his gaze. Even in the dream, the words felt like a hand settling on his chest — steadying, grounding.
"And," Tervain added, "your true self is not something you start with. It is something you create."
Verrith looked up.
Tervain's eyes were gentle — but bright, like the flame had ignited a thought inside them.
"You create your true self," he said, "when you choose it. When you put it into words. When you write down what matters. When you decide what you will be."
He placed an imaginary piece of parchment on the table between them.
Verrith stared at it.
"You told me once," Tervain said softly, "that you wanted to be kind. Not perfect. Not righteous. Just kind."
"Listen carefully, Verrith. People think you discover who you are. They think identity is something buried deep — a treasure waiting to be dug out. But the truth is simpler and harder. You don't find yourself. You create yourself. Being your true self doesn't come from what you were born with. It doesn't come from your past or blood or soul. It begins with a decision and that decision starts with a single word."
The paper glowed faintly.
Tervain lifted it between them, his fingertips steady.
"When you write a word on a page," he continued, "you are choosing the person you want to become. Not the one fate gave you. Not the one fear shaped you into. The one you choose."
He tapped the blank space gently.
"If you write 'kind,' then you will try to be kind. You will fail sometimes — that's normal. But every time you fall, the word you chose pulls you back to your feet."
He breathed slowly.
"If you write 'brave,' then fear cannot stop you. Even when your heart shakes, the paper reminds you of your choice."
His expression softened — almost mournful.
"And if you write 'honest,' then you will carry truth even when it hurts, even when lying would save you."
Tervain looked at Verrith — the real Verrith, standing frozen in the dream.
"We are shaped by the words we choose…and the weight we give them."
He placed the paper into Verrith's hands — the adult's hands, trembling slightly as the edges brushed his skin.
"That's why the page matters. Not because it's magic. Not because it changes the world."
He gently pressed Verrith's hand around the paper.
"It changes you."
He continued, "after that you asked me how you can become that?"
Tervain smiled — that rare, warm, absolutely human smile Verrith hadn't seen in years.
"You write the word down," he whispered.
"And you choose it. And you carry it. And you fail it. And you return to it and finally: You grow into it."
His eyes — alive and steady — held Verrith's with gentle certainty.
"That is how a person becomes who they are meant to be. Not by fate. Not by birth. Not by the soul. But by the promise they make to themselves."
He touched Verrith's forehead, an old gesture he hadn't used since the days before everything shattered.
"A word, Verrith, write a word and let it guide you."
The dream around them faded, dissolving into gray.
Tervain's voice lingered like a final breath, "You don't need to be perfect. You only need to be true."
— ✦ —
Verrith snapped awake with a sharp inhale.
Not a scream.Not a gasp.
Just a quick, harsh breath like something cold had punched straight through his ribs.
The fire was still burning low.
Sky was asleep — or trying to be.
Tervain sat with his back turned, humming softly as he sorted dried roots.
Nothing had changed.
Except Verrith's heartbeat.
It throbbed hard, uneven, like it wanted to crawl out of his chest and run away from the dream before it could settle too deeply.
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
'Why that dream?'
Why now?'
A hot, sharp irritation twisted through him — not fear, not sadness.
Anger.
At himself.
At that memory.
At that childish, hopeful version of him who thought one word scribbled on a page could fix anything.
It felt ridiculous. Embarrassing. Infuriating.
He dug his nails into his palm and quietly hissed through his teeth.
"Why…" he muttered under his breath, too low for either Sky or Tervain to hear, "why do I keep dreaming about that stupid lesson…?"
His breath trembled.
He hated the way the dream left him feeling — like something inside him had been tugged awake, something he had buried years ago because it was easier to function without it.
He hated that Tervain — the real, living Tervain — probably didn't remember that moment at all considering his behavior.
And worst of all…
He hated that some part of him still wanted it to matter.
Verrith clenched his jaw.
The memory rose again — Tervain kneeling calmly, placing the page in his hands, telling him to write the word he wanted to grow into.
'Kind.'
Of all things.
Kind.
Verrith let out a bitter, humorless exhale.
"…Kind," he whispered, almost scoffing at the word. "What a joke."
He shifted forward, burying his face in his hands.
His voice cracked into a sharp whisper, low and angry at himself, "Why do I keep thinking I could be that again?"
His breath shook.
His fingers dug harder into his scalp.
Images hit him in flashes — the people he couldn't save, the ones he ran from, the ones he accidentally harmed, the faces of strangers he didn't help because he was too afraid to die again and again in a world already dying.
Running. Failing. Choosing the easy path.
The safe path.
The path that let other people get hurt instead of him.
That was who he was.
He squeezed his eyes tight.
"Why won't you let it go?" he whispered to the boy inside his mind, the one holding the paper, the one asking him to write again. "Why won't you let me forget it?"
Silence.
Only the crackle of the fire.
Verrith's heartbeat thudded painfully.
He whispered again, harsher, angrier, "Why do you keep asking me to be kind?"
His breath hitched — not from sadness, but from something sharp and burning lodged under his ribs.
He swallowed hard.
"Because I'm not," he muttered.
His voice grew quieter. Tighter. More brittle.
"I'm not kind. I'm not what he wanted me to become. I'm not… anything close."
His hands fell slowly from his face.
He stared at the dying fire — at the soft glow, the warmth, the ordinary peace of it.
A peace he didn't deserve.
He exhaled through clenched teeth, a frustrated, stifled sound.
"Just let me be what I am," he whispered to the empty air. "Not that hopeful child. Not that stupid promise."
He didn't notice Sky shift slightly in his sleep.
He didn't see Tervain pause in his sorting, humming faltering for half a second before returning — as if he'd heard something but pretended he didn't.
Verrith only stared at the fire, jaw tight, breathing sharp, eyes raw with something he refused to name.
He didn't cry.He didn't break.
He just sat there — angry at himself, angry at the memory, angry at the echo of Tervain's voice telling him he could still choose a word that wasn't failure.
And in a voice barely above a breath, he whispered one last time, "…I'm not kind."
The fire crackled.
No one corrected him. No one comforted him.
No one heard the bitterness except the dream he had just escaped.
But the sting in his chest lingered.
It always did.