"Caw… caw… caw!" A single raven called from the tower roof.
Morning light spilled through the high windows of Blackthorn Keep. For the first time in many years, it smelled of bread instead of dust, and laughter instead of echoes.
From the upper balcony, Tristan looked out at the forest below. What had once been a gray, lifeless stretch of trees now shimmered green and gold.
Mist curled lazily over the stream, where fish darted in the shallows. Birds sang—not timidly, but with full voices. Even the old ravens had returned to perch on the watchtower spires.
"It feels alive again," Tristan murmured.
Shannon joined him, carrying two mugs of tea. "Father said the forest grew silent the day the curse began. He used to say even the wind refused to pass through the trees."
Tristan took the cup with a nod. "Then the wind must have forgiven him as well."
They stood quietly, listening to the faint rustle of the pines.
The Villagers' Return
