Sunlight again.
For the second morning in a row, the light doesn't stab through Elias's eyes like knives — that's progress.
The bed creaks as he sits up. The air smells faintly of rain and crushed herbs, clean and sharp. Outside, someone's hammering wood; somewhere closer, Lira hums off-key.
Henry stretches inside their shared mind.
Henry: Morning, gentlemen. Still three of us?
Aldric: Unless one of us sublimated overnight, yes. Though if you'd like, I can test that hypothesis—
Cain: No tests before breakfast.
The body yawns — all three sharing the motion like a sync test they didn't plan.
Elias. That's who they are. Or supposed to be.
A soft knock. Mirella steps in, carrying folded clothes that smell of the sun. "Good news," she says, smiling tiredly. "The healer says you can walk short distances today. No running, no lifting, and definitely no sneaking off to the cliffs."
Henry perks up immediately. "Walking! Freedom!"
Cain: Take it slow. The muscles are still rebuilding.
Aldric: Oh, let's push limits a little. Muscles grow under stress!
Henry: You would literally explode tendons for science.
Aldric: Only small ones.
Mirella doesn't hear the chaos within. "I'll make soup when you're back. Lira's already outside waiting."
The moment she leaves, Henry can't contain himself.
Henry: Alright, team, who's piloting? I volunteer tribute.
Cain: I'll monitor balance.
Aldric: I'll document physiological feedback.
Henry: Translation: I get to drive, Cain's the backseat parent, and Aldric's scribbling imaginary notes. Perfect.
Elias swings his legs off the bed, wincing as weak muscles protest. The floor's cold under bare feet. Every step feels like moving through syrup — yet somehow, it's exhilarating.
Outside, the world hums.
The village of Asterleigh isn't grand — just cobbled paths and stone cottages kissed by moss, smoke drifting lazily from chimneys. Beyond the fields, forested hills stretch into haze. A dog barks somewhere. Chickens scatter as they pass.
Henry whistles under his breath. "Okay, this is officially better than the lightning void. Ten out of ten scenery."
Cain: Rural, safe. Low magic signatures. Good place for recovery.
Aldric: Low magic signatures? Blasphemy! I sense a faint ley current beneath that well! And—ooh, do I hear a forge?
Henry: Focus, Gandalf the Restless. We're sightseeing, not soul-sniffing.
They stop near the well where Lira sits swinging her legs, holding a half-eaten apple. She brightens immediately. "You're up! Mum said you shouldn't walk far."
Elias grins. "Define far."
She squints. "More than twenty steps."
He counts dramatically. "Then I'll take exactly nineteen."
Lira laughs, hopping down to join him. "You really are different now."
The words sting more than they expect. Henry falters.
Henry: She's not wrong.
Cain: It's natural. She's seeing inconsistencies between Elias's old patterns and ours.
Aldric: Could disguise it as post-fever personality recalibration! Perfectly scientific.
Henry: Or — hear me out — we just be normal.
Aldric: Define normal.
Henry: Less explosion, more breathing.
They walk slowly along the path skirting the wheat fields. The breeze brushes against their hair — someone else's hair, technically. Golden brown, lighter than Henry ever had.
For a while, there's peace. The quiet kind that doesn't demand words.
Then Cain speaks softly, inwardly:
Cain: We should learn about this world properly. Language, culture, dangers. Survival isn't just physical; it's contextual.
Henry: Translation: homework.
Aldric: Research! My favourite pastime!
Henry: I swear, if you start taking magical soil samples—
Aldric: I would need a spoon and moral support.
Cain's tone gentles.
Cain: Henry. You adapt fastest to people. Talk to your sister, learn what you can. Let her see "Elias" is really still here.
Henry hesitates — then nods mentally. "Alright. Watch and learn."
Out loud, he says, "Hey, Lira. What's changed while I was sick?"
She skips ahead, talking with the unstoppable energy of a child finally allowed to speak. "Mum's been working double shifts. The healer says the Fever Season's worse this year. The crops aren't growing right. And the merchant caravan hasn't come back since the storm."
Cain processes the details immediately — medical shortages, economic strain, possible magical weather event.
Aldric hums internally, "Interesting. Leyline imbalance could cause crop failure and storm escalation. If my runes—"
Henry: Not. The. Time.
He looks at Lira, who's frowning now, poking at a pebble.
"You worried about Mum?" he asks gently.
Lira shrugs. "She doesn't say it, but… yeah. Money's tight. And you being sick made her cry. Don't do that again."
A lump forms in their throat — three emotional responses colliding: Henry's guilt, Cain's empathy, Aldric's detached curiosity curdling into something uncomfortably close to regret.
Henry forces a grin. "I'll do my best to stay boringly healthy."
She grins back. "Good. I like boring."
They spend another hour outside, talking about nothing — local gossip, the neighbor's goat, Lira's latest attempt to bake bread "without adult supervision" (results: explosive). Aldric declares her a "promising apprentice in chaotic experimentation." Cain calls it "reckless." Henry calls it "family."
When the sun climbs high, they head back home. Mirella's waiting at the doorway, arms crossed but smiling. "Not twenty steps, I see."
"Technically," Henry says, "we took nineteen forward and one emotionally fulfilling backward."
Mirella snorts. "I'll allow it."
Later that afternoon, after Lira's gone to play and Mirella naps by the hearth, the trio finally has quiet.
The shared mind hums like low static.
Cain: We handled that well. You two did, anyway.
Henry: We didn't trip or scream about souls. I call that a win.
Aldric: Observation: synchronization increasing by approximately 7%. Emotional stability marginally improved.
Henry: Did you just measure feelings?
Aldric: Naturally. Feelings are just chemical data wearing poetry.
Henry: You're terrifying.
Cain: He's useful.
They lapse into silence again — the peaceful kind that doesn't quite hide the underlying question neither wants to ask: Who are we becoming?
Finally, Henry breaks it.
Henry: You ever think about... Elias? The original?
Cain's answer comes slow.
Cain: Constantly. We're living in what's left of his life. We owe him more than survival.
Aldric hums softly, not mocking this time. "Three souls occupy one vessel, but the echo of the fourth — the host — lingers in the seams. His essence stabilizes us."
Henry: So... he's still here, somewhere?
Aldric: A whisper in the fabric, perhaps. Not gone. Integrated.
Henry: That's heavy.
Cain: Then we honor him by living well. By not wasting the second chances we stole.
The thought hangs there — fragile, sincere.
For a moment, none of them speaks. The body breathes. A warm draft from the fire brushes against their skin.
Evening falls.
Mirella wakes, stretching. "Elias, could you fetch some firewood from the stack?"
Henry almost says we before catching himself.
"Sure, Mum."
They step outside again, this time under a bruised sky — orange fading to indigo. The fields hum with crickets. The first stars flicker above the horizon, faint and cold.
Aldric breaks the silence.
Aldric: You know, statistically speaking, things have been far too calm.
Henry: Don't jinx it.
Aldric: I don't believe in jinxes. I believe in cause, effect, and the inevitable return of chaos.
Cain: Then let's be ready for it when it comes.
The air grows cooler. In the distance, thunder murmurs faintly — not close, but not gone either.
Henry glances toward it, uneasy.
"Looks like rain again."
Aldric: Or opportunity.
Cain: Or warning.
They turn back toward the house, arms full of wood, three minds quietly aligned for once — if only for a heartbeat.
Tomorrow will bring new complications. But tonight, they've walked, laughed, and lived without breaking apart. That's enough.