Morning broke pale and cold over the forest village. Mist curled low along the ground, clinging to roofs and fences like breath that refused to fade. The rain had left puddles that mirrored the gray sky, and in those reflections, Aiden saw fragments of the life he was born into — and the one he no longer wanted.
The path toward the manor felt longer than it ever had. He carried a small bundle of herbs under one arm, meant for his father's physician. Duty, not affection, drew him back to the place he had once called home.
As he reached the gates, a stable boy snickered. "The useless heir returns," the boy muttered to no one in particular.
Aiden ignored it. He was used to such whispers.
Inside, the manor was loud — servants moving briskly, his elder brother laughing from the courtyard. When Aiden entered, the laughter stopped for a moment, replaced by smirks and sidelong glances.
"Well, look who the wind dragged in," said Callen, his older brother, tall and sharp-eyed like a hawk that had learned cruelty too young. "Did the forest spirits finally tire of your company?"
Aiden's jaw tightened. "I came to deliver the medicine Father requested."
"Medicine?" Callen stepped closer, the corners of his mouth curling. "Or another excuse to play healer when you can't even conjure a spark?"
The servants tittered behind their hands.
Aiden said nothing. Words were wasted on those who had already decided who he was.
Their father's voice cut through the hall. "Enough."
Lord Theron descended the stairs, his silver hair immaculate, his eyes cold as forged steel. "You disgrace this house with your silence, boy," he said without looking at Aiden directly. "A son of noble blood should wield power, command respect. And yet you wander the woods like a beggar, tending plants."
Aiden bowed his head. "Someone must, Father."
Theron's gaze hardened. "Spare me your insolence. You carry my blood, yet the gods gave you nothing. No spirit gift, no strength. Only shame. Were it not for your mother's memory, I'd have cast you out years ago."
Callen's smirk deepened. "He's already halfway there."
Aiden's hands tightened around the bundle of herbs. He wanted to speak — to shout that power wasn't everything, that compassion mattered too — but the words died before they reached his tongue. Instead, he turned away.
The manor's marble floor gleamed beneath his boots, cold and unwelcoming.
When he returned to the cottage, evening had settled like ash. Smoke from the hearth drifted lazily through the air. Liara was kneeling near the fire, mending one of his worn cloaks. She looked up as he entered, sensing the heaviness he carried.
"You're late," she said softly. "I was beginning to worry."
He managed a faint smile. "Don't. I'm fine."
But she saw the lie in his eyes — the dimness that hadn't been there before, the quiet ache in the way he moved.
He sat down beside the hearth, the warmth painting his face gold. For a while, they said nothing. Only the fire spoke, its gentle crackle filling the silence.
Finally, Liara asked, "Who hurt you?"
He shook his head. "No one. Just words."
Her brows furrowed. "Words can wound deeper than blades."
Aiden gave a tired laugh. "You sound like my mother. She used to say that."
"Was she kind?"
"The kindest." His smile softened, but it trembled at the edges. "She believed even those without power had a place in this world. After she died, Father forgot that part."
Liara's eyes glimmered in the firelight. "He called you useless, didn't he?"
Aiden didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Liara turned away, fists curling in her lap. Fury rippled through her — bright, sharp, and unfamiliar in this mortal form. The idea that one could wound another with such cruelty, over something as shallow as strength, made her chest burn.
She had seen gods destroy empires for less, yet here was a man — a kind man — broken by words from his own blood.
"He doesn't see you," she murmured. "But I do."
Aiden blinked, startled. "What?"
She met his gaze. "You carry warmth even when the world gives you none. You heal. You listen. You offer your cloak to strangers. That is worth more than spirit fire or noble names."
He opened his mouth, but no sound came. Something inside him — a wound carved by years of silence — felt the faintest touch of healing.
"Liara," he said quietly, "you speak as if you've known pain."
Her eyes flickered, golden in the firelight. "I've known what it means to fall."
That night, Aiden fell into restless sleep. His dreams were filled with echoes of voices — his father's scorn, his brother's laughter, the emptiness that came after.
Liara sat beside him, watching the rise and fall of his breath. Her anger had not faded. It coiled inside her, fierce and protective.
In the heavens, she had been bound by divine law — forbidden to intervene in mortal suffering. But now, cast down and free of celestial chains, she found she could still summon a sliver of light.
She lifted her hand and placed it gently over his heart.
A faint warmth pulsed beneath her palm. Aiden stirred but did not wake. His face, tense with remembered hurt, softened.
Liara whispered an old blessing — the language of stars and dawns. The sound was so soft it barely stirred the air. A spark of her fading divinity shimmered to life, golden and fragile, seeping into him.
It was not power she gave, not strength or magic. It was something smaller, yet deeper — a piece of peace itself. The light settled into his heart like a quiet ember.
Her own light dimmed a little, but she did not care.
"If only they could see you as I do," she whispered. "Perhaps they would learn what true strength means."
Outside, the wind sighed through the trees, carrying her words into the night.
Aiden's breathing evened out. His dreams stilled. The pain in his heart, though not erased, grew quiet — softened by something he could not name.
Liara withdrew her hand, her expression unreadable. For the first time since her fall, she had used her gift not to destroy or heal nations, but to comfort a single soul. And somehow, that felt more divine than all the temples ever built in her name.
At dawn, Aiden woke to birdsong. The light through the window was gentle, almost kind. For a moment, he thought the weight in his chest had lifted — as if someone had brushed away the dust that grief had left behind.
He looked toward the hearth. Liara sat there again, watching the morning with distant eyes.
"You're awake," she said, voice soft.
"Yeah." He smiled faintly. "I don't know why, but… I feel lighter."
She tilted her head, hiding her small smile. "Maybe the forest finally decided to bless you."
"Maybe," he said. But some part of him wondered — and hoped — that the blessing had come from closer than the forest.