The hum of the chisel against the wood filled the room, a sound as familiar to me as the rustle of leaves outside my window. My hands moved with practiced precision, shaping the block of oak into the delicate form of a prancing deer. It wasn’t quite finished—one of the antlers still needed to be refined—but I could already see the gleam of excitement in a child’s eyes when they’d hold it for the first time. I smiled to myself at the thought, leaning closer to inspect the details.

The room around me was modest, its walls lined with shelves displaying a lifetime’s worth of creations. Wooden figures of all kinds populated the space—tiny horses with tails carved so fine they seemed to flicker in the light, spinning tops that hummed when they twirled, and even a miniature ferris wheel that I’d tinkered with for weeks to get just right. Each piece had a story, and while the gold they might fetch at market would have made a wealthier man of me, I treasured them more for the joy they brought to the village children.

I could almost hear their voices now, calling out with bright eyes and grubby hands, “Mr. Harith! Do you have anything new today?” The way they would crowd around my little stall on market days, squealing over the simplest of carvings—it was enough to keep me carving, even now, in the quiet of my home. I didn’t do it for the money, nor the praise. I did it because it was fun. A good way to pass the time, to feel the grain of the wood beneath my fingers and see something beautiful come to life.

The chisel caught on a knot in the wood, and I paused, adjusting my grip. Patience, I reminded myself. Woodworking wasn’t about speed; it was about listening to the material, letting it guide you. I worked the knot slowly, carving away the rough edges until it blended smoothly with the rest of the figure. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, glancing toward the shelf where other half-finished projects waited. Perhaps I’d move on to the little bird next—a commission from young Tally, who had recently taken to watching sparrows flit about my garden.

The memory of that gentleman came unbidden as I worked. He had arrived unannounced a few weeks ago, his fine clothing and polished boots a stark contrast to the simplicity of Willowshade. He had strolled into my garden, eyeing my work as if appraising it for auction.

“You’re a master of your craft, Mr. Broadfield,” he’d said, his voice oozing with practiced charm. “A talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted here in a small village. Come work for me in the capital—I’ll pay you in gold. More than you can imagine.”

I’d thanked him, of course, but refused. Money had never been my driving force. I had enough to get by, enough to live comfortably and eat well. Besides, I couldn’t imagine myself working under someone else’s demands, churning out commissions without heart. No, my creations belonged here, in Willowshade, with the children who cherished them for what they were.

The deer figure was nearly finished now. I ran a finger along the curve of its back, testing for any rough edges, and smiled. This one would go to Marcy, the baker’s youngest, who had been eyeing my stall shyly last week but hadn’t mustered the courage to ask for anything.

Perhaps tomorrow, I’d surprise her with it.

The rhythmic sound of my chisel halted at the sudden knock on the door. I straightened in my chair, setting the unfinished deer down carefully on the workbench. My hands brushed off the fine wood shavings clinging to my apron as I stood, wondering who it might be. Visitors were rare this time of day—most folks in Willowshade were busy with their own tasks.

When I opened the door, I was met with a familiar sight: a little girl with tousled brown hair and a smudge of dirt on her freckled cheek. Her name was Nessa Thorn, the cobbler’s youngest, and she stood there clutching a small bundle wrapped in a faded green scarf.

“Mr. Harith,” she said, tilting her head up at me with wide, curious eyes, “are you busy?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose that depends. What’s brought you here, Nessa?”

She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, a habit of hers I had long since grown accustomed to. Nessa had a way of moving like she belonged wherever she went, a trait that always reminded me of Ellara.

Ellara. My heart gave a familiar, quiet pang at the thought of my daughter. Nessa couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, around the same age Ellara was when she first started wandering into the forest trails, always so confident despite my warnings to stay close. I watched Nessa settle into my workshop, her little frame dwarfed by the tools and shelves, and my thoughts drifted to Ellara once more.

She was far from here now, in Iverithyn, the Elven capital. It had been years since she first left, taking that job as an emissary. I hadn’t been surprised—Ellara had always been drawn to new things, to places beyond our little village. Still, I sometimes wondered how she managed there. Elves, for all their grace and beauty, could be... particular. Reserved, even cold. They weren’t known for making it easy for outsiders to find their place among them, least of all humans.

But then again, Ellara had never been one to let something as small as doubt stop her. She was doing fine. No, more than fine. I was sure of it. She had a knack for finding her footing, even in the most unlikely places.

I chuckled softly, remembering one such time. She had been no older than five, stubborn as ever. There had been an older boy in the village—a bully, the kind that liked to push the smaller children around. One day, he’d snatched the little doll Ellara carried everywhere, tossing it into a muddy ditch. Most kids would have cried, but not Ellara. She’d marched right up to him, hands on her hips, and told him in no uncertain terms to fetch it back. When he laughed, she grabbed a stick and poked him until he ran. Then she retrieved her doll, cleaned it off, and returned home like nothing had happened.

That memory brought a smile to my face, even as I turned back to Nessa. She had perched herself on the stool next to my workbench, unwrapping the bundle to reveal a small wooden bird she’d been working on for the past few days. It was rough around the edges, the wings a little uneven, but it had a charm to it.

“What’re you making this time?” she asked, peering curiously at the deer figure I’d set aside.

“A deer,” I said, handing it to her for inspection. “Nearly finished. What do you think?”

She turned it over in her hands, squinting critically at the antlers before nodding. “Looks nice. Better than the one you made last week.”

I laughed. “High praise, coming from you.”

Nessa reached for her little chisel and set to work on her bird, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. I watched her for a moment, her small hands carefully scraping away at the wood, and felt a swell of quiet pride. She had taken to carving like a fish to water, and though her pieces were still rough, there was a spark of talent there.

“Don’t forget to sand the wings,” I reminded her, picking up my own chisel again.

“I know,” she replied with exaggerated patience, mimicking my tone. “You tell me that every time.”

I chuckled, turning my attention back to the deer. The quiet companionship of the workshop settled around us, warm and familiar, as we worked side by side. For a moment, the world beyond Willowshade seemed very far away, and I was content to stay in this moment just a little while longer.

As I put the finishing touches on the deer, smoothing its antlers with a piece of fine-grit sandpaper, my attention shifted to Nessa. Her small hands moved methodically, scraping at the rough edges of her wooden bird with surprising precision for someone her age. She had fallen into her usual quiet focus, humming softly to herself, but I knew well enough why she came here.

Her parents weren’t exactly what you’d call harmonious. Most of the village knew it—raised voices and slamming doors carried easily through the cobblestone streets of Willowshade. I’d seen Nessa slip out of their house more than once, her face set in a determined sort of way, as though she’d decided she was better off finding her own peace elsewhere.

She never said much about it, and I never asked. But it didn’t take a genius to piece things together. No child should have to grow up listening to the kinds of words her parents hurled at each other. It wasn’t fair to her, to her quiet little heart.

She belonged here instead, in this small, sunlit corner of the world where the smell of freshly carved wood and the warmth of a steady fire could drown out the shouting. I never minded her company, but deep down, I felt sorry for her.

My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to memories of my own wife. My breath caught for a moment, the way it always did when I thought of Reina. I set the deer down on the workbench, the carved wood cool against my fingers, and let the memory take hold.

Reina. I could see her as clear as if she’d just stepped through the door, her auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders and her hands dusted with flour from kneading bread. She’d always laughed at how I teased her about leaving handprints on every surface. “It’s how you know I’m here,” she’d say, grinning as she swiped a floury hand over my shirt for good measure.

There had been a day, long ago, when Ellara was just a babe in her cradle, and Reina and I had taken a rare moment to ourselves. I remembered sitting on the hillside behind our house, the scent of wildflowers thick in the air as Reina leaned against my shoulder. We’d watched the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink. She’d squeezed my hand then, murmuring something about how the stars would look tonight, and I’d known in that moment I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Of course, not every moment was like that. Life wasn’t all flowers and butterflies, as Reina would say with a wry smile. We had our arguments, too—over money, over the garden, over things I couldn’t even remember now. But we’d made a pact early on: never in front of Ellara. No matter how much we disagreed, we kept our voices low and our words careful, saving our battles for when our daughter wasn’t around to hear them.

A soft voice broke through my reverie.

“Do you miss her?”

I blinked, startled, and turned to Nessa. She was still working on her little bird, her chisel steady, but her tone was casual, as if she were asking about the weather.

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Nessa had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, and this wasn’t the first time she’d caught me off guard. Sometimes I wondered if she could read minds—or at least emotions—with the same ease she carved wood. Maybe she had a spark of magic in her, the kind that let her see what others couldn’t.

“Yes,” I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended. “I miss her. Reina and Ellara. The two most important people in my life.”

Nessa paused her work, glancing up at me with those sharp, curious eyes of hers. For a moment, she seemed much older than her years, as if she understood far more than she should.

“I thought so,” she said simply, before returning to her bird.

I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head as I reached for my tools. Reina always used to say I had a knack for attracting the curious ones, the ones with a spark of something special in them. As I watched Nessa carve away, I couldn’t help but think she was right.

I watched Nessa as she carefully smoothed the edges of her bird’s wings, the concentration etched on her young face. A thought I’d been turning over for days finally rose to the surface, and before I could talk myself out of it, I spoke.

“Nessa,” I began, my voice steady but laced with curiosity. “Have you ever heard of the Archatian Academy?”

She glanced up, her brow furrowing slightly. “The magical school? The one in the capital?”

“That’s the one,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I’ve heard it’s where the best of the best go to study magic. Only the brightest and most talented students get accepted.”

She set her chisel down, tilting her head as she studied me. “Why’re you asking me about it?”

I smiled, trying to keep the tone casual. “Because I think you’ve got something special in you, Nessa. I’ve never seen you throw a fireball or summon an ice spear, sure. But reading minds? That’s magic too, isn’t it?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, fiddling with the bird in her hands. “I don’t know if it’s magic,” she said softly. “Sometimes... I just know what people are thinking. Not always, just... sometimes. It’s not like I can control it or anything.”

“That doesn’t make it any less remarkable,” I said, my voice firm but kind. “You have something in you, Nessa. Something beyond what most people could ever dream of.”

She shrugged, her shoulders small and weighed down. “Doesn’t matter. My parents would never let me go. They don’t even like it when I come here, you know.”

I nodded, though it pained me to hear it. “And what about you? Do you want to go?”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s not like I’ve ever tried to do real magic. What if I can’t? And anyway, if it’s the best magical academy, it’s probably really expensive.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Money’s not a problem, Nessa. I worked hard for years as a vegetable merchant, and I’ve saved more than enough to give someone like you a chance.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise, but before she could respond, a sharp knock on the door interrupted us.

I straightened, glancing toward the door. Two visitors in one afternoon? That was a rarity. “Hold that thought,” I said, rising from my chair.

Nessa gave me a curious look but stayed silent as I crossed the room. My hand rested on the doorknob for a moment before I pulled it open, wondering who else had come calling.

Standing in the doorway was a young elf, his striking presence enough to still the air around him. His attire was a tapestry of elegance: deep emerald and gold, tailored with a precision that whispered of wealth and status. His golden hair fell neatly to his shoulders, and though his youthful features radiated a kind of ageless beauty, his sharp eyes carried a weight of authority. Behind him stood two towering bodyguards, clad in dark leather armor accented with silver, their faces impassive and unreadable.

“Good afternoon,” the elf began, his voice smooth and melodic, each word spoken with the kind of grace that made it seem like a gift. “I am Prince Laryndel, brother to King Aeryndel of Iverithyn.”

The name sent a jolt through me, and I instinctively bowed, a gesture more reflexive than intentional. It wasn’t every day that royalty showed up at my doorstep.

The prince inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, a faint smile gracing his lips. “I have come to deliver a message personally,” he continued, “from the soon-to-be Queen, Ellara Broadfield.”

The words struck me like a hammer to the chest. My daughter—soon-to-be Queen? Ellara, my little girl who used to climb trees in her patched skirts and muddy boots, was marrying a king? For a moment, I could only stare at him, my thoughts spinning.

As if reading my mind, Prince Laryndel extended a letter, pressing it gently into my hand. His touch was cool, his demeanor patient. “Her words will explain everything,” he said. “I must take my leave now. My brother’s bride would not forgive me if I delayed her father’s journey.”

With that, he gave a polite nod, turned gracefully, and left, his guards following him like shadows. I stood there for a moment, the door still open, watching their figures disappear down the quiet street.

Finally, I closed the door, my heart still racing, and turned my attention to the letter in my hand. The parchment was thick and folded with precision, sealed with a wax emblem bearing the intricate sigil of Iverithyn—a tree with branches intertwining into a crown.

With careful hands, I broke the seal and unfolded the letter, the familiar scrawl of my daughter’s handwriting greeting me. My eyes scanned the opening lines, my mind barely able to keep up with the revelations they held.

Dearest Father,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. It feels like ages since I’ve seen you, and I miss you more than words can express. Not a day passes that I don’t think of our home in Willowshade, your garden, and the warmth of your workshop.

This may come as a surprise—no, it will come as a surprise—but I’m writing to share some news. I am to be married, Father. And not just to anyone... to King Aeryndel of Iverithyn.

I know, I know. It must sound like something out of a fairy tale, doesn’t it? The truth is, it’s a long story, one far too complex and winding to explain in a single letter. But what I can tell you is that he is kind, wise, and strong in a way that reminds me of you. And though I’ve spent years feeling like an outsider in this world of elves, Aeryndel has made me feel seen and valued in ways I never imagined possible.

Our wedding is to be held three months from the time you receive this letter. It will be a grand celebration, not just for us but for the union of our two peoples. Iverithyn is bustling with preparations already, and I cannot wait to have you here to be part of it all.

The journey will take about a month on foot, but I have no doubt you’ll make it in time. Please come, Father. It would mean the world to me to have you here.

There is so much I want to tell you, so many things I want to share. But more than anything, I just want to see you again.

Take care of yourself on the road, and know that I will be counting the days until your arrival.

With all my love, Ellara, your daughter.

I stared at the words long after I’d finished reading them, my heart full and heavy all at once. My daughter—a Queen. I could hardly wrap my head around it. And yet, the thought that she wanted me there, that she needed me there, filled me with an overwhelming sense of purpose.

Setting the letter down, I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Three months. That was plenty of time to reach Iverithyn. But I didn’t want to waste a single day. My thoughts began to race, mapping out the journey ahead. Though I’d never been to the elven kingdom, I knew the way well enough.

The first leg of the trip would take me to the Capital City. It wasn’t far—two days’ walk if I kept a steady pace. From there, the path would become more uncertain, winding through lands I had only ever heard of in stories. Iverithyn lay deep within the Glimmering Wood, a place few humans had ventured into.

I glanced at Nessa, who was watching me in silence, her small hands still resting on the unfinished wooden bird. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes—an unspoken question, perhaps a quiet yearning.

“Nessa,” I said, my tone more serious than usual. “Do you want to go to the Archatian Academy? To become the best mage you can be?”

Her eyes widened slightly, the question clearly catching her off guard. She looked away, her gaze drifting toward the window. From where we sat, she could see her home in the distance—a small, worn cottage with peeling paint and a sagging roof. Her father was slumped in a chair outside, a half-empty bottle dangling from his hand as he dozed in the afternoon sun.

She didn’t speak right away, but I could see the thoughts running through her mind. When she finally turned back to me, her voice was steady but tinged with quiet resolve.

“Anywhere is better than my home,” she said, the words heavy with truth. “I can’t take it anymore, Mr. Harith. If going to the Academy means I can stand on my own two feet... then I’ll go with you.”

Her answer didn’t surprise me, but it struck a chord nonetheless. She was too young to carry the kind of weight I saw in her eyes, yet here she was, making a choice that even adults would struggle with. I nodded slowly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Then we’ll leave together,” I said. “You’ll have your chance to see what you’re capable of, and we’ll see you to that Academy.”

“Now help me packed up, we will leave soon.”

To be continued...

The first light of morning painted the world in soft hues of gold and lavender as Nessa and I stepped onto the road. The air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of dew-soaked grass and wildflowers. Birds were just beginning their morning songs, their lilting calls breaking the quiet stillness.

Nessa walked a few paces ahead of me, her wooden bird tucked under one arm, her eager steps kicking up small puffs of dust from the road. She’d been unusually quiet so far, her excitement evident in the way her head turned to take in every detail of the world waking around us.

“You know,” she said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence, “I’ve never been past Willowshade. Not once.”

I smiled, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “Then it sounds like today’s the start of something new for you.”

She nodded, a spark of determination in her eyes. “A new chapter,” she said, almost to herself.

When we reached the edge of the village, the old wooden gate came into view. It wasn’t much—just a simple archway draped in ivy, flanked by weathered stone posts. Beyond it, the road stretched out into rolling hills, bathed in the soft glow of dawn.

As we passed beneath the arch, I glanced back instinctively, my eyes lingering on Willowshade.

The village was still and peaceful in the early light, its cobblestone streets glistening faintly with morning dew. Thatched cottages dotted the landscape, their chimneys releasing thin spirals of smoke into the air. The great willow tree that gave the village its name stood at its center, its ancient branches swaying gently in the breeze. Its roots dipped into the well, which reflected the golden sky like a pool of liquid sunlight.

Fields of wildflowers stretched beyond the cottages, their vibrant colors muted in the dawn but no less beautiful. The sounds of daily life were just beginning—doors creaking open, the faint clatter of pots as someone prepared breakfast, and the low murmur of voices from the baker’s shop.

But Nessa didn’t look back. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, her steps resolute, as though she were eager to leave the village behind and take her first real steps into the wider world.

I let my gaze linger a moment longer, then turned to follow her. “No second thoughts, I see,” I said, catching up to her.

She glanced at me, her expression firm but with the faintest smile. “Nothing back there for me, Mr. Harith. Only forward from here.”

I nodded, her words carrying a weight I didn’t expect from someone so young. Together, we walked on, the gate of Willowshade fading into the distance as the road stretched out before us. The journey had begun.

The road stretched before us like a ribbon of earth and stone, bordered by tall trees that swayed gently in the morning breeze. Their leaves, a vibrant green, shimmered with drops of dew, and the occasional ray of sunlight broke through the canopy above, creating patterns of light and shadow on the ground. It was quiet, save for the rhythmic crunch of our footsteps on the dirt path and the occasional chirping of birds from the branches above.

Nessa walked beside me, her wooden bird tucked under her arm, her eyes flitting from one thing to another as though she were trying to soak in every detail of this unfamiliar world.

“My sister says the road’s dangerous,” she said suddenly, her voice breaking the stillness.

I glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “Your sister?”

“My oldest sister, Clara,” Nessa explained, kicking a small stone off the path. “She works in the Capital City now. As a cleaner. She said there’s all sorts of dangers out here—bandits, wild animals, even monsters sometimes. Can you fight, Mr. Harith?”

The question caught me off guard, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fight? Me?” I shook my head, smiling. “I’ve never had a fight in my entire life, Nessa. Never saw the need for it. I’ve always believed there’s a better way to handle things than with violence.”

“That’s it?” she asked, giving me a skeptical look. “You’ve never even thrown a punch?”

“Not once,” I said, my voice light with amusement. “It’s one of the reasons Reina chose me, you know. She always said I was a man of peace, and she liked that better than all the other loud, brawling men who came courting.”

Nessa frowned, clearly unconvinced. “That’s nice and all, but what if there’s a monster out here? You can’t just talk it out of eating us, can you?”

Her words gave me pause, and for a moment, my mind wandered. She wasn’t wrong. It was one thing to believe in peace and nonviolence—it was another to be completely unprepared for the realities of the road. I’d rarely ventured beyond Willowshade myself, except for the occasional business trip, and those trips had never been longer than a few days. Nothing dangerous had ever crossed my path then, but this journey was different. A month on the road, through unfamiliar lands, was no small undertaking.

I sighed inwardly, acknowledging the truth of her words. I would need to find some way to protect myself and Nessa, should the need arise.

Still, I wasn’t about to admit my own doubts to her. “Don’t you worry,” I said, my tone cheerful. “Animals and monsters always seem to leave me be. Maybe they can sense I’m no threat.”

That earned me a laugh—one loud and genuine, her skepticism giving way to amusement. “Oh, sure,” she said between giggles. “A monster’s going to take one look at you and say, ‘Oh, he’s harmless, better not eat him.’ That’s a great plan.”

Her laughter was infectious, and I found myself chuckling along with her, despite my lingering thoughts. The truth was, I didn’t have a plan yet. But there was plenty of road ahead to think of one. For now, I let the conversation and the quiet beauty of the path carry us forward.

After a few hours of walking, the road widened slightly, offering a small patch of shade beneath an old oak tree. The sun was climbing higher now, and the air carried the warmth of late morning. It seemed a good place to rest.

We settled ourselves on the soft grass by the roadside, and as I reached into my bag for the bread, the rhythmic sound of footsteps and clinking metal drew our attention.

A group of soldiers marched down the road, their polished armor gleaming in the sunlight, their weapons sheathed but ready. There were a dozen of them, maybe more, their faces bright with determination despite the weight of their task.

I watched them pass, their boots kicking up little clouds of dust as they moved with purpose. Rumors had reached even Willowshade—whispers of demons sweeping across the land, conquering everything in their path. They said the Kingdom was losing ground with each passing day, but looking at these soldiers, you wouldn’t know it. There was hope in their eyes, a fire that couldn’t be snuffed out, and it was heartening to see.

When they disappeared down the road, I turned back to our small meal, breaking the loaf of bread in half and handing a piece to Nessa.

The bread was simple and hearty, made with coarse-ground flour and a hint of honey. Its crust was firm but not too hard, cracking pleasantly under my fingers as I tore it apart. The inside was soft and dense, the kind of bread that filled your stomach and left you feeling steady for the journey ahead.

Nessa took her half eagerly, biting into it with a satisfied hum. “This is good,” she said, her words muffled slightly by the bread in her mouth.

“Glad you think so,” I replied, tearing off a piece for myself. “It’s from old Bertie’s bakery. She’s been making bread like this since before you were born.”

Nessa leaned back against the tree, chewing thoughtfully. After a moment, her gaze wandered down the road. “What do you think the Capital is like?”

I paused, considering her question. “It’s been years since I’ve been there,” I admitted. “But I remember it being big—bigger than anything you can imagine. The streets were full of people, all kinds of people, and the markets stretched on for miles. You could find just about anything there if you knew where to look.”

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. “What about the buildings? Were they tall? What did they look like?”

“Oh, tall enough to make your neck ache if you tried to see the tops,” I said with a chuckle. “Stone towers and sprawling courtyards, fountains in every square... But that was a long time ago. For all I know, it could be completely different now.”

Nessa tilted her head. “Do you think it’s prettier than Iverithyn?”

That made me pause, a smile tugging at my lips. “I haven’t seen Iverithyn yet,” I said. “But from what I’ve heard, it would be hard for any place to compete with an elven city. Silver trees, glowing streams, palaces that look like they’re part of the forest... It sounds like something out of a dream.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “I want to see all of it,” she said quietly. “The Capital, Iverithyn, the Academy... Everything.”

I smiled at her, a quiet pride swelling in my chest. “And you will,” I said. “This is just the beginning.”

We ate the rest of our bread in comfortable silence, the quiet hum of the road around us filling the gaps in our conversation. The world felt vast and full of possibility, and for the first time in a long while, I felt ready to face whatever lay ahead.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the road as we pressed on. The light turned golden, and the air grew cooler, the promise of nightfall settling over the forest around us. The trees had grown taller and denser, their thick branches forming a canopy that filtered the remaining sunlight into soft, scattered beams.

“We’ll need to find a spot to sleep soon,” I said, my eyes scanning the woods for a suitable clearing. “It’s always better to sleep off the road. Safer.”

Nessa nodded, but her curiosity hadn’t dimmed with the fading light. She walked beside me, clutching her wooden bird and stealing glances at me as though working up the courage to ask something.

“What’s on your mind, Nessa?” I finally asked, breaking the silence.

She hesitated, then blurted, “What does Ellara look like?”

The question caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. But then I smiled, the thought of my daughter filling my heart. “Ellara,” I began, my voice softening, “has hair the color of autumn leaves, a rich auburn that seems to glow when the sun catches it just right. Her eyes... they’re sharp and green, like fresh spring grass. And her smile—well, when she smiles, you can’t help but feel like the whole world’s a little brighter.”

Nessa watched me closely as I spoke, her small hands gripping her bird tightly. “You really love her, don’t you?” she said after a moment, her voice quiet, almost wondering.

I nodded, the corners of my mouth lifting. “More than anything,” I said simply.

She didn’t say anything right away, her gaze dropping to the ground as she walked. I could tell she was thinking hard about something, but she didn’t share it.

We soon found a clearing tucked away in the trees, just large enough for a small tent and a fire. The forest here felt alive, the air rich with the scent of pine and earth, the sound of distant crickets blending with the rustle of leaves overhead.

“This’ll do,” I said, setting my bag down and gesturing for Nessa to help me. Together, we cleared away the underbrush and smoothed out the ground. I set up the tent while she arranged a circle of stones for the fire.

By the time the tent was pitched and the fire crackled warmly, night had fully settled over the forest. Stars dotted the sky above the treetops, their light faint but steady. I pulled out the small pot I’d packed and set it over the fire, adding water and a handful of dried vegetables and herbs from my bag.

As the soup began to simmer, the rich, earthy aroma filled the clearing, mingling with the smoky scent of the fire. When it was ready, I ladled the steaming broth into two wooden bowls and handed one to Nessa. She cradled it in her hands, the warmth bringing a soft smile to her face.

The soup was simple—potatoes, carrots, and a touch of rosemary—but it was hearty and comforting, the kind of meal that filled you with warmth from the inside out. We ate quietly for a while, the sounds of the forest around us creating a peaceful backdrop.

Nessa set her bowl down and picked up her chisel, resuming work on her wooden bird. The firelight flickered over her face as she carved, her small hands steady and focused.

I watched her for a moment, the sight of her working bringing a quiet satisfaction. She was determined, that much was clear. And though she hadn’t spoken about her earlier thoughts, I could see them lingering in her expression, a mix of curiosity and something deeper—something I recognized but didn’t want to press.

“You’ll finish that bird before we reach the Capital at this rate,” I said lightly, breaking the silence.

She looked up, her lips curving into a small smile. “I hope so,” she said, then returned to her work.

The fire crackled softly, and the night settled around us, a cocoon of warmth and calm. It was the first of many nights on the road, but in that moment, it felt like a world of its own—a small, quiet haven carved out of the vast unknown ahead.

As we settled into the tent, the quiet of the forest wrapped around us like a thick blanket. The faint crackle of the dying fire outside was the only sound, the world otherwise hushed in the stillness of night. Nessa lay next to me, her small frame bundled tightly in her blanket, the wooden bird she’d been carving earlier tucked carefully by her side.

For a while, neither of us said anything, and I thought she might have already drifted off to sleep. But then, her voice came softly, almost hesitant.

“Do you think my dad loves me?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and unanswerable. I didn’t know what to say, and for a moment, I let the silence hang between us.

Finally, I exhaled and spoke, my voice low and measured. “Nessa,” I began, “I think most parents in the world love their children. It’s just... some parents don’t show it the way you’d expect. Or maybe they show it in ways that are hard to recognize.”

She turned her head toward me, her eyes catching the faint moonlight that seeped through the tent’s opening. “You really think so?” she asked, her voice tinged with doubt.

“I do,” I said. “But I also know there are some parents who... don’t love their children. Or maybe they’ve forgotten how to show it. And that’s not the child’s fault.”

She fell quiet again, thinking. I could see the question lingering on her face, the weight of it pressing down on her small shoulders.

“Like my own father,” I said softly, surprising even myself by sharing. “When I was your age, he used to beat me. Not because he hated me, but because he thought it was the only way to make me strong. He’d say, ‘A man has to be tough, Harith. The world won’t go easy on you.’ But I didn’t want to be tough. I wanted to be left alone, to read or carve, to live in peace. And I hated him for it.”

Nessa’s eyes widened slightly. “Did you ever forgive him?”

I nodded, my expression wistful. “It took time. It wasn’t until I got older—about the same age he was when he passed—that I realized what he was trying to do. He didn’t know any other way to prepare me for the world. In his own way, he meant well. I might not agree with it, but I understand it now.”

She shifted slightly, her blanket rustling as she turned the thought over in her mind. “So... maybe my parents love me too, but they’re just... bad at showing it?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know your parents well enough to say for sure. But people have strange ways of showing love sometimes. Given a different chance, or a different time, they might show it in ways you don’t expect.”

Nessa looked up at the tent ceiling, her brow furrowed in thought. “I hope so,” she said quietly.

I didn’t reply, letting her words hang in the soft dark. After a while, her breathing grew steady, and I knew she’d fallen asleep.

Lying there, I stared into the shadows of the tent, my own thoughts turning. Parents. Children. The things we do out of love, the ways we fail despite our best intentions. I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, the forest outside humming with the quiet life of the night, and allowed myself to drift into sleep.

The stillness of the night was broken by faint noises—murmurs and the crunch of footsteps on dry leaves just outside the tent. My eyes snapped open, heart suddenly pounding in my chest. I lay frozen for a moment, listening, every nerve on edge.

To be continued...

The voices were low but distinct, carrying a sinister undertone that sent a chill through me.

“Looks like we’ve found our prey,” one of them said, his voice rough and laced with cruel amusement.

“Didn’t think they’d be so careless, camping out here,” another replied, followed by a soft chuckle. “This’ll be easy.”

I felt my stomach drop, my mind racing. Whoever they were, they were close—too close.

Keeping my movements slow and deliberate, I turned my head toward Nessa. She was still fast asleep, her face peaceful in the dim light of the tent. Gritting my teeth, I reached out and gently shook her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion flickering across her face.

Before she could speak, I pressed a finger to my lips, meeting her gaze with a steady look. She froze, her clever mind grasping the situation immediately. Her small hands clutched her blanket, and I saw her swallow nervously, but she didn’t make a sound.

The voices outside continued, now closer than ever.

“You check the tent,” one said, the tone of command unmistakable. “The rest of you spread out. Make sure they don’t bolt.”

Nessa’s eyes widened, and I gave her a small nod, trying to project calm despite the fear thrumming in my veins. Whoever they were, they weren’t here by accident—and they weren’t looking for a friendly chat.

The tent ripped open with a violent screech, the fabric tearing like paper under clawed hands. A figure loomed in the jagged opening, his face a grotesque mix of scars and malice. His wide, crooked grin revealed yellowed teeth as his eyes locked onto me and Nessa.

“Gotcha,” he hissed, stepping forward with a predator’s ease.

Before I could react, his rough hand grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking me out of the tent with a force that sent pain shooting through my scalp. I stumbled as he dragged me into the clearing, throwing me to the ground like a sack of grain.

“Nessa!” I gasped, trying to get my bearings, but she was already there, pulled roughly from the tent and pushed down beside me. She stayed quiet, her wide eyes darting from me to the bandits surrounding us.

As I struggled to sit up, I noticed a figure seated a few feet away, casually perched on a wooden chair that looked absurdly out of place in the forest. He sat lazily, one leg draped over the other, a small knife in his hand as he clipped his nails with practiced indifference.

My breath caught as recognition struck me. The mohawk—shaved close on the sides and sticking up like the feathers of a bird—and that scar cutting across his mouth, pulling his lips into a perpetual sneer. It couldn’t be.

“Torven?” I said, my voice cracking slightly.

The man didn’t react at first, his attention fixed on his nails. He finished clipping one, examined it briefly, and then shifted his gaze to me. His eyes narrowed as if trying to place me, and then they widened in sudden realization.

“Harith?” he said, his voice filled with disbelief.

I nodded, still catching my breath as I sat up straighter.

Torven blinked, his lazy demeanor replaced by an awkward tension. “Oh, gods. It is you.” He stood abruptly, his knife falling to his side as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn it, I—I didn’t know it was you.”

The other bandits exchanged confused glances, their menacing posture faltering as their leader’s tone softened.

Torven took a step closer, crouching slightly to get a better look at me. “Harith Broadfield. The vegetable man.” He chuckled nervously, scratching his head. “Well, ain’t this awkward?”

“Awkward?” I said, raising an eyebrow despite the throbbing pain in my head. “You rip open my tent and throw me into the dirt. Yeah, I’d call that awkward.”

He grimaced. “Sorry, sorry. Honest mistake. We don’t usually run into... uh, friendly faces out here.”

Nessa, still silent beside me, stared at him with wide eyes, her body tense. Torven noticed her and straightened up, waving his hands in a show of harmlessness. “Don’t worry, kid. I’m not gonna hurt you. This was... all a misunderstanding.”

I snorted, shaking my head. “Misunderstanding or not, what are you doing out here, Torven? And with... all this?” I gestured to the other bandits, who were still watching us warily.

Torven sighed, shoving his knife into a sheath on his belt. “It’s a long story, Harith. I ain’t proud of it, but it’s the life I got. Not everyone makes it out of the gutter the way you did.”

I frowned, the memories flooding back. Torven—an orphaned boy who used to loiter near my vegetable stall back in Willowshade. I’d fed him scraps every day, watched him grow into a wiry teenager with a sharp tongue and a knack for survival. I hadn’t seen him in years.

“You were just a kid back then,” I said, my voice quieter. “I didn’t think you’d end up...”

“A bandit?” Torven finished for me, his tone dry. “Yeah, well. Not exactly my dream career, but it’s better than starving in the streets.” He scratched his head again, looking genuinely embarrassed. “Listen, if I’d known it was you, we wouldn’t have bothered you. No harm, no foul, right?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You call dragging me out of my tent and scaring the life out of us ‘no harm’?”

Torven winced. “Alright, fair. That was on me.” He turned to his men, waving them off. “Go on, pack it up. Leave ’em be. This one’s... off-limits.”

The bandits hesitated but obeyed, disappearing into the forest with grumbles and muttered complaints. Torven turned back to me, his hands on his hips.

“Look, Harith,” he said, his tone more serious now. “You should be careful out here. These roads aren’t safe, and not just because of folks like us. There’s worse things out there. But... you’re family, in a way. I owe you. So if you’re heading to the Capital, let me know. I’ll make sure no one else gives you trouble.”

Torven lingered by the campfire after his men had melted into the forest shadows. He leaned back on his heels, hands warming by the flames, his sharp eyes flicking to Nessa, who had retreated to the tent and drifted off to sleep.

“You don’t mind if I stick around for a bit, do you?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at his scarred mouth.

I waved a hand toward the fire. “Pull up a log. Seems like you’ve got some catching up to do.”

He found a seat on a fallen log, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the flickering flames. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the quiet crackle of the fire filling the space between us.

“So,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “What’re you doing out here, Harith? You looking too old to live in the woods.”

“I’m heading to the Capital,” I replied, reaching into my bag and pulling out the wooden deer I’d finished carving the day before. I held it out to him. “Here—this is what I’ve been up to.”

Torven took the figure, turning it over in his hands, his expression shifting from surprise to awe. “You made this?” he asked, his voice quieter, almost reverent.

I nodded, watching as he ran his fingers over the smooth curves of the deer.

“This is... incredible,” he said, shaking his head. “Harith, you’re something else. A craftsman, huh? I’d never have guessed back then.”

“It keeps me busy,” I said with a shrug. “Besides, the kids in Willowshade love them. Makes it worthwhile.”

Torven let out a low chuckle, still examining the deer. “Thank you,” he said suddenly, his tone uncharacteristically earnest.

“For what?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“For everything,” he said, looking up at me. “Back when I was just a scrawny street rat hanging around your stall. You probably don’t even remember, but you gave me food every day. Scraps, sure, but they kept me alive. You didn’t have to do that, but you did.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling a little embarrassed. “I didn’t think much of it at the time,” I admitted. “Just scraps that didn’t sell. Would’ve gone bad otherwise.”

Torven laughed, his grin returning. “Scraps to you, maybe. But to me? It was everything. A lifeline.” He fell quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the fire. “After you retired, it got tough. Really tough. The other vendors weren’t like you—most of them chased me off if I even looked at their stalls too long. I went hungry a lot after you were gone.”

His voice hardened slightly, though his grin remained. “I had to figure things out on my own. Stealing was the easiest option, so... I stole. First it was bread and apples, then coins, then jewelry. I got good at it, too. Made a name for myself in Redvale. People there called me Dangerous Torven.”

He leaned back with a lazy grin, his scar pulling at the corner of his mouth. “A dangerous man, but a well-fed dangerous man.”

I couldn’t help but shake my head, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “Well-fed or not, Torven, you know that life’s going to catch up with you eventually.”

“Maybe,” he said, his grin faltering for a moment. Then he shrugged, tossing the deer back to me with surprising care. “But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, I’m just glad to see you again, Harith. You’re a good man.”

The fire crackled softly as we sat in silence for a while, the weight of years and choices hanging between us. For all the differences in our paths, it felt strangely like old times—two unlikely souls finding warmth and connection in a cold world.

Torven glanced toward the tent, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The kid in there... is she yours?”

I shook my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. “No, not mine. My kid’s all grown up now. I’m headed to her wedding, actually. She’s marrying a King.”

Torven’s hand shot to his head, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. “A King? Your daughter’s marrying a King?” He let out a low whistle, shaking his head slowly. “Years have gone by, huh?” he said, more to himself than to me. “Feels like just yesterday I was playing with her.”

He was quiet for a moment, then glanced back at me, a sly grin creeping onto his face. “So, what about your wife? Reina, right? Still around, looking as beautiful as ever?”

The question caught me off guard, and for a moment, I could only stare at him. Then, I laughed—a soft, tired laugh that held more years than humor. Torven joined in, though his grin faltered as he noticed the look in my eyes.

“No, Torven,” I said finally, my voice quieter now. “Reina’s the reason I retired. Her health started to go downhill, and I couldn’t afford to stay in Redvale. The noise, the pace—it wasn’t good for her. So, we moved to Willowshade. A small place, quiet and peaceful. That’s where she spent her remaining years.”

Torven’s grin vanished completely, replaced by a somber expression. He rubbed the back of his neck, his head lowering slightly. “Ah, Harith, man, I’m... I’m sorry. So sorry. I didn’t know.”

I waved a hand, brushing away his apology. “You couldn’t have known. It was a long time ago. And honestly, it was the right choice. Those last years in Willowshade, they were good ones. She loved the garden, loved the quiet. It gave her some peace, I think.”

Torven sat back, his scarred face etched with regret. “Still,” he muttered. “You didn’t deserve that. She didn’t either.”

I smiled faintly, the memories of Reina as vivid in my mind as if she were still with me. “Life doesn’t give you what you deserve, Torven. It just gives you what it gives. The best you can do is make something out of it.”

For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Torven stared into the flames, his expression unreadable, before nodding slowly. “You always did have a way with words, Harith,” he said. “Even back then. I guess that’s why I kept coming back to your stall, besides the scraps.”

I chuckled softly, the shared warmth of memory easing the weight of the conversation. “I think you came back because you were too stubborn to give up.”

Torven smirked, his mood lifting slightly. “Maybe,” he said, his tone lighter. “Maybe I just knew you had good scraps.”

The fire had burned lower, casting flickering shadows that danced around the clearing. Torven stretched, rising from the log with a groan. “Well, Harith, I think it’s about time I head out,” he said, dusting his hands on his trousers.

I stood as well, the warmth of the fire clinging to my skin as the cool forest air rushed in. “Leaving so soon? And here I thought you’d softened enough to keep me company for the night,” I said with a small grin.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Tempting, but no. Got to keep moving. My lot’s probably already grumbling about my absence.”

Torven reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a coin, flipping it between his fingers before pressing it into my hand. It was heavier than it looked, and when I turned it over, I saw an intricate engraving of a snarling wolf’s head, its eyes sharp and menacing.

“Keep this,” he said, his voice dropping into something serious. “Not for buying food or drink. Just show it if anyone on the road tries to bother you. Especially the kind who don’t take no for an answer.”

I frowned, running my thumb over the engraved surface. “What is it?”

“A mark,” Torven explained. “Anyone who knows me will know what it means. It says, ‘Leave this one alone—or deal with me.’” His grin was crooked, but there was steel behind it.

I nodded slowly, slipping the coin into my pocket. “Thanks, Torven. I hope I won’t have to use it.”

“Me too,” he said, his tone softening. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug, his arms strong and warm. For a moment, he was just the boy I remembered—a scrappy kid who’d survived against all odds.

“Take care of yourself, Harith,” he said as he stepped back, his hand lingering briefly on my shoulder. “And that kid in the tent. She’s got something about her. Keep her safe.”

“I will,” I promised.

With a final nod, Torven turned and disappeared into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the forest. I stood there for a long moment, staring after him, the weight of the coin in my pocket a strange comfort. Then, with a sigh, I turned back to the camp, sleeping peacefuly next to Nessa.

The night passed peacefully after Torven’s departure, the forest settling into its quiet rhythm once more. By the time dawn arrived, the first light of day was a muted gray, filtered through a thick canopy of clouds. There was no sun to break through, but neither was there rain. Just a cool, still air that carried the faint smell of damp earth and leaves.

After washing our faces with water from my flask, we packed up our belongings. Nessa folded the blanket she’d used, tucking it back into the bag with surprising neatness. She hummed softly to herself as we worked, her spirits seemingly unshaken by the events of the night before.

As we stepped back onto the road, I noticed her glancing up at the sky. “What are you looking at?” I asked.

She grinned, her steps light and easy. “This is my favorite kind of weather,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Cloudy?”

She nodded, her gaze still fixed on the overcast sky. “Not hot, not cold. Just... perfect. I don’t like it when the sun’s too bright—it makes me feel like I’m melting. And when it’s too cold, I feel like I’m freezing from the inside out.” She spread her arms wide, spinning in a small circle. “But this? This is perfect. I could walk forever in weather like this.”

I chuckled at her enthusiasm, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “Fair enough. You’ve got a good point there.”

We walked in companionable silence for a while, the soft crunch of our footsteps blending with the distant rustle of the forest. The gray sky above seemed to stretch endlessly, wrapping the world in a calm, subdued light.

I glanced down at her. “How about last night? You okay? Anything hurt?”

Nessa shook her head, her brown hair bouncing slightly with the motion. “Nope, I’m fine. Went back to sleep in no time, actually.” She gave me a sly smile. “I think I was more sleepy than terrified.”

That earned a laugh from me, a genuine one that echoed along the quiet road. “More sleepy than terrified, huh? That’s quite a talent.”

We both laughed at that, the tension of the night before fading further into memory with each step. The day stretched out before us, quiet and calm, and for the moment, it felt like the road ahead was as perfect as the weather Nessa loved so much.

The road stretched out before us, winding through gentle hills that gradually flattened as we neared our destination. The clouds overhead had thinned, allowing shafts of pale light to touch the landscape. As we crested a hill, the horizon opened up, and there it was—Aldenholm, the Capital City.

Even from a distance, it was breathtaking.

The gates stood tall and proud, carved from pristine white marble that seemed to glow even under the muted light of the overcast sky. Golden embellishments traced the edges of the gates, glimmering faintly as though catching the light of an unseen sun. From where we stood, I could just make out the intricate carvings etched into the marble—tales of valor and triumph, stories immortalized in stone.

Beyond the gates, Aldenholm unfolded like a vision. The streets gleamed as though freshly polished, their smooth stones catching the light. Buildings of white marble lined the avenues, their golden roofs shining like scattered treasure. It was a city of contrasts—vibrant yet serene, bustling yet perfectly ordered. Even from this distance, I could feel the pulse of life within its walls, a harmony that spoke of unity and purpose.

Nessa gasped beside me, her small hand clutching the strap of her bag. “Is that... it?” she whispered, her voice tinged with awe.

“That’s Aldenholm,” I said, my gaze fixed on the magnificent sight before us.

At the heart of the city, perched high above the rest, was the royal palace. It rose like a beacon, its spires reaching toward the heavens, their golden tips gleaming even in the subdued light. Flags bearing the crowned lion crest fluttered proudly from its terraces, and the grand staircase leading up to the main entrance was visible even from here, a testament to the grandeur and scale of the structure.

“It’s beautiful,” Nessa said softly.

I nodded, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me. “It is,” I agreed. “More than I remembered.”

The city seemed untouched by time, as pristine and majestic as the stories claimed. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if Ellara had stood here, looking out at this same sight when she first arrived. If she had felt the same mix of wonder and nervous anticipation that now gripped me.

As we stood there, the cool breeze carrying the faint hum of distant life, Aldenholm loomed before us—a city of kings, of stories, and of possibilities. And it was waiting.

As we approached the city gates, a guard stepped forward, his hand raised to halt our progress. His armor gleamed under the muted daylight, the polished steel reflecting the faint glow of the marble gates behind him. He carried himself with an air of authority, his sharp eyes scanning us both with practiced scrutiny.

“Halt,” he said firmly, his voice echoing slightly off the massive gates. “State your business in Aldenholm.”

I stopped, adjusting the strap of my bag, and offered a polite smile. “This young lady here,” I said, gesturing to Nessa, “is on her way to enroll in the Archatian Academy.”

The guard’s expression didn’t change, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The Academy, eh? And what proof do you have of that? The Academy doesn’t take just anyone off the road.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, Nessa stepped forward, her small frame somehow brimming with confidence. She tilted her head slightly, studying the guard with an intensity that seemed to unnerve him.

“You’re hungry,” she said suddenly, her tone casual but firm. “And tired. You just want to eat something and get some sleep.”

The guard blinked, his posture straightening. “What?” he stammered, a hint of surprise flashing across his face.

Nessa shrugged, giving him a knowing smile. “I can tell. It’s been a long shift, hasn’t it? You’ve been standing here all day, and you’re ready for it to be over.”

For a moment, the guard stared at her, his stern demeanor faltering. Then he cleared his throat, stepping aside and gesturing toward the gates. “Alright, you may pass,” he said, his voice slightly gruff.

Nessa turned to me as we walked through, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She gave me a quick wink, and I couldn’t help but chuckle under my breath. Clever girl.

As we passed through the gates, Aldenholm revealed itself in all its splendor.

The streets were alive with activity, bustling with people of every shape and size. Merchants lined the thoroughfares, their stalls brimming with goods so vibrant and polished they seemed almost unreal—jewels that caught the light like tiny suns, bolts of fabric dyed in colors that defied nature, and fruits so perfect they could have been carved from crystal.

Street performers dotted the squares, juggling flaming torches or playing strange and enchanting tunes that made the air hum with magic. Their performances drew lively crowds whose laughter and applause mingled with the music, filling the city with a sense of joy and celebration.

The people of Aldenholm were as diverse as their wares. Humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs mingled freely, their differences blending seamlessly into the fabric of the city. Halflings darted through the crowds, their small frames carrying satchels nearly as large as themselves, while gnomes bartered animatedly over piles of curious, intricate trinkets.

As we reached the main square, my attention was drawn to a towering statue at its center. A knight clad in gleaming armor stood atop a pedestal, his sword raised high toward the heavens. Every detail had been captured with breathtaking precision, from the flow of his cape to the fierce determination in his gaze. At his feet, smaller statues of dwarves, elves, and humans stood together in solidarity, their hands raised in support as though holding up the knight himself.

Nessa tugged at my sleeve, pointing at the statue. “Who’s that?” she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.

“That,” I said, my eyes lingering on the knight, “is King Alden. The ruler of this continent. Though this statue shows him when he was young.”

Nessa looked up at me, wide-eyed. “Did you meet him before?”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Of course not. I doubt he even knows I exist.”

She smiled at my response, her gaze returning to the statue. As we continued through the square, the vibrant city seemed to embrace us fully, its energy and beauty pulling us deeper into its heart.

The vibrant energy of Aldenholm pulsed around us as we wandered through the square, the smells of roasted meats, spiced breads, and sugary confections mingling in the air and making my stomach rumble. Nessa glanced at me with a knowing smirk, her own hunger clearly matching mine.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” she said, her gaze darting toward a vendor grilling skewers of some kind of glazed meat.

“It does,” I admitted, though I tugged her gently away from the stalls. “But I’ve got a better idea. Let’s find somewhere quieter.”

A few turns later, we came across a small restaurant tucked between two larger buildings. The wooden sign above the door swung gently in the breeze, its paint faded but legible. The place wasn’t grand, but it had an inviting warmth, with soft light glowing from the windows and the faint sound of clinking dishes and conversation drifting out.

“Here,” I said, pushing the door open.

Inside, the restaurant was simple but cozy. A handful of people sat at tables scattered across the room, enjoying quiet meals. The aroma of freshly baked bread and savory stews filled the air, and behind a counter, a cook worked diligently, humming softly to himself.

A young woman with a broom in hand glanced up as we entered. Her plain dress and apron marked her as the cleaner, and she offered a polite smile as she approached. “Welcome,” she said. But then, as her gaze landed on Nessa, her entire demeanor changed.

Her eyes widened, and the broom clattered to the floor as she gasped. “Nessa?”

Before I could react, she rushed forward, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around the girl in a fierce hug. Nessa stood frozen for a moment, her face a mixture of shock and recognition, before her own arms tentatively came up to return the embrace.

“Sis?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The cleaner pulled back just enough to look at her, tears welling in her eyes. “Nessa,” she repeated, her voice trembling. “What are you doing here? How—?”

I stepped back slightly, letting the moment belong to them, my chest tightening with a mix of surprise and quiet relief. It had to be her sister—Clara, if I remembered correctly from our earlier conversations.

As the two embraced again, the noise of the restaurant seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of their reunion, raw and full of unspoken emotions.

“And you must be Mr. Harith,” Clara said, her voice warm but thick with emotion as she looked up at me. Her arms stayed firmly around Nessa, the hug holding a kind of unspoken relief and gratitude. “Thank you so much for keeping Nessa safe.”

I gave her a small nod, smiling softly. “She’s a clever girl,” I said. “I’ve had more help from her than she’s had from me.”

Clara let out a breathy laugh, her grip tightening briefly around Nessa. “Still, I owe you more than I can say,” she said. “We’ve been... I’ve been worried about her.”

They stayed like that for another moment, holding onto each other as though trying to bridge the time they’d been apart. I stood back, giving them the space they needed.

Then Clara pulled back slightly, still keeping one hand on Nessa’s shoulder. “But may I ask,” she said, her voice soft but laced with curiosity, “why did you bring Nessa here, Mr. Harith? For welcoming the Heroes of the Realm? You’re too late, we celebrate it last week.”

Before I could open my mouth to reply, Nessa straightened up, her face lighting with pride. “Because I’ll be going to the best academy in the continent,” she said boldly. “The Archatian Academy!”

The words hit Clara like a gust of wind. Too quickly, almost instinctively, she released Nessa from her embrace and stared at her, confusion etched into her features. “The Archatian Academy?” she repeated, her brow furrowed. “Nessa... do you have magic in you? Can you conjure it? Do anything with it?”

Her voice was sharp, but it wasn’t harsh—it was filled with the kind of protective worry that came from years of shouldering too much responsibility. Her eyes darted briefly to the side, and I caught the look, one I knew all too well: the quiet calculation of someone weighing the cost of a dream they couldn’t afford.

“I don’t have the money for it,” she said softly, her voice falling to a near whisper.

Nessa opened her mouth to protest, but the look on Clara’s face stopped her. The weight of doubt and the struggle of hard years were written there, and for a moment, the room felt heavier, the warmth of the restaurant dimmed by the rawness of the moment.

I stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Nessa’s shoulder. “It’s alright,” I said gently, looking from Clara to Nessa. “We’ll talk about it. One step at a time.”

Clara’s gaze shifted to me, her eyes searching mine, and I could see the mix of hope and uncertainty that lingered there.

“You guys must be hungry,” Clara said, standing up and brushing her hands on her apron. Her voice carried a warmth that softened the tension, and for the first time, I saw something shift in Nessa.

Her face lit up—not with the reserved, cautious smiles I’d grown used to, but with pure, unguarded happiness. Joy radiated from her, her wide eyes shimmering with excitement as she looked up at her sister. It was the kind of expression that didn’t need words to explain—it spoke of love, comfort, and belonging, all rolled into one.

“Yes!” Nessa exclaimed, her voice louder and more enthusiastic than I’d heard it in days. “I’m starving!”

Clara laughed, the sound carrying a similar lightness, as if seeing Nessa’s joy had lifted some of the weight from her shoulders. “Alright, alright,” she said, gesturing toward a small table in the corner. “Sit down. I’ll bring you something. It’s on the house.”

I started to protest, but Clara shot me a look that brooked no argument. “It’s the least I can do,” she said firmly.

I nodded, leading Nessa to the table. As she plopped into her seat, her grin still firmly in place, I couldn’t help but smile myself. For all the trials the road had thrown at us, this moment alone made it feel worthwhile.

To be continued...