His thoughts drifted in that quiet warmth until movement in the corner of his eye pulled him back. He turned toward the doorway—and there was Mela, calling to him with a bright wave.
Mela bounded into the room, grinning wide, and pressed something small into Ash's palm—a carved figure of living root, its surface worn smooth by years of being held, its edges darkened with age.
"It's supposed to be you," she said proudly, her eyes alight, "I made it when I was little, from the stories my parents and grandparents told me about the saviour."
Ash stared at it, the aged wood carrying not only the weight of her small hands from long ago but also a surge of complicated emotions. The rough contours spoke of care more than skill, a child's earnest attempt to capture a legend. For a moment, he was silent.
Seeing Ash so intently observing the figure, Mela's smile faltered, her voice shrinking as she admitted, "It looks more like a thornbeast… but I tried my best."
