Daylight filtered through the branches of the forest, drawing broken shadows across the ground still marked by the escape. The air still carried the scent of blood, crushed moss, and fear. And in that fragile silence, broken only by rustling leaves, Erikan emerged from the underbrush.
His face was pale, covered in scratches and dirt. His eyes, wide open, seemed to search for something—a certainty, a landmark, a familiar gaze. He stumbled, barely aware of how far he had come, until he saw them. There, just ahead.
"There! He's here!"
Ylsa's voice cut through the air like a cry of miracle.
Stella rushed forward, pushing past the last branches as if they didn't exist. Her coat was torn, her face distraught. When she saw him, her heart seemed to give out.
She collapsed to her knees, pulling him into her arms.
And she wept. Thick, uncontrollable tears of despair. Her hands trembled, her fingers gripped the dirty fabric of her son's clothes. She hadn't been afraid for herself. Nor for the others. But for him. Her world. Her child. Her only miracle.
"My baby... my baby... you're here... you're alive..."
Her voice broke on every syllable. Her nails nearly dug into his shoulders. As if she feared he might vanish again.
Then came Gaël.
The blacksmith moved in long strides, his boots pounding the damp earth. His face showed nothing, but his eyes betrayed everything. He knelt beside them, his large, calloused hand resting on Erikan's head.
His fingers trembled. He, the calm man, the stable one, the pillar of the household, was shaking.
"It's okay, my son... you're home."
He said no more. He didn't need to. The silent embrace between them spoke louder than any words.
And behind them, the Gerbiers.
Six figures burst from the woods. Rust-colored cloaks flapping in the air, weapons drawn, faces tense. Some bore glowing symbols on their cheeks, signs of activated mana.
"The beast is in the forest!" shouted one of them. "Form the groups, follow the blood trail!"
They were already moving. But one of them, a man with dark hair and a chiseled jaw, stopped cold when he met Erikan's gaze.
He stepped forward, eyes scanning the boy like he was inspecting a magical artifact.
"The child... is he the one who drew the beast?"
"He's alive. That's what matters," replied Gaël, his voice as hard as the iron he forged.
But the Gerbier pressed on:
"I saw the mana residue around the ravine. There was a distortion. A strange frequency... it wasn't natural."
He stared straight into Erikan's eyes.
"You awakened, didn't you?"
Eric's breath caught. His gaze dropped to the ground. He could feel his heart pounding like an overheated forge. He didn't know what to say. Could he admit it? Should he?
Another Gerbier approached. Older. White-bearded. Gentle-eyed.
"This isn't the time for questioning. That boy... he held firm. He protected the others."
And just then, the others arrived.
Lina was the first to step forward. Her cheeks were smeared with mud, her eyes red from crying. But she stood tall.
"He saved us... He stood between us and the beast. He shouted for us to run. Without him, we wouldn't be here."
Narek, usually so brash, nodded silently, his lip trembling.
Ylsa said nothing. She clutched a stone to her chest like a relic, her eyes fixed on Erikan with pure, silent admiration.
The Gerbiers exchanged looks.
Then, without a word, they nodded.
"Very well. But we will return. An awakening must be monitored... and controlled."
"And it will be," said Gaël, placing his hand firmly on his son's shoulder. "He's my son. I'll handle it."
The tone struck like a hammer on an anvil. Unyielding. Final.
And the militiamen departed.
The family home stood at the edge of the village, backed against a hill covered in heather. From the outside, it looked ordinary—dark wooden walls, a sloped roof tiled in brown, an arched dormer window leaking warm light. But that night, despite the hearth's warmth, the house was shrouded in stillness.
The fire crackled in the fireplace.
Split oak logs hissed gently, throwing golden sparks. The orange flames danced along the stone walls, but the warmth did not seem to reach anyone.
Erikan sat curled up, knees to chest, arms wrapped around himself. His gaze was hollow, lost in the flickering shadows. Dried tears traced pale lines down his cheeks, and a shallow cut on his temple still bled faintly.
Around him, silence.
Stella sat at the table, pretending to sew fabric that needed no mending. Her fingers shook. She passed the needle through the same spot over and over. She couldn't bear to look at him, afraid her eyes might betray the panic still clinging to her.
Gaël stood near the forge, sharpening a knife already honed to perfection. The motion was precise, mechanical. He wasn't forging. He was distracting himself. Avoiding the words he couldn't yet speak.
No one talked. Not yet.
The room smelled of soot, warmed leather, and iron oil. Familiar smells, but that night, they were suffocating. The floorboards creaked under Stella's hesitant steps, then fell silent again. Outside, the wind rattled the windows. But inside... everything was frozen.
Until Erikan closed his eyes.
And memory struck.
There was a bed. And a harsh, pale light hanging from the ceiling. A white room, sterile, drained of all warmth.
A hospital. From his previous life.
A bald man, frail, skin stretched over bones, lay in the bed. His breathing was slow. His voice, raspy. He was the orphanage director, the one who had taken him in. One of the few who had never treated him like a burden.
"You know, Eric... in life... nothing is eternal."
His voice rang like a distant bell. The white walls loomed higher, as if they were closing in.
"You're... brilliant, my boy. Maybe too much... You talk about particles, invisible forces, worlds beyond our own... You scare the other kids, you know?"
He smiled. A soft smile. Tired. Clear.
Eric, a young teenager with messy hair and glasses, stood holding an old crumpled notebook to his chest.
"I know..." he whispered.
He didn't cry. Not yet. But his eyes shimmered.
"You'll go far, son. But if you want to... really live... you have to open your heart. Otherwise, you'll go far... alone."
A pause. Then solemn words.
"I helped so many children, and yet... I die alone.
But I regret nothing.
Because what we give, Eric... it remains. Always."
His breath grew fainter.
"Nothing is eternal.
And no one is eternal.
Only love remains. It passes on. It transforms. It grows..."
And in a near whisper:
"...one day, you'll understand."
Erikan opened his eyes back in the family hearth. The flames still danced. The heat was real. But his heart trembled.
He stood slowly. His legs were stiff. But he moved.
He walked over to Stella. She didn't look up. Not right away. Until she felt his arms wrap around her.
Then she broke down. Real tears.
Not of fear. Of relief.
"I'm here, Mom... I'm here."
She held him tight. Too tight.
Gaël stepped closer. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder. Just a gesture. But in that touch, there was all the love of a father.
Eric said nothing more. But he cried.
Not like the hospital child.
He cried like a young man reborn.
And silently, he made a vow.
He would never again be the cause of their tears.
He would protect them.
He would choose to love, and to fight for what he loved.
Not to become strong.
But to become true.