The morning light filtered gently through the curtains of Kael's room, casting golden beams over the simple furnishings and floor. A breeze stirred the edge of a worn paper charm stuck above the doorframe—a minor protective sigil Kael had made moons ago, now more symbolic than functional.
Kael stirred awake slowly, not with the sharp tension of a training day or the buzz of an assignment on the horizon. Today held no grand objectives or weighty battles. Just... the second anniversary.
They sat up in bed, letting the silence stretch. There was no rush. No ceremony. Only remembrance.
Kael didn't dress in formal colors. No mourning garb. No black cloaks or white robes. Just their usual tunic and trousers—comfortable, practical, quiet. The weight of memory was more than enough.
Downstairs, Rys was already in the kitchen, prepping a small meal. He didn't say anything when Kael entered, but he didn't need to. His eyes flicked up, met Kael's for a moment, and softened in the kind of understanding silence forged only through time shared and grief endured.
Kael sat. They shared bread and hot tea, the kind Kael's mother used to brew with a bit of wildmint when the seasons changed. Rys had added a sprig of it today—Kael noticed but didn't comment.
"I was thinking," Rys said finally, his voice low, cautious, "we could go out to the garden later. Just sit for a while. Maybe trim some of the edges?"
Kael nodded. "She liked it neat."
"She liked it balanced," Rys corrected gently with a smile.
Kael smiled back. It was faint, but real.
Their father emerged a few minutes later, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't sleep well," he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. He didn't need to explain. Kael didn't ask. They all remembered what day it was.
The family spent the morning together in the house. No guests. No missions. No forced conversations. Just presence.
At midday, Kael wandered outside alone, walking the familiar footpaths leading out beyond their small garden. They didn't go far, just far enough to reach a patch of trees where the wind moved a little differently.
They looked up through the leaves, letting light flicker through. Their mind wandered—not just to their mother but to the roads since, to the changes within them, and to how much more there still was to become.
"I miss you," Kael whispered.
The wind stirred.
They didn't expect an answer.
But they closed their eyes and stood still, letting the silence echo.
Later, Kael returned to the house to find Rys organizing some books Kael had left scattered the week before. It was a silent gesture of care, one Kael didn't interrupt.
"Thanks," Kael said eventually.
Rys turned, offering a simple nod. "Want to go into town for a bit later? Just the two of us. Not for anything in particular. Just... change of pace."
Kael considered it, then nodded. "Yeah. That'd be good."
The rest of the day passed in slow moments. They didn't go into town. They didn't end up trimming the garden. But they were together. The day marked its passage with subtlety, with shared looks and quiet meals and unspoken understandings.
There was no grand gesture this year. No shrine built. No release of paper lanterns into the sky.
Just memory.
And that was enough.
___
The wind rustled through the trees above as Kael stood once more at the edge of the forest path, the same one they'd walked countless times before. It was peaceful today—too peaceful. No mission urgency, no wild beasts in the underbrush, no rusted traplines to reset. Just Kael, the sway of branches, and the slow ticking of memory.
They crouched by a small stream running along the edge of the wooded trail. The water was cool and clear. Kael dipped a hand in, letting it run between their fingers. As they stared at the ripples, they suddenly remembered another stream. Another mission. A moment that had felt ordinary at first—until it wasn't.
Their thoughts drifted back, and the present softened into memory.
---
It had been less than a week after their nineteenth birthday. Kael was still adjusting to the strange quiet of not traveling as much. Rys had encouraged them to take a light solo assignment—just a small forest tracking job, clearing out the remains of a rogue trapper's illegal snare setup near the outer edges of the protected hunting zones. Simple, clean, and perfect for moving the body after too much cake and wine.
They had taken the job more for the solitude than the challenge. But that changed the moment they came across the wolf.
It was a juvenile—young, injured, and caught in one of the few remaining traps. Its front leg was mangled, the metal teeth biting deep, and panic shimmered in its wide amber eyes. Kael approached slowly, hands up, murmuring soft reassurances in a dozen different languages, unsure which one the beast might somehow sense best.
When the wolf finally stilled, Kael extended a hand—not with magic, but with trust.
And then the real work began.
They used their custom healing spell—the one Mirek had helped inspire and Kael had refined. The first pass closed the worst of the gashes. The second pass numbed the remaining pain. And the third—crafted with tight rhythm, careful rhyme, and spoken in the true language of magic—sealed the wound almost completely.
Kael fed the wolf a potion, unlatched the trap, and sat beside it until it was steady enough to limp away.
That wasn't what triggered the rank-up, though.
What did came hours later, when Kael stumbled on the trapper's final site—an illegal camp packed with snares, enchanted bait, and butchered magical creatures stripped of their parts. There had been more than just forest animals taken here. And the stench of it lit something cold inside Kael's chest.
They didn't hesitate.
The rogue wasn't there when Kael arrived, but they left a message anyway. One etched in the language of magic, spelled into the bones of the trees around the clearing—a ward and a warning. The trapper came back two days later and turned himself in without resistance.
The ward had done its job.
Kael received word of the rank-up a few days later.
"Ironbark," the notice had said. "For strategic use of magic, restraint in combat, protection of protected lands, and recovery of endangered magical species."
Kael didn't feel stronger. Not in the way they had with previous promotions. They just felt more… anchored. Like they'd stopped climbing a tree and started becoming a part of it.
They didn't celebrate. Not really.
But that night, when Rys brought out a small bottle of plum wine and Kael's father cooked dinner just a bit fancier than usual, they allowed themselves to smile.
Even if just a little.
---
Now, standing by the stream once again on the second anniversary of their mother's death, Kael blinked out of the memory. The forest was different here, and there were no wolves nearby. But something about the silence had brought it back.
"Ironbark," they whispered to themselves.
Not because it made them proud—but because it reminded them of what they'd chosen to be: rooted. Quiet strength. Shelter when needed. Enduring.
They stood and stretched, brushing their hand against the trunk of a nearby tree, then turned back toward home.
The path behind them was long.
But it was theirs.
___
Kael returned to the house not long after the sun began its descent, the sky fading into muted purples and soft oranges. The day had moved slowly, uneventfully—exactly how they'd wanted it. The quiet had given them space to reflect, but not dwell. That was the important distinction.
Rys was in the kitchen when Kael walked in, sleeves rolled up and hands dusted with flour. The faint scent of roasted vegetables and baking bread wafted in the air.
"You didn't have to cook," Kael said with a tired but grateful smile.
Rys looked up, smirking. "I wasn't about to let you get away with skipping dinner on this day. And your dad's out hunting something—probably thinks bringing home a fresh hare will be symbolic or whatever."
Kael snorted. "He's always been one for symbolism. Especially when he doesn't have to say anything out loud."
They pulled off their cloak and draped it over the hook near the door, then made their way to the table and dropped into the chair with a sigh.
Rys glanced at them, subtle concern in his eyes. "You okay?"
Kael nodded. "Yeah. Just… been thinking. Took a walk, visited the river bend. Thought about the rank-up last year, actually." They spoke the last sentence as an afterthought, like it hadn't been waiting on their tongue the entire day.
"Oh?" Rys asked, turning away just in time to hide the soft spark of pride in his face. "That was the Ironbark one, right?"
Kael nodded, leaning back. "Yeah. After that forest cleanup job. The one with the wolf and that trapper's camp." They let the memory linger only for a second before shrugging it off. "Not a huge deal. Just something that came up. Been on my mind."
Rys didn't push, didn't pry. He just moved across the room with practiced ease and placed a hand briefly on Kael's shoulder before going back to the stove. The touch was warm. Familiar.
Dinner was quiet but comforting. The food was good—better than it had any right to be given the simplicity of the ingredients—and Kael made sure to compliment Rys with exaggerated praise, which earned them a soft laugh and an even softer smile in return.
Later, after Kael's father returned with a half-frozen hare and an awkward, "Figured she'd appreciate the effort," the three of them sat for a while. No big speeches. No ceremonial toasts. Just conversation. Memory shared through gestures and small stories. Rys occasionally filled in silences when Kael or their father couldn't quite find the words.
As the fire dwindled and the night drew deeper, Kael stood and stretched.
"I'm going to head to bed early," they said, voice gentle.
"Want me to join you in a bit?" Rys asked carefully, not assuming but not distant either.
Kael hesitated—just for a breath—then gave a quiet nod. "Yeah. I'd like that."
Their father didn't comment, but something in the way he looked at the two of them, the slight softening at the edges of his usually hard-set features, said he understood far more than he let on.
Kael lingered at the doorway just a moment longer, glancing once toward the simple altar they'd set up a year ago. A candle flickered there now, the flame steady and calm. No flowers this time. No offering plate. Just the flame.
That was enough.
Kael turned and made their way down the hallway, the warmth of the house wrapping around them like an old cloak.
---
Later, when Rys joined them, the two didn't say much. They just lay side by side beneath the covers, shoulders touching, breath syncing in the quiet.
"I saw that wolf again," Kael murmured at one point.
"In a dream?"
"No, in the memory. It was clearer than I expected. I forgot how scared it was. How careful I had to be."
Rys turned slightly, watching Kael through the dim light. "You saved it. You helped it walk again."
Kael gave a small smile, eyes half-closed. "Guess that's sort of a pattern."
They didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.
Eventually, they both fell asleep, wrapped in the steady comfort of familiarity, of knowing someone would still be there in the morning.