The days after the bridge felt different, though none of them would admit it outright.
Nathan insisted they meet again, dragging Nelly along despite his reluctance. "If we don't, then it'll be just another night," he had said, grinning. "But if we do… maybe it'll mean something."
And so it began.
They gathered in the old marketplace square when the merchants closed for the day. Courage was often already there, sparring with wooden staves he had carved himself, his strikes echoing off the empty stalls. Divine came later, quiet as a shadow, notebook tucked beneath his arm, always watching more than speaking.
Nelly leaned against the crumbling stone wall, arms folded, pretending not to care. But his eyes tracked everything—the swing of Courage's staff, the sharp focus in Divine's gaze, Nathan's easy laughter.
"Try it," Courage urged one evening, tossing the staff toward Nathan.
Nathan caught it clumsily. "I've never—"
"Then you'll learn."
The duel that followed was more comedy than contest. Nathan slipped in the dirt, Courage swatted the stave from his hands in a heartbeat, and Nelly laughed aloud for the first time in months. Divine's lips twitched faintly—almost a smile—as he scribbled something in his journal.
"Don't write that down," Nathan groaned, brushing mud from his tunic.
"I only record truth," Divine replied, though his eyes betrayed amusement.
As days passed, their rhythm formed. Nathan brought food pilfered from his household kitchen; Nelly brought silence, though a silence that felt less heavy with them around. Courage trained relentlessly, teaching them balance, grip, and discipline—though he rarely explained why he cared so much. And Divine spoke in riddles, sometimes vanishing mid-conversation only to return hours later with observations about the sky, the river's tide, or the strange tremors he claimed to feel beneath Draemhold's streets.
One afternoon, the first faint glimpse of something other appeared.
Nelly stood apart from the group, staring into the alley where shadows gathered unnaturally thick. His reflection in the puddle rippled though no wind stirred. He blinked, and the darkness seemed to shift, almost bending toward him.
Courage noticed first. "You saw that, didn't you?"
Nelly shook his head quickly. "Just the rain."
But Divine's gaze lingered on him too long, as though writing the moment silently in his mind.
Later, when the four sat eating bread and fruit beneath the market's awning, Nathan's palms glowed faintly in the dim light—so faint that even he didn't notice. It wasn't fire, nor lantern-glow, but something gentler, warmer, like a promise half-born.
Divine closed his journal with deliberate care. "We're not like the others," he murmured.
Courage frowned. "Different how?"
Divine's eyes swept over them. "Threads don't meet by accident."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Nathan's attempt to brush it aside with a laugh. "Threads or not, we're friends now. That's enough."
But for Nelly, staring at the shadows lengthening at his feet, it wasn't enough. Something vast was stirring behind their days together, and though none of them spoke it, each could feel the pull.
For now, though, they let the days be simple. Training. Laughter. Bread and rain.
The storm had not yet broken.