The afternoon sun slanted through the canopy in long, honey-colored shafts, turning floating motes of pollen into tiny points of fire.
Ed sat on the edge of the platform, legs dangling over the drop, cleaning the runed knife with slow, methodical strokes of an oiled rag.
Below, the forest had begun reclaiming the dragon's remains: vines curling around severed limbs, flies giving way to beetles, the first faint green shoots of fungi threading through the blood-soaked earth.
Tia emerged from inside, carrying two tin cups of fresh mint tea.
She had changed again—this time into a lighter tunic of pale green linen that caught the light like new leaves.
Her braid was looser now, strands brushing her collarbones.
She moved carefully, still testing her body after last night's drain, but the pallor had faded from her cheeks.
She handed him a cup and settled beside him, shoulders touching.
"Still smells like death down there," she observed, wrinkling her nose.
"Give it a week," Ed replied. "The forest will forget it ever happened. Nature's good at erasing evidence."
Tia took a slow sip of tea. Steam curled upward and mingled with the warm air.
"And us? Are we any good at erasing evidence?"
Ed glanced sideways at her. "We're terrible at it. We keep dragging the past around like luggage we can't unpack."
She gave a small, rueful smile. "Guilty."
They sat in companionable quiet—tea cooling in their hands, the forest breathing around them.
Somewhere far below, a bird called once, sharp and questioning, then fell silent.
Tia set her cup down on the boards between them.
"I keep thinking about Alexis's last words," she said softly.
"The ones he said right before he crushed the crystal. 'Live on.' Like it was an order. Like he knew I'd spend the next ten years trying to obey it and punish myself at the same time."
Ed turned the knife over in his hand. The runes caught a stray beam of sunlight and drank it whole.
"He wasn't wrong to want you to live," he said.
"But he was wrong to think surviving alone was the same thing as living."
Tia's fingers traced the rim of her cup.
"I planted the first tree the year after I came here. Just one. I told myself it was for mana stabilization—practical. But really it was because I needed something to talk to. Something that wouldn't leave."
Ed's chest tightened.
"How many now?" he asked.
"Seventy-three." She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "I stopped counting for a while. Then started again when I realized I was making a forest out of guilt."
Ed set the knife down carefully beside him.
"You built a forest," he said. "Not out of guilt. Out of hope. Even when you thought there was none left."
Tia looked at him—really looked—searching his face for something she seemed afraid to name.
"You always did that," she said quietly.
"Saw the best version of what I did, even when I couldn't."
"Because it was true."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. Light, tentative, but anchoring something inside him that had been drifting for a century.
"I don't want to lose you again," she whispered.
"You won't."
A low rustle came from the undergrowth below—too deliberate to be wind or small game.
Ed tensed instantly. His hand drifted to the knife hilt.
Tia lifted her head, eyes narrowing. "Company."
Two figures stepped into the clearing—human, armored, moving with the practiced caution of survivors from the demon frontier.
The first was a woman: tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair cropped under a battered helm.
A longsword hung at her hip; a scarred shield slung across her back.
The second was younger, leaner, bow half-drawn, arrow nocked but not aimed.
They stopped at the edge of the dragon's remains and stared upward.
The woman cupped her hands around her mouth.
"Ho there!" she called. "You the ones who dropped a dragon out of the sky last night?"
Ed exchanged a glance with Tia. She gave a small nod—let's hear them out.
He stood, leaned over the railing, and raised his voice just enough to carry.
"That would be us. Problem?"
The woman laughed—short, rough, genuine.
"Problem? Hell no. That thing's been hunting our patrols for weeks. You just saved us a month of sleepless nights and probably a few funerals."
The archer lowered his bow a fraction.
"We tracked the blood trail. Thought we'd find corpses. Instead we found… this."
He gestured at the neatly sectioned remains—scales stacked, bones sorted, meat wrapped in canvas.
Ed shrugged one shoulder. "Waste not, want not."
The woman grinned. "I like you already."
She stepped forward, boots crunching on dried blood, and tilted her head to get a better look.
"Name's Mara. This is Tobin. We're with the Free Companies—remnants mostly, but we still patrol the western marches. Mind if we come up? Got a few questions. And maybe a proposition."
Tia leaned close to Ed's ear. "They don't feel hostile. But they're armed to the teeth."
Ed nodded. "Let's see what they want."
He called down:
"Rope bridge is sturdy. Come up one at a time. Leave weapons sheathed until we say otherwise."
Mara raised both hands in a peacemaking gesture. "Fair enough."
She started up first—confident, unhurried. Tobin followed, eyes flicking nervously between the treehouse and the forest.
When they reached the platform, Mara stopped a respectful distance and gave a small bow—not courtly, but sincere.
"Thank you," she said. "Seriously. That dragon was a nightmare."
Tia stepped forward beside Ed. "We're just glad no one else got hurt."
Mara's gaze moved from Tia's face to the faint gray marks on her wrists. Her expression sobered.
"You're her," she said quietly. "Lunaria Tia. The last of the hero's party."
Tia stiffened for half a heartbeat—then squared her shoulders.
"I am."
Mara exhaled. "Thought you were a ghost story. People say you died with Alexis at Ashen Vale."
"I almost did," Tia said simply. "I didn't."
Mara studied her for a long moment. Then looked at Ed—really looked.
"And you're…?"
"Ed," he said. "Just Ed."
The woman's brows rose. "The porter? The one they wrote out of the songs?"
Ed gave a dry smile. "That's the one."
Tobin finally spoke, voice younger, rougher.
"We didn't come to gawk. We came because word's spreading. Dragon dead. Magic flare bright enough to see from three valleys over. People are starting to ask questions. Some dangerous."
Mara nodded.
"There's a warlord—calls himself Varkis—moving through the frontier. Says he's gathering 'heroes' to finish what Alexis started. Mostly bodies and tribute. He's got scouts here. If they find a living member of the old party…"
Tia's hand found Ed's. Squeezed once.
"We're not looking for a fight," she said.
"Neither are we," Mara replied. "But fights have a way of finding people who don't look for them."
She reached into a pouch and pulled out a small, folded parchment sealed with red wax.
"Map," she said. "Safe routes. Supply caches. Names of people who still remember what the hero's party stood for. If you ever need to move—or hide—use it."
Ed took the parchment. Their fingers brushed briefly.
"Why help us?" he asked.
Mara shrugged. "Because someone has to. And because last night reminded me there are still things worth fighting for."
Tobin shifted. "We should go. Patrol's waiting."
Mara gave them one last look—part respect, part worry—then turned toward the bridge.
"If you change your mind about joining the living," she called over her shoulder, "look for the red banner with the broken sword. We're not much, but we're stubborn."
They descended without another word.
Ed and Tia watched until the figures vanished into the trees.
Tia leaned her head against his shoulder again.
"Seems we're not as forgotten as we thought," she murmured.
Ed folded the map carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
"Seems not."
He looked down at the clearing—now quieter, almost peaceful—and felt something shift inside his chest.
Not hope, exactly.
But the beginning of something that might become hope, given time.