The forest is quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not serene.
Just hollow.
Like something sacred died here—and the world's still deciding whether to mourn it or bury it.
The ground crackles beneath my boots. Ash sticks to my legs. The air smells like burned copper and memory.
Gil hasn't moved.
He stands there—bare, his body still steaming, light still flickering faintly beneath skin that shouldn't have healed.
His eyes are unfocused. Hands limp at his sides.
The glow in his chest pulses.
Once.
Again.
Then fades.
He doesn't fall.
He sinks.
One knee, then the other.
Then his body tilts sideways—slow, heavy.
He hits the ash like a man whose strings have been cut.
I don't rush to him.
Not because I'm calm.
Because I'm scared.
Because I don't understand what I'm looking at.
What he is.
There's something different about him.
Did he always have that much gray hair?
I watch his chest rise once. Barely.
His fingers twitch.
His mouth moves.
A whisper slips out—raw, cracked.
"Never again."
Then nothing.
I crouch near him.
Up close, he looks less like a man and more like a consequence.
No armor. No clothes. No halo of power left—just a body, breathing on borrowed time.
I don't know how he's alive.
I don't know what kind of power does that—brings someone back like he's assembling himself out of memory and defiance.
I've heard whispers about people like him.
Giftborn.
Saint-touched.
Monsters.
I don't know the difference.
The boy stirs.
Just a twitch. A breath.
His cheek presses against my shoulder like he's dreaming of warmth.
And somehow—that breaks me.
Not the fire. Not the gods. Not the crater where Oren used to stand.
Just that tiny, soft breath.
I clutch him tighter.
Not for him.
For me.
Because right now?
That's the only thing telling me I'm still real.
Silence.
Like the world exhaled.
For one brief, impossible moment, nothing wants anything from me.
No fire. No screams. No gods.
Just ash, still air, and the sound of my own pulse catching up with me.
I let the boy sleep, his weight curled into my chest like a borrowed heartbeat.
I let the stillness exist.
Because I need it.
Because if I move too fast, I might remember how close I came to being nothing.
How is he still asleep— after everything that happened?
A cough. Wet. Broken.
Then a voice—low, scraped raw.
"So… that went well."
It's dry, too casual. But behind it, I hear the tremble.
Like he's holding himself together with thread and spite.
I jump.
Gil propped himself up on one elbow, grinning like he didn't just fall out of the sky in flames.
And he is, very clearly, still naked.
I stammer. Look away. Look back.
Immediately regret it.
"What—why are you—can you—put something on?!"
He looks down like he forgot his body exists.
"Right. Priorities. Dying took most of them."
"I—just—gods, give me a second—"
I scramble toward one of the fallen commanders, rip the charred robe from his body, and chuck it at Gil without ceremony.
It lands on his head.
He doesn't flinch. Just starts wrapping it lazily around his waist, still half-laughing under his breath.
"You're welcome, by the way."
"For what?"
"For the whole not-letting-you-die thing."
I want to be angry.
I want to be impressed.
Mostly, I just feel confused.
And small.
"What… was that?" I ask.
"The fire. The healing. The speed. You were dead, and then you weren't. And Oren—he—he turned the forest into a crater and you just—moved. Like it didn't matter."
"What even are you?"
Gil pauses.
Not to think.
Just to let the silence stretch again.
Then he says, with that same crooked grin:
"Retired"
I eye the field of corpses behind him.
"You don't seem very retired."
The boy stirs.
It's subtle at first—a twitch of his hand, a soft breath against my chest.
Then his fingers move.
His eyes flutter open.
And everything inside me locks up.
I shift—just enough to block his view.
He doesn't need to see the crater where a god just died.
He doesn't need that memory.
Not yet.
Not ever, if I can help it.
I set him down gently. His body is light—too light. He blinks up at me with a dazed kind of trust.
And suddenly, the world slows.
Because I know what's coming.
It's been building since that night.
Since her voice faded in my arms. Since I carried him out through smoke and screaming and blood.
I've known it was coming.
Every quiet moment. Every breath he took. Every time he curled closer to me in sleep.
This question was waiting.
Hunting.
And now—it's here.
I feel it before he speaks.
The way his lips part slightly.
The stillness in the air, like even the wind is holding its breath.
And I hate this.
I despise it.
Because no matter what I say—truth or lie—it won't be enough.
"Where's Mama?"
There it is.
Soft. Small.
And somehow louder than Oren's fire.
I flinch. I don't mean to, but I do.
Because I don't have an answer. Not one I can live with. Not one he can.
My first instinct is silence.
The second is the truth.
And then comes the third—the one I always choose.
His eyes are too clear. Too trusting.
My throat clenches.
The truth is a stone in my mouth, and every breath threatens to spit it out.
I don't know what to say.
So I do what I've always done when the truth hurts too much.
"Hey… kid,"
I say, voice thin as ash. "I'm your mom's friend. She… she told me to take you somewhere."
"A special place. Magical, even."
His eyes widen slightly.
I lean in.
"She said she'll meet us there."
He looks at me.
Trembling lip.
Watery eyes.
"Where's Mama?!"
The words hit harder this time. No softness. Just fear. Rising.
I panic.
"Don't worry," I say quickly. "She's probably already there. Waiting for us."
I glance around—then point at Gil, who's finally standing again, loosely clutching the robe around his waist.
"And he's going to take us there."
Gil's head whips toward me.
"Wait, I—"
The boy turns to him.
Big, sad eyes. Teetering on the edge of tears.
"Really…?"
Gil looks at me again.
Squints.
"What is this magical place, exactly?"
FLASHBACK
A few nights ago. Docks. The cart.
The driver had muttered something as he climbed up.
"Third kiln, west end. Headed to Halveth—don't miss it. I'm not waiting if you're late."
I hadn't asked.
Didn't care.
But I remembered.
Because something about the way he said it sounded like finality.
END FLASHBACK
"Halveth," I say. "Trade town west of the Cradle Peaks. That's where the cart was heading."
Gil groans.
"West."
He runs a hand down his face.
Gil exhales—slow, reluctant.
"Fine. I'll take you."
A pause. His voice dips.
"To Halveth."
Like the name itself carries weight he doesn't want to hold.
Something in his voice changes. The heat's gone. The grin, too. And just like that—I'm listening.
Gil exhales hard.
The humor drains from his face. His voice drops.
"Alright, listen. You're lucky that cargo cart was heading west. You're unlucky that we're not in it."
He turns to me—and the weight in his voice shifts.
He's not joking anymore.
"On foot, it'll take at least a month. That's if we're lucky, if we don't slow down, and if nothing out there decides we look edible."
He starts pacing—like he's already planning the route.
"We'll be skirting the Cradle Peaks. No roads. Just old trails, steep climbs, and gods-know-what crawling out of the deep forests now that it's spring."
His gaze hardens.
"If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you shut up and disappear. You don't question me."
"Because out there? If we're not smart—we're dead."
Silence follows.
Even the kid seems to sense the weight of it.
But the boy smiles anyway.
Just a little.
The fire's dying down. Gil's gone quiet.
We sit there, the three of us, like a camp of strangers pretending we've done this before.
But I keep thinking.
About the boy.
The weight of him. The way he looks at me like I matter.
And the fact that I've been calling him "kid."
The sudden thought comes to me.
I glance over.
"Hey… kid. What's your name, anyway?"
He looks up at me.
Stares.
Unblinking.
Like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Kaelen."