Four years after the village's devastation, a six-year-old boy wakes in his room.
His eyes, deep red in color, blink open, adjusting to the light filtering through the white curtains. Strands of black hair fall over his forehead, slightly disheveled. He lays still for a few seconds, his gaze drifting across the room as he takes in his surroundings.
Slowly, he pushes himself upright, standing as he steadies himself, shaking off the last remnants of sleep.
He steps toward his closet, pulling the doors open with a quiet creak. His hands reach inside, retrieving a neatly folded shirt, a pair of pants, and a belt. The fabric is smooth beneath his fingers, the deep black of each piece matching.
He dresses methodically, buttoning the shirt, fastening the belt, smoothing out any creases.
The room around him is simple—wooden floors, a modest bed, a small desk pushed against the wall. A shelf near the window holds a few books, their spines worn from use.
Through the curtains, faint sounds filter in from outside, distant but steady, the hum of life beyond his walls.
He walks to the mirror, adjusting his stance as he looks himself over. His eyes scan his reflection, trailing from the crisp black fabric of his shirt to the belt fastened snug around his waist.
Reaching up, he runs a hand through his black hair, smoothing out any stray strands, ensuring it is well-tended.
Satisfied, he exhales, lowering his hands before turning away.
He steps out of his room, the faint creak of the door lost beneath the scent of food drifting through the air. The warmth of cooked meat and fresh bread lingers, drawing him toward the kitchen.
There, by the stove, a woman stands, dressed in the same black formalwear.
Her posture is relaxed but focused, hands moving as she tends to the meal. The soft sizzle of food cooking fills the quiet space, the rhythmic clatter of utensils against metal blending into the steady hum of the morning.
Her light cyan eyes reflect the glow of the stove, sharp yet warm with quiet concentration. Long blond hair, neatly tied into a braid, drapes over her shoulder, swaying slightly with her movements.
Though young, there is an ease to the way she carries herself, a confidence born from routine and responsibility.
"Miriel," the child says, his voice calm and even. "Good morning."
The woman quickly turns from the stove, brows furrowed, a slight pout settling on her lips. "I'm still your mother, you know. No one will get angry if you still call me Mom. Or Mommy."
Valen flinches, barely, his fingers twitching at his sides. "The Speaker sai—"
"I don't care what the Speaker says, Valen," she cuts in, her voice firm but not unkind. She lifts the spatula, wagging it in his direction as she speaks. "I pretty much outrank him now. So you get a pass. I better be called Mommy even after I get my wings."
She turns back to the stove, giving the pan a few exaggerated stirs, though the warmth in her voice lingers.
A small smile breaks through his calm expression. "What are we eating today, Mommy?" he asks.
Miriel perks up at this, her entire face lighting up. "We are having eggs and toast. I baked the bread myself!"
Valen walks toward the table, lifting himself onto the chair as she turns, bringing the pan over.
She pours a serving of scrambled eggs onto his plate, followed by a warm piece of toast. Settling into her own seat, she grabs her spoon and takes a bite, glancing at him as they eat.
"Today is your first day at school," she says, her voice light but expectant. "I hope you're planning to get along with the others."
Valen pauses mid-bite, a knot forming in his throat at the question. He lowers his fork slightly. "I just want to learn..."
Miriel sighs, wagging her spoon at him once more. "Valen, you are a growing child. You need to socialize with other kids." She stops, thinking for a moment. "I think you can make a lot of friends if you try."
Valen eats, though a bit slower now, his gaze lowering slightly to his plate. He chews thoughtfully before speaking. "Are you walking me to school?"
Miriel raises an eyebrow, catching the shift in subject, a small pause lingering between them. But she doesn't press it. Instead, she grins.
"I absolutely am! Wouldn't miss it for anything!" she says, her smile wide.
They finish eating, and soon, Miriel opens the door, leading Valen out into the hallway.
They step out of their home, the door closing behind them with a soft click. The stone walls of the neighboring houses press close on either side.
The narrow cobblestone path begins right at their doorstep, leaving no space between the house and the road.
Other homes line the street in tight rows, their rooftops casting overlapping shadows as the early morning light filters through.
Miriel offers her hand and without hesitation, Valen takes it, his small fingers wrapping around hers as they make their way down to the lower level.
Outside, the air carries the familiar sounds of steel meeting steel, boots pounding against packed dirt, and the sharp commands of instructors overseeing morning drills.
A large training ground stretches across them, filled with people sparring, jogging, and practicing. All with different weapons.
The uniformity of their attire stands out—whether they wear robes, leather gear, or full metal armor, every piece follows the same design of dark blue and black, adorned with the symbol of a half sun.
Valen watches as they pass, his gaze trailing over the various drills, but his grip on Miriel's hand remains firm as they continue forward.
"When can I train with them?" Valen asks, his voice eager, a slight smile breaking through his calm expression.
Miriel shakes her head, a disbelieving smile tugging at her lips. "The training grounds are reserved for people who are already hunters or training for it, Valen," she tells him.
Valen looks up at her before she continues. "You can't become a hunter until you're sixteen. You have a long way to go, sweetheart."
She turns toward him as they walk, her fingers giving his hand a small squeeze. "And please don't try to rush it. I'd like to keep my little baby for as long as I can," she says, her smile widening before she puckers her lips and makes playful kissy noises in his direction.
He chuckles, turning his head away, his cheeks slightly tinted with embarrassment. "Mom! Don't do that in front of the knights!"
His grip on her hand tightens just a little as if bracing against further teasing, but Miriel only grins wider, clearly pleased with his reaction.
A laugh echoes from the side. "The young man can't handle those kisses, Miriel. If you don't watch out, he'll run away from the abuse!"
Valen turns toward the voice, already dreading more teasing.
A man stands nearby, dressed in the same black formalwear as Miriel. His black hair is streaked with lines of white, though they do little to dull the sharpness in his features.
His beard is neatly trimmed, and a pair of daggers rest at his hips, their hilts worn from use.
Before Valen can react, Miriel scoops him up with incredible ease, pressing her cheek against his with exaggerated affection. "He would never do that, right?" she coos, pulling him away to study his face.
He squirms immediately, arms pushing against her as his legs kick slightly, desperate for escape. His ears burn, his lips pressed into a tight line as he fights back the sheer humiliation flooding through him.
"Mom! Cassian is right there!" he whines, his voice caught between frustration and mortification.
Cassian just laughs, a deep, amused chuckle, but his expression soon shifts to something more serious. "Miriel, the Speaker wanted to talk with you. Please stop by the cathedral before long."
Miriel nods, her grin fading slightly as she lowers Valen back down, brushing his shoulders as if fixing an invisible wrinkle in his clothes. "Understood," she says, her voice light but carrying a note of acknowledgment.
Cassian watches them for a moment, a slight, content smile crossing his face before he turns and walks away, his steps unhurried.
They resume their trip, passing rows of houses and additional training grounds, each mirroring the one near their home.
Soon, they reach an open space where parents are dropping off their children. Some linger, offering quiet reassurances, while others walk away, their children already breaking off into small groups.
Some kids arrive alone, moving with the casual confidence of routine, their steps steady as they blend into the gathering crowd.
The crowd is a mix—some dressed in the same uniformed attire as the knights before, while others wear simple, everyday clothes, the distinction between them subtle but present.
None carry books or supplies—just themselves and the clothes on their backs.
As they step closer, eyes begin to turn.
"Lady Miriel!" a few voices exclaim, the surprise clear in their tone.
People instinctively bow in respect before continuing on, their reactions brief but noticeable. Miriel, unfazed, waves at each of them without hesitation, her expression warm, not missing a single greeting.
Among the crowd, a group of children whisper excitedly, eyes wide with wonder.
"It's a paladin!" one of them gasps, the words spreading quickly through the small gathering.
A few of the younger ones tug at their parents' sleeves, pointing in awe, their gazes locked onto Miriel as she continues forward, her steps easy, natural, as if she barely notices the attention.
As they reach the entrance, Miriel lowers herself to Valen's height, her warm gaze settling on him with a mix of pride and quiet sadness. She lifts a hand, brushing her thumb gently against his cheek, taking in the moment.
He chuckles softly, shifting under her touch. "Mom."
She only smiles, her voice tender as she speaks. "Have fun, okay? I love you."
Valen's expression softens, his composure breaking just slightly. "I love you too, Mom."
He watches as she rises, standing tall once more. Without hesitation, she turns and begins walking away, her steps steady, unhurried.
People around her part, bowing their heads in respect as she passes. Miriel meets each gesture with a warm smile, lifting a hand in an easy wave as she moves through the crowd.
Her presence is effortless, natural, as if she belongs in every space she walks through. With that same unwavering grace, she continues forward, disappearing into the flow of the city.