Alaric’s dreams were dark.

He floated in a vast void, weightless, as fragmented images drifted past like leaves on a restless wind. One lingered longer than the rest—a sun-drenched picnic on a grassy hill. His mother sat beneath a sprawling oak, her laughter bright and musical, the sound carried away on a warm breeze scented with wildflowers.

“Alaric! Alaric!”

The voice grew sharper, louder.

He jolted upright, gasping for breath, heart pounding against his ribs as though trying to break free.

Blinking rapidly, he struggled to adjust to the dim light. He lay upon a bed woven from twigs, moss, and soft forest brush—surprisingly warm, with the faint scent of crushed leaves clinging to it. Somewhere nearby, water trickled over stone, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wild herbs.

To his right stood a low wooden table cluttered with glassware—jars, vials, and bottles of every shape and size. Some glimmered faintly as if they held moonlight captive.

The events of the night pressed in on him all at once—flames licking the sky, screams echoing through stone halls, Kirt’s terrified face, the dark forest… and the glowing woman who had appeared like something from a half-forgotten dream.

And then there was Caellon.

The image of the old steward’s lined, weathered face rose in his mind, pulling at something deep in his chest. Caellon, who had cared for him when his father could not—or would not. Caellon, who had been more a father than the one bound to him by blood.

Just as his thoughts began to spiral into grief, a face suddenly loomed into view above his own.

He yelped, jerking upright—
—and smacked foreheads with the intruder.

“Augh! Why’d you sit up like that?!” the girl groaned, clutching her brow.

Alaric winced, rubbing his own head. “Sorry! I didn’t know you were so close!”

When he looked again, he saw her properly. She couldn’t have been much older than him. Raven-black hair was tied in a haphazard knot, threaded through with flowers, feathers, and what looked suspiciously like twigs. Her eyes were a piercing, unnatural gray, flecked with violet that caught the light like lilac petals on water. A thin white scar crossed her forehead, half-hidden beneath her fringe.

“You’re staring,” she said flatly, raising one dark brow. “A little too close for comfort.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks, and he quickly leaned back, muttering an apology.

The moment stretched awkwardly before she stepped away, her movements fluid, almost feline.

“Well, welcome to my home,” she said at last, gesturing lazily to the small, enclosed space. “I’m Morgan. Or Morrigan, if you’re feeling dramatic. But Morgan’s easier.”

She plucked a cup from the table and held it out to him. It wasn’t carved but grown—branches twisted naturally into its shape, with tiny green shoots still curling from its rim.

“Thirsty?”

He nodded, and she filled it from a clay jug before passing it over.

“It’s clean, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she said, her tone edged with faint amusement.

“N-No, I just… I’ve never seen a cup like this before,” Alaric admitted, taking a careful sip.

Morgan smirked faintly. “Don’t they have cups in castles?”

There was no malice in her voice, but there was a quiet challenge. The kind that came from someone who had built her life from whatever she could find—and didn’t care to be judged for it.

“The water’s cold and refreshing,” Alaric said with a small, genuine smile as he handed the cup back.

Morgan studied him for a long beat before setting it on the table.

“I wanted to thank you for saving me,” he said, standing and giving a short, earnest bow. “If you hadn’t appeared… I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “No one’s ever bowed to me before,” she muttered, almost smiling. She extended her hand, and he shook it firmly.

—

Time passed strangely here.

The forest canopy blotted out the sun so thoroughly that the sky was nothing more than a shifting blur of muted light and shadow. Morgan told him he’d slept for nearly a day and a half. She had healed his injured foot with magic—though a pale scar now marked the spot, mirroring the faint one on her own forehead.

Despite the stillness of the forest, his thoughts churned. Caellon. His father. The other servants. The manor—everything he’d ever known—had been reduced to memory and smoke. Somewhere along the way, his favorite book had been lost. The thought of it—pages he had pored over so many times—slipping away into ash struck him harder than he expected.

Morgan worked at the table, chopping vegetables and herbs with the easy confidence of someone who had done so a thousand times.

“I’m grateful you saved me,” Alaric said finally, breaking the silence. “But… I need to know what happened to the manor. To everyone who lived there.”

Her hands stilled.

She set the knife down slowly and sat across from him.

“Listen…” she began, voice low, careful. “You can’t go back. There’s nothing left.”

Her gaze slid away from his.

Nothing left?

No. Caellon must have made it out. His father had been away. Someone—anyone—must have survived.

But Morgan’s silence told him otherwise.

“I need to see it for myself,” he said quietly.

Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. “I told you—there’s nothing left! You think I’m lying?!”

“I don’t—”

“Then go,” she cut in, her voice like a sudden blade. She turned her back to him. “See for yourself. Come back when you’re ready for my help.”

The steel in her words rang clear, but beneath it, Alaric thought he heard something else—a tremor she couldn’t quite hide.

“I’ll come back,” he promised. “I just… can’t stay here not knowing.”

—

The moment his hand touched the door, the world shifted.

The small room melted away, replaced by a sunlit forest in full bloom. Trees stretched impossibly high, their leaves glittering like molten gold. Flowers opened in ripples of color, releasing a sweetness into the air so heady it almost felt like a memory of home.

Then—smoke.

The sweetness soured, replaced by the acrid sting of burning wood.

Alaric stepped forward.

The forest thinned and fell away to ruin. Where his home had once stood was nothing but a husk of blackened stone and splintered beams, jutting upward like the ribs of some dead giant. Ash coated the ground in a pale, suffocating blanket, muffling his footsteps.

He walked on, boots crunching over char and debris. Here and there, faint embers glowed in the wreckage, stubborn in their dying.

There was nothing left.

His throat closed, breath catching in his chest. The smell of smoke clung to the back of his tongue.

Above, the sky darkened. Heavy clouds rolled in like grief made visible.

Thunder rumbled low and far.

And then the sky opened up, and wept with him.