Alaric could no longer tell if the droplets running down his face were tears or rain. A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, but he didn’t move.

“You should come back,” Morgan said softly, her voice like a balm in the cold air. “Your lips are blue, and you’re shivering.”

He turned toward her, letting her guide him quietly back to her shelter.

———

Morgan watched as Alaric settled by the fire she had built. His clothes clung to him, soaked through, and his dark hair dripped onto his shoulders. She fetched a dry cloth and awkwardly dabbed at his skin — comforting others was a skill she hadn’t practiced much.

Sitting beside him, she stole a glance at his face. Tears streamed silently down his cheeks.

What do you say to someone who’s crying? What do you even do?

“I—If you’re hungry, I made some stew,” she offered uncertainly. “It’s probably not as good as you’re used to, but… it’s edible.”

Alaric shook his head. How could he eat when everything inside felt shattered, like his life had ended and there was nothing left to return to? He rose slowly and dragged himself to the makeshift bed, lying down with his back turned to her.

His thoughts were consumed by his father and Caellon. Were they alive? Hurt? Dead? The questions spun endlessly in his mind until exhaustion finally dragged him into restless sleep.

Morgan stayed by the fire, watching the shadows flicker across his face. She remembered that dreadful stillness well—the hollow silence that follows after losing everything. She had lived alone so long she’d learned to bury the ache deep, but it never truly left. Eventually, she drifted off herself, curled near the fading firelight.

———

That night, nightmares found them both.

Alaric gasped awake, heart pounding, eyes wide. The room felt heavy and unfamiliar until his gaze fell on Morgan, curled near the ashes, murmuring in her sleep. Her body trembled, lips moving in a strange, lilting language.

He tiptoed over and stirred the dying embers with a stick. Suddenly, Morgan’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

“It’s magic,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded. “I have to cast the spell again.”

She sat up, staring into the fireplace, and murmured, “Ignis.”

A fresh flame bloomed, golden and warm like spring flowers.

“Are all your spells that simple?” Alaric asked, curiosity softening the tension in his chest.

“For small things, yes,” Morgan said. “But for more complex magic, I need to chant. There’s structure, rules, flow.”

She began explaining the workings of her craft, and Alaric listened with genuine interest. Their voices dropped to whispers, and the conversation wandered from spells to ordinary things—food, books, forest paths. For the first time since the fire, Alaric felt his chest loosen.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I lost my mother when I was very young. From what I remember, she was kind. She loved to read.” His gaze flicked to the fire, eyes shimmering. “She smelled like lilacs…”

His voice cracked, and the words trailed off.

Morgan looked down, fingers tracing a pattern on her lap. “It’s good you have something to hold on to. I think…there was someone with me once. A presence. But that’s all I remember. Then nothing.”

A heavy silence fell between them—not uncomfortable, but thick with understanding.

Then Morgan said quietly, “I had a dream about you, you know.”

Alaric’s head snapped up. “You did? What was it? What did you see?”

She hesitated, uneasy. “It wasn’t clear. Just flashes—your home. You. And… something else.”

“What else? Tell me!”

Morgan took a shaky breath. “You. A sword. And… a lot of death.”

The words hung like smoke in the air. Alaric’s face drained of color.

“You… you saw death?”

He thought of the fire, the screams, his father and Caellon. Could it already be starting?

“Is that all you saw?” he asked, voice trembling. “Was there more?”

Morgan shook her head. “That was it. I don’t get dreams like that often, but when I do… they come true. And when I woke, I just knew I had to help you.”

Alaric stared into the flames, lost in thought. “Do you think that’s why those men came to the manor? Maybe… maybe it’s already happening…”

The silence that followed was heavier this time.

“Do you remember what the sword looked like?” Alaric asked suddenly.

Morgan furrowed her brow. “It was long… and I think there was writing on it.” She scratched her head. “Oh! And there was a purple stone, glowing, where you’d hold the sword.”

Alaric chuckled softly. “That’s called the pommel.”

Morgan gave him a playful shove. “I may not know swords, but I know a great many things about magic.”

He smiled. Strange, clever, curious, confident—right now, she just felt like a person. A friend.

“I don’t know why that sword was in the dream,” he said. “I’ve never cared much for sword-fighting. Father made me learn, but I always preferred books.”

Morgan noticed the sadness beneath his smile. He’d spoken of his mother, but not once of his father.

“I’m not sure either,” she admitted. “But you and that sword are connected. Somehow.”

She paused. “Do you think your father might know something about it? You said he was interested in swords, right?”

Alaric nodded slowly. “His study was filled with books on swords and history. I always thought it was just a hobby… but maybe there’s more.”

Morgan’s eyes lit up. “If the study survived the fire, we could look through his collection. Maybe the sword is in one of the books.”

Alaric hesitated. The thought of returning—of seeing the manor again—terrified him. Morgan, sensing his unease, gently took his hand.

“I’ll be with you,” she said. “If it’s too much, we’ll leave. You don’t have to face it alone.”

Alaric squeezed her hand, voice trembling but steady.

“Let’s do it.”