Aeren sat quietly, staring into the fire. His body still ached from exhaustion, but his mind was elsewhere—lingering on the terrifying moment when the Ice Wolf had nearly ended his life.

"You’re quieter than usual," Thalos noted as he stirred the pot. "Still thinking about what happened earlier?"

Aeren hesitated before nodding. "If you hadn’t been there… I would’ve been killed, wouldn’t I?"

Thalos didn’t answer right away. He simply filled two wooden bowls with stew, handing one to Aeren before sitting down. "This world isn’t kind to the weak," he finally said. "That’s why you have to learn, Aeren. Not just to survive—but to truly live."

Aeren frowned, gripping his bowl. "But I don’t have magic like you do. How am I supposed to be strong?"

Thalos chuckled, shaking his head. "Strength isn’t just about magic. Fighting isn’t just about how much power you have. Let me ask you this—when you chop wood, do you just swing blindly and hope for the best?"

Aeren thought about it. "No… You told me to feel the rhythm. To strike when it feels right."

Thalos nodded. "Exactly. That same principle applies to everything—combat, survival, even magic. Power is meaningless without control. Even the greatest sorcerers can be defeated if they don’t understand how to use what they have."

Aeren’s grip on his bowl tightened. "So even without magic, I can still become strong?"

Thalos smiled. "Strength takes many forms. Some wield flames, some control storms—but the greatest warriors are those who understand themselves first. You don’t need magic to be powerful, Aeren. You need discipline. Awareness. A mind sharper than any blade."

Aeren absorbed every word, feeling something stir deep inside him—a spark of determination he had never felt before.

Thalos placed a firm hand on his shoulder and spoke with quiet intensity.

"Remember this, Aeren: The world will always try to define your worth. But only you decide your true strength. A blade is just metal until it’s sharpened. A spark is nothing until it ignites a fire. And a boy alone in the forest? He can remain lost… or rise beyond what anyone thought possible."

Aeren sat still, the weight of those words sinking in. He didn’t have magic. He didn’t know where he came from. But for the first time, he felt a purpose beyond simply existing.

As the fire crackled between them, Aeren silently made a vow to himself.

One day, he would stand strong—not just to survive, but to prove that he was more than what the world believed him to be.

The warmth of the fire crackled between them as they ate in comfortable silence. The stew, though simple, was rich and filling, its warmth spreading through Aeren’s tired body. The events of the day still lingered in his mind, but the exhaustion was slowly melting away with each bite.

Thalos ate calmly, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the darkened forest. Despite the danger that lurked beyond the trees, he remained unfazed, as if the wilderness itself bowed to his presence.

After finishing their meal, Aeren leaned back against a fallen log, letting out a content sigh. His eyes wandered upward, drawn to the vast night sky above. Stars stretched endlessly, twinkling like scattered diamonds against the deep blue canvas.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?" Thalos murmured, his voice quieter now, almost reverent.

Aeren nodded. "Yeah… It feels so different at night. Peaceful, but… also kind of lonely."

Thalos chuckled. "That’s the nature of the world, Aeren. Even in beauty, there is solitude. Even in peace, there is the shadow of conflict."

Aeren turned his head to look at him. "You always talk like you’ve seen more than anyone else."

Thalos smirked. "Maybe I have." His gaze never left the sky. "Tell me, Aeren, do you know the true difference between a hero and a villain?"

Aeren frowned, thinking. "Heroes protect people, and villains destroy things… right?"

Thalos exhaled, shaking his head. "That’s what most believe. But reality is far more complicated. The difference between a hero and a villain is often just perspective."

Aeren tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

Thalos poked at the fire with a stick, watching as sparks rose into the air. "Both heroes and villains have convictions. Both have a reason for what they do. A hero fights for what the world accepts as right. A villain fights for what the world refuses to understand."

Aeren furrowed his brows. "So… villains aren't always evil?"

Thalos’s eyes darkened slightly. "A villain is just a person whose ideals do not align with the majority. Some fight against injustice but are labeled as monsters. Some follow orders blindly but are praised as saviors. History is not written by what is right, but by those who win."

Aeren swallowed, letting the words sink in. "So… in another story, a villain could have been the hero?"

Thalos finally looked at him, a quiet wisdom in his gaze. "Exactly. That’s why you must never let the world define who you are. In the end, the only difference between a hero and a villain… is who gets to tell the tale."

The fire crackled, its embers drifting into the cool night air. The silence stretched between them once more, but this time, it felt different—weighted with unspoken lessons.

Eventually, Thalos stood, brushing off his cloak. "Get some rest, Aeren. Tomorrow, we begin again."

Aeren nodded, still deep in thought, before lying down on his makeshift bedding of furs and blankets. As he stared up at the endless night sky, Thalos’s words echoed in his mind.

What truly made a hero or a villain? And where would he stand when the time came?

Sleep soon claimed him, the stars above watching silently as the boy unknowingly inched closer to his destiny.

Thalos remained seated by the fire long after Aeren had drifted into sleep. The boy’s breathing was slow and steady, his face peaceful under the soft glow of the embers. For a moment, Thalos simply watched, his sharp eyes studying the child fate had placed in his care.

He had seen many things in his lifetime—kings, warriors, tyrants, and revolutionaries. He had seen empires rise and fall, witnessed the cruelty of men and the fleeting kindness of gods. And yet, as he looked at Aeren now, he saw something even those grand figures never possessed.

"Such a fragile thing," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yet within you, I see the embers of something far greater than kings and warriors alike."

He poked at the fire absentmindedly, his mind wandering. Aeren didn’t yet know the truth about himself—who he was, where he came from, why he had been left to perish in a forest where no child should have survived. Thalos had kept that truth from him, not out of cruelty, but because some burdens were too heavy to bear too soon.

"You don’t yet know the weight you carry, boy," he said softly, watching the flickering flames. "Perhaps that is a mercy… or perhaps it is a curse."

His eyes flickered toward Aeren again, his expression unreadable.

"The world will not be kind to you. It never is to those who defy the path it tries to force upon them."

Thalos leaned back against a tree, staring at the sky. His voice was a whisper lost to the wind.

"The weak are trampled. The strong are feared. And those who refuse to be either… are the ones who change everything."

He let out a quiet sigh and closed his eyes, though he did not sleep. Not yet. Not while the fire still burned, and certainly not while the boy—the one who might one day shake the very fabric of fate—slept so soundly beside him.