I do not know if Xanthe truly understood the phoenix's secrets, its flame abilities or even the golden eggs. I do not know if this was coincidence or if, somehow, she had always known and believed it would one day serve me. But if she did, what of this world? Questions swirled in my mind, countless and relentless
The phoenix was still in the same weakened state. I had read about its cycle before, how, when a phoenix grows old, its feathers lose their brilliance, the fire within it dims, and eventually, it immolates itself, crumbling into ash only to rise again, renewed. But none, in all the knowledge of Terra, was it written that such a creature would lay golden eggs.
I had hoped, no, begged, for it to rise again. To return to me, vibrant and fierce, as it once was. Unburdened by whatever sickness plagued it. I didn't want to lose it. I had grown attached. It wasn't just a mystical creature to me; it was my salvation.
It had freed me from Titus's grasp, traveled realms to bring me to this world. It was the reason Novalie found me unconscious that day and brought me to the cave, the catalyst that led me to meet my new parents. Without it, the villagers would not have been spared from the orc and goblin raid, and the avalanche that trapped one of the twins would have claimed a life rather than merely burying them in snow. And it was the same force that transformed this place, turning it into the paradise it is today.
And if it were to die, never to rise again…
Then so too would my hope of returning to Caelum.
So too would my chance to save Xanthe from that wretched man.
So too would my chance to avenge my mother.
Our village was no longer just a village. It had become a whispered name on the tongues of strangers.
It had begun with a few travelers, wandering merchants, adventurers, the lost and the curious. Then came the nobles, drawn by whispers of a thriving land untouched by the kingdom's corruption. To sustain the influx, we built an inn and a tavern, raised market stalls to sell the bounty of our land.
The inn, housed travelers a warm bed for five bronze coins a night, seven, if they wanted a meal included.
The tavern beside it, where men and women gathered beneath lantern light to, the clinking of mugs, the laughter of strangers becoming friends and spin stories that may or may not have been true.
And the market? It blossomed like the first breath of spring.
Fruits from our orchards, their juices sweet as honey. Crops from our fields, harvested with care and transformed into warm, nourishing meals, each bite a testament to the earth's generosity. Fish from our lakes, some sold raw, others transformed into dishes that melted on the tongue. The blacksmith, Logan Lionheart, forged tools and weapons, each bearing his signature craftsmanship.
The village thrived.
And as it did, the world took notice.
The name Aragòn reached noble halls, where lords and ladies spoke of it with intrigue.
Even adventurers arrived in droves, drawn by the Dark Forest. Some sought riches, others glory. We gave them what they desired, tearing down part of the great wall that once guarded us, replacing it with a set of towering doors. A silver coin granted them entry. But what lay beyond was no mere hunting ground.
The Dark Forest was a graveyard in disguise.
It was no place for the reckless.
Some who entered never returned.
Some stumbled back, but not whole, wounded in flesh or shattered in spirit, their eyes vacant, their hands trembling as if they still held onto the horrors they had witnessed.
For those who never made it back, we carved their names into wooden markers, placing them by the entrance. A warning to those who came after.
But warnings only seemed to entice them further.
I still remember them.
Five souls. A few years our seniors.
They called themselves The Silver Fang Adventurers.
They had run from their homes, seeking something greater than the lives they were given. Nobles and commoners alike, bound by choice, not blood. They did not look down upon one another. They did not scorn their differences.
They called themselves family.
They helped the villagers in their daily tasks, earning smiles, earning trust.
And on the day they entered the Dark Forest, they turned to us and said
"We'll be back."
But they never returned.
Day faded into night.
Night gave way to dawn.
Days stretched into weeks. Weeks unraveled into months.
Their names were the first to be carved into the wood.
That night, the village wept for them.
And then came the storm.
The sky split open, lightning bleeding through the blackened clouds. Thunder roared, shaking the earth, as if the heavens themselves mourned.
And from the Dark Forest, a lone boy emerged.
He was our age.
Soaked, trembling, but untouched by any visible wound. His hair was golden, his eyes like the summer sky, but they were swollen, red-rimmed from relentless grief.
He spoke of his brother. How he had watched as the monsters tore him apart, watched as his life was taken, unable to do a thing to stop it.
The villagers gathered around him, listening in somber silence. His home was too far to return to. He had nothing left.
Lincoln took him in as a servant, offering him shelter, food, and a chance to earn his way. If anyone came looking for him, he would be free to go. If not, once he had saved enough, he could buy passage on a ship home.
His name was Salvatore.
And so, he had became one of us.
At first, he was just a boy who helped with the chores. He followed Novalie and the twins, always lingering at her side. When Novalie visited our home, he was there. Every morning, he trained with Father in swordplay, repaying the lessons with labor, chopping wood, helping Mother cook.
I thought him kind.
But...
As the days passed, I couldn't shake the feeling that Salvatore was trying to steal my place.