The children's laughter carried easily across the glade, light as birdsong. Lindarion found himself sitting in the grass, Ashwing perched on his knee, nibbling the edge of a flower.
Caleth was demonstrating wild, flailing strikes with his wooden sword, insisting each one was a killing blow. Liora scolded him while Teren tried and failed to imitate the moves.
It was the kind of moment Lindarion had never known he craved. Ordinary. Untouched by war or shadows.
But it did not remain unnoticed.
A voice cut gently across the glade:
"Caleth. You're holding it wrong again."
The boy groaned. "Teacher…"
Lindarion lifted his gaze. A man was approaching from the treeline, robes of dark green flowing like woven leaves, his steps sure but unhurried. His hair was streaked with silver though his frame was unbowed, his eyes a deep hazel sharpened by years of patience. A long staff of polished wood rested in his hand.
