The cottage was breathing.
Its walls exhaled warmth from every crack between the old timber. The hearth was alive with flame, not roaring but murmuring — the kind of fire that knew its place in a quiet home. Herbs dangled from the ceiling like a thousand green whispers, and the scent of stew crept along the floorboards as if searching for someone to praise it.
At the heart of it all stood Stenvarr — sleeves rolled, beard damp from steam, and eyes that squinted not from age, but from smiling too much.
"You stirred it wrong again," came a small, triumphant voice from the table.
Stenvarr looked over his shoulder. "Did I, now?"
"You go too slow," said Kal, perched on a stool much too tall for him, legs swinging, face lit with the glow of mischief.
"I stir it with patience, young sage," Stenvarr said, raising the spoon like a wizard's staff. "Which is why you always burn the bottom."
"I didn't burn it last time," Kal mumbled, crossing his arms.
"No," Stenvarr agreed, turning back to the pot. "That time you simply incinerated it."
Kal tried not to smile. Failed. "You laughed."
"I laugh at many things," the old man said. "But mostly you."
He ladled a taste, blew on it, and passed the wooden spoon over his shoulder without looking. Kal leaned forward, slurped, and sighed like a prince tasting victory.
"It's good."
Stenvarr nodded solemnly. "As it should be. You chose the carrots."
Kal beamed. "I pick the best ones."
Stenvarr leaned back against the counter, watching the boy with quiet eyes. There was something in the way Kal sat — comfortable, unafraid, perfectly at home. As if the world beyond the wooden walls didn't exist. Or at least, didn't matter.
The boy belonged here.
Not just in the cottage, but with him.
"You know," Stenvarr said after a while, stirring the stew with one hand and sipping from a carved wooden cup with the other, "when I was your age, I thought clouds were pieces of the moon that got lost."
Kal tilted his head. "They're not?"
"No. But it's still a better story than rain being 'just water.'"
Kal laughed, the kind of laugh that only existed in cottages like this — where no one was trying to be louder than the walls, and even time seemed to wait its turn.
The stew simmered.
A hawk cried in the distance.
The smell of pine drifted through the window.
Eventually, after bread had been eaten and hands had been wiped on sleeves instead of cloth, Kal curled up in the thick old chair near the fire. He hugged a pillow with the intensity only children and poets ever manage.
Stenvarr sat across from him, his fingers steepled under his chin, looking into the flames as if they spoke in secret.
Then softly:
"I'll need to go away for a day or two."
Kal looked up sharply. "Again?"
"It's not far. Just one of the little walks. You remember the ones."
Kal's lips trembled with a protest that didn't form. "You always say it's short."
"And it always is," Stenvarr replied gently.
"I don't like when you're gone."
"I know."
There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire chewing on old wood.
"Will I be alone?" Kal asked, voice small.
"Of course not." Stenvarr leaned forward, grinning. "Takashi's coming."
That changed everything.
Kal sat up like he'd heard a festival was coming to town. "Really?"
"Would I lie to you about that?"
The boy's entire body relaxed, slumping back into the pillow. "He's the coolest."
"He's also the quietest."
"I like that."
Stenvarr laughed. "Then we truly are opposites, you and I."
Kal yawned, rubbing his eyes. "He plays better than you do."
"Traitor," Stenvarr murmured with a smile.
But his smile faded slowly, as he watched the boy's lashes grow heavy. A breeze brushed past the shutters. Somewhere beyond the hills, wolves sang to the moon.
Stenvarr stood, pulling the old woolen blanket over Kal's small frame.
The child mumbled sleepily, "Don't take too long…"
"I never do."
He knelt, pressing his forehead gently against Kal's.
"You are loved, little one. Fiercely. In every world."
The boy was asleep before the last word fell.
Stenvarr stood again.
And though his steps were light, his heart carried a thousand weights he didn't name.
Outside, the wind turned colder.
But inside the cottage, beside a fire and a sleeping child, the warmth of something old and unbreakable remained.
The sound of the water here was different.
Not wild — not loud — just... constant. Like time breathing.
A silver-threaded stream curved through black stone and fell gently into a still pool, its edges wrapped in thick moss and weeping ferns. The trees stood high and narrow, their branches like spires against a heavy gray sky. The whole place felt paused. Preserved.
This was not the land of firelit homes and laughing boys.
This was a world of silence.
And at its heart, beside the glimmering fall, stood Kateli — robed in grey and woven white, her eyes reflecting the hush of the water itself. She did not sit. She watched. As if the stream might speak a secret she'd been waiting decades to hear.
Behind her, light shifted.
A figure stepped through the mist, his presence parting the hush like a knife drawn without sound.
Takashi.
Red scarf. Black cloak. Mask over half his face. The kind of stillness that carried weight — not from force, but from history.
"You're early," Kateli said without turning.
"You've grown predictable," he replied, stepping beside her.
They stood together, the waterfall murmuring between them.
"This place," Takashi muttered, "always feels like something's about to end."
"Or begin," Kateli said.
She finally looked at him — her expression unreadable, but kind.
"The breach you heard about is real."
Takashi nodded. "I figured."
"It's not just noise," she added. "Someone inside the Legion has been bending forbidden lines. Quietly. Precisely."
He didn't flinch. "You're going to find them."
"I'm going with Stenvarr," she confirmed. "We'll trace the leak from the root layers. Isolate the signal. Remove it if needed."
Takashi's eye narrowed slightly. "Dangerous."
Kateli exhaled through her nose. "Everything worth doing is."
They stood again in silence.
Then, her voice softened. "I need to ask something else of you."
His gaze flicked toward her.
"You'll be gone long," he said.
"Long enough," she replied. "And the boy…"
A pause.
"The boy should not be alone."
"Kal," Takashi said simply. The name fell from his mouth like a stone into deep water.
"Yes."
He looked back to the stream.
Kateli stepped closer. "He trusts you. Even the parts of you that never speak."
Takashi didn't answer. Not right away.
Instead, he removed one glove, reached down, and touched the water.
It rippled. Just once. Then settled again.
Finally:
"I'll go."
She nodded. "Thank you."
"I'm not doing it for you."
"I know."
Her voice carried no offense. Only understanding.
"Stenvarr will wait at the northern pass," she added. "He'll open the thread once you're there."
Takashi stood. "Then I'll go now."
But Kateli's voice stopped him again.
"Takashi," she said.
He turned.
"Do not underestimate what the boy might become."
He studied her for a long, unreadable breath.
Then:
"I never have."
She gave him a small, tired smile.
And with that — no gestures, no drama — she stepped into a shimmer of light that barely touched the stones... and was gone.
Takashi remained.
The wind moved again, soft through the trees.
The waterfall continued to fall.
And the red scarf stirred.
He stood alone.
Not because he preferred it.
But because, for now, the boy waited in another world.
And someone had to meet him.
The wind in the Viking server bit colder near the cliffs.
Here, above the pines and fjords, where the sky hung wide and untouched, Stenvarr waited — standing near the stone arch that marked the traveler's path between servers. He leaned against his staff, cloak dancing slightly in the wind, as if the land itself remembered how to breathe through fabric and silence.
Behind him, the air shimmered.
Folded.
And from it stepped Takashi, the red of his scarf drawing a small line of contrast in a world built of iron and bark.
"You're on time," Stenvarr said, without turning.
"I had no choice," Takashi replied, adjusting his cloak. "She asked nicely."
Stenvarr chuckled softly. "That woman could ask a glacier to move and it would consider it."
Takashi stepped beside him, both men facing the valley below — a tapestry of hills, trees, and smoke from the hearths of small homes.
"You've spoken to Kal?" Takashi asked.
"Not yet," Stenvarr said. "I wanted him to wake with sunlight, not shadows."
Takashi said nothing.
Then, after a moment: "He still has the dream."
"Every third night," Stenvarr confirmed. "The river, the voice, the hand reaching through flame."
Takashi's jaw tensed slightly beneath the mask. "And he still doesn't know."
"He knows enough," Stenvarr replied. "He knows who not to trust."
A silence opened between them — not awkward, but full of what neither had to say.
Finally, Stenvarr added, "He's growing. Asking questions I don't always know how to answer."
Takashi's gaze stayed on the horizon. "That's why I'm here."
"And because you remember what happens when children like him go unprotected."
A gust moved through the trees. The arch behind them flickered with residual light.
Takashi turned to face Stenvarr fully.
"You think Morfain will act soon."
"I know he's watching," Stenvarr replied. "But watching is not acting."
"No," Takashi agreed, "but for someone like him, watching is wanting."
Another pause.
Then, carefully, Stenvarr said:"He won't stop. Not until Kal is his."
Takashi's voice dropped, cold and firm."He will never be."
Stenvarr nodded once.
"I believe that."
They locked eyes — not as friends, but as keepers of the same secret. There was no need to name Morfain for who he truly was. No need to speak the word father. It lingered in the air, sharp as frost, soft as shame.
The boy did not know.
Not yet.
But they did.
And that was enough — for now.
Stenvarr adjusted the strap across his shoulder. "I leave within the hour. The Legion's pulling strings, and I'd rather not be tangled in them."
Takashi smirked faintly. "Give my regards to the bureaucracy."
"I'll give them your silence. It's more valuable."
The two stood still, the wind playing softly around them like the last movement of a forgotten song.
Then Stenvarr reached out — not quite touching Takashi, but offering something between camaraderie and command.
"Watch him, Takashi. Not just with your strength. With your eyes."
Takashi inclined his head. "Always."
And with that, the old man turned, walking down the path toward the waiting gate.
Takashi remained a moment longer, eyes fixed on the trail of mist his presence had left in the stones.
Then he turned — slowly, precisely — and began walking toward the cabin where Kal was waking.
The sun had begun to rise.
And for now, at least, it was warm.
The cottage still smelled of ash and stew.
The morning sun, diffused by thin clouds, spilled gold over the worn wooden floor. In the center of the room, beside a low table cluttered with carved animals and tangled yarn, Kal sat cross-legged, face buried in a bowl of something he was pretending to like.
Then—
A knock.
Three soft raps.
Measured.
Then silence.
Kal looked up, mouth full.
He waited.
Then sprang from the floor, tripping over his own blanket.
The door creaked open just as he reached it.
And there stood Takashi.
Scarlet scarf. Black cloak. Same unreadable half-smile hiding beneath the mask. A wind shifted behind him as if it, too, had followed.
Kal's eyes lit up.
"You came!"
Takashi nodded. "I was promised breakfast."
Kal laughed, pulling him inside. "You don't even eat!"
"Not your cooking," Takashi replied.
"Hey!"
The boy ran ahead, already chattering — about wolves he heard at night, a dream about flying trees, the way the stew smelled weird this morning. Takashi followed slowly, removing his cloak and placing it, perfectly folded, on the same hook he'd used the last time he visited.
He knew this place. Its rhythm. Its breath.
And the boy — well, the boy had never changed.
Except he had.
Later, they sat outside beneath the leaning birch, where the sky opened wider than most hearts ever did.
Kal tossed a small stone at Takashi's foot. It bounced off his boot.
"That means I challenged you."
"To what?"
"Something."
Takashi arched an eyebrow. "That's vague."
Kal grinned. "You're just scared you'll lose."
Takashi didn't move. "I don't compete with children."
"Because they beat you?"
"No," Takashi said, calmly picking up the stone and flicking it back — hard. "Because they whine."
Kal dodged with a laugh, but the stone skimmed his sleeve. "Unfair!"
"Precision isn't unfair."
"Strength isn't personality."
Takashi tilted his head. "Who taught you that?"
"You did."
A pause.
Then Takashi looked away, his voice quieter than before. "I was hoping you'd forgotten."
Kal watched him for a moment.
The wind moved.
Then Kal asked, softly, "Do you ever get scared?"
Takashi didn't answer right away.
Then: "No."
Kal frowned. "That's a lie."
"Yes," Takashi agreed.
The boy was quiet, hugging his knees. "I had a dream again."
Takashi turned.
"With the voice in the fire?"
Kal nodded.
"And the hand?"
The boy's fingers clenched. "It knew my name this time."
Takashi's posture changed — not visibly. But the shift was there. A stillness inside the stillness. Like water tightening beneath ice.
He reached forward, placed a hand on Kal's shoulder — not like a warrior, not like a guardian, but like someone who had chosen, again and again, to stay.
"You're not alone."
Kal looked up.
Takashi's eye — the one not hidden — held a storm the boy would never name.
"Nothing touches you while I breathe."
They sat like that for a while.
Quiet.
Birds above.
Wind in the grass.
And between them, a bond not spoken of, not asked for — but stronger than most truths.
Eventually, Kal nudged his side. "Still scared of spiders?"
Takashi sighed. "One spider. Once."
"It was tiny."
"It had intentions."
Kal laughed until he hiccuped.
And for a breath, the world was kind.
Back in the server where the sun rarely dared to rise, the air held no birdsong.
Only breathless tension.
And the rustle of black cloth.
A chamber beneath the earth — carved not from stone, but from will — flickered with the glow of blue veins pulsing through obsidian walls. A single throne stood at the far end, high and angular, unlit.
The figure upon it was half-shadow, half-shape.
Morfain.
He did not sit like a king.
He did not speak like a tyrant.
He simply was — the kind of presence that made silence feel like obedience.
Before him knelt five teenagers, armor mismatched, eyes sharp with uncertainty and devotion alike. Each bore marks of forging — not of weapons, but of purpose. They had been trained, shaped, hardened. Not by kindness.
By need.
Morfain's voice slid through the chamber like ice over steel.
"Stenvarr is gone."
The five remained still.
"Kateli with him. The boy remains behind. Guarded."
A pause.
Then the faint curl of something like a smile — audible, not seen.
"But not by the ones who matter."
He stood. Or perhaps he shifted. The chamber darkened a fraction.
"It's time."
One of the five dared to speak. "You want him... taken?"
"No," Morfain said, with measured grace. "I want him returned."
Another pause.
Then, softly:"Bring Kal back to me."
The five rose — silent. Synchronized.
And behind them, the shadows moved as if pleased.
The sky above the valley had softened into afternoon gray.
Kal was halfway through building a precarious tower of stones. Takashi sat nearby, sharpening a stick with a flat stone — not because he needed to, but because it gave his hands something quiet to do.
"You know this is going to fall, right?" Takashi muttered without looking up.
Kal placed another pebble. "Faith, old man. Have some."
"I'm thirty-two."
Kal snorted. "That's ancient."
"You're talking to a man who's broken twelve ribs."
"I'm talking to a man who's about to lose to gravity."
Takashi looked up.
And that's when it happened.
A soundless crack in the air — like the world trying to inhale after forgetting how.
The light above them bent. Folded.
Kal froze.
Takashi stood in one smooth motion.
Before them, suspended a meter above the grass, a portal spiraled open. Not blue, not white — but black, threaded with red, like veins pulsing in a dying star.
From it stepped five figures — cloaked, lean, eyes sharp with youth and something colder than youth should carry.
Teenagers.
But not children.
Not anymore.
The leader, a girl with jagged hair and a shoulder tattoo like shattered glass, stepped forward.
Takashi did not move.
Kal stepped behind him instinctively.
The girl raised her chin. "We're not here for a fight."
Takashi's voice was low. "Then leave."
She smiled — not cruelly, but with the misplaced confidence of someone reciting from someone else's script.
"We've come for the boy."
Takashi raised one eyebrow. "You think that line's going to work?"
Another stepped forward — a boy this time, taller, bolder. "You can't protect him forever."
Takashi's gaze sharpened. "Forever's just a matter of practice."
The leader spoke again. "We don't want to hurt anyone. We were told to bring him back. That's all."
"To whom?" Takashi asked.
They hesitated.
And that was enough.
He took one step forward. "Wrong answer."
The first attacker moved fast.
Takashi moved faster.
No blade. No gun.
Only hands, and gravity, and decisions made a second before others thought of them.
He ducked the first strike — caught the wrist — twisted.
A cry.
The girl lunged.
He spun her into the boy.
Two down.
Another tried to flank him — a flurry of kicks.
Takashi stepped inside the strike, used the attacker's own momentum, and brought him down with a single sweep.
Three.
One tried to grab Kal — foolish.
Takashi was already there.
A palm to the chest — not hard, but placed precisely.
Wind knocked out.
Four.
The last tried to run.
Takashi caught him by the cloak.
Whispered, "Tell him I'm still breathing."
Then knocked him cold.
Kal stood speechless.
The wind returned.
The portal flickered.
The five lay in the grass, groaning, defeated, young again.
But the sky did not calm.
Because the air… thickened.
Then tore.
A second portal opened.
No sound.
Just pressure.
And from it stepped Morfain.
Fully.
For the first time.
He was tall — not towering, but imposing. His skin pale as dead snow. His eyes… wrong. Not colorless, not black. Just void — as if the light refused to reflect in them.
His hair was obsidian, flowing like wet oil across his shoulders. His coat was sharp, angular — lined in crimson and tarnished silver.
But his smile…
That smile didn't belong in any world that loved its children.
Takashi took a breath.
Kal froze.
Morfain spread his arms slightly, as if addressing a crowd.
"Bravo," he said. His voice like honey poured over knives. "Still fast. Still theatrical."
Takashi said nothing.
Morfain's eyes landed on Kal — soft, warm, terrible.
"You've grown."
Kal shrank back.
Takashi stepped between them.
Morfain's smile widened. "And you, Takashi… the ever-loyal mongrel."
Still, no reply.
Morfain began walking slowly — not threatening, not rushing. Just approaching.
"Tell me," he said, tilting his head, "do you think you're a guardian? A sword? A wall?"
He chuckled, low. "You're a delay."
Takashi's voice, quiet: "That's often enough."
Morfain stopped.
Then, almost as if remembering something trivial, he glanced sideways at the five figures on the ground — broken, groaning, shamed.
His smile thinned.
And without warning —
His hand flicked once.
A dark ripple snapped across the field like a silent whip.
Five bodies.
Five sharp breaths.
Five final silences.
Gone.
Not dramatic. Not even violent.
Just clean.
Disposable.
As if they had never mattered at all.
Morfain did not look back.
He continued forward.
Kal stood frozen — not from fear of Takashi's enemies anymore, but from the terror of the man who claimed to be something else.
He extended a pale hand toward Kal — not violent. Gentle. Familiar.
"Come," he said. "Enough of hiding."
Kal stared at the hand. Breath shallow.
Takashi reached back — his fingers brushed Kal's shoulder.
Morfain's smile tilted. "He deserves the truth. And you? You're just… in the way."
Then he straightened.
His voice darkened, not in tone, but in intent.
"So — let's not drag this."
He raised his hand, palm open.
"Give him to me — or try to stop me."
And the chapter ended in silence.
The choice had been laid.
And Takashi, as always, stood between the boy and the world.