Days bled into nights, and nights blurred into unspoken silence.
Martha's condition worsened far more quickly than Axel had feared. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed with each morning. The strength in her hands—a strength that once hoisted sacks of grain and held him close—had withered to a trembling touch.
She no longer got out of bed without help.
Each breath she drew now sounded like a struggle between will and surrender. Her memories flickered like dying candlelight—sometimes she'd call Axel by name and smile as if nothing had changed. Other times, she'd stare at him like he was a stranger at the doorstep of her mind.
Despite everything, she still had moments of clarity.
In one such moment, as the sun sank low behind the hills and painted the farmhouse in shades of amber and rust, Martha called Axel to her side. She placed a folded parchment in his hand—old, worn, and sealed in red wax.
"The deed to the farm," she whispered. "You're not just my boy, Axel. Now, you're also a man of land… a commoner in law, not just in heart."
Axel didn't know what to say.
The weight of responsibility, once shared between Malcolm and Martha, was now solely on his shoulders. And though his body had been carved strong through years of work, it was his soul that now carried the heaviest burden.
He didn't sleep that night.
Instead, he sat by the hearth in silence, the fire crackling in front of him while Martha slept upstairs. His promise to Malcolm echoed in his mind—"Take care of her."
He was failing.
He was watching her fade before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do.
Or was there?
The very next day, Axel made his way to the village library.
Despite being just a farming town nestled in the green folds of the countryside, Catler's library was a quiet marvel—over ten thousand books, collected by generations of scholars, merchants, and old lords who once passed through.
He devoured every page he could find—books on healing arts, herbology, alchemy, ancient medicine, diseases of the mind, soul restoration, even forbidden texts that spoke of life extension and spirit merging.
Two months passed.
Every morning, he worked the farm. Every afternoon, he read. Every night, he sat by Martha's bedside and prayed for one more day, one more moment of clarity, one more smile from her.
He finished the last book one stormy evening—the journal of a lost physician who spoke of "soul-bound sickness" that could not be healed with roots or potions.
Axel closed the final page with trembling hands.
Nothing.
No cure.
He had failed.
He went to the barn, fell to his knees in the hay, and wept—not like a man, not like a soldier, not like the strong boy raised by war and love, but like a child.
Later, in the dim light of Martha's room, he sat beside her and held her hand. She had awoken after hours of sleep, her eyes dull but focused.
He couldn't hold it in anymore.
"Mom… I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I couldn't keep the promise I made to Father. I was supposed to protect you both. And now…"
He swallowed.
"My heart's breaking, Mom. I have nothing left. You and Father—you were my entire world. Why does peace always run from me? Wherever I go, I bring disaster. I… I hate being me."
She looked at him with infinite tenderness, the kind only a mother could give, even as her body was slowly failing her.
"No, my son," she said, with a strength that surprised him. "You were never the disaster. You were born to quench it. To restore balance. To remake this chaotic world into something better."
She paused, breathing with difficulty.
"You… were born from pain, but you are the answer to it. When I see you, I see a future where fire doesn't burn innocence and greed doesn't rule over kindness. That's why Malcolm chose you. That's why we loved you."
Axel leaned in, his forehead pressed against her hand.
"I'll tell Malcolm everything," she said softly. "When I reach him. He'll be proud. So proud."
Silence.
Then her final words—words that would stay in Axel's heart for the rest of his life.
"Take care of yourself, my boy. If… if you choose to leave this village one day… go. But never forget us."
His voice broke. "Mom… how could I ever forget you? Or Dad?"
A week later, on a gray morning where the sky refused to open, Martha passed quietly in her sleep.
Axel didn't cry at first.
He simply sat by her bedside, holding her now-frail hand, fingers still warm. He whispered a thank-you. For the love. For the food. For the warmth. For the childhood he never thought he'd get.
Then, gently, he wrapped her in a white cloth—woven by her hands long ago—and carried her to the old barn.
Right beside Malcolm.
He buried her beneath the tree where she once grew apples and wildflowers. He placed her favorite cooking spoon and a small carving of a lamb beside her grave.
Then, for hours, he stood in silence.
Even the sky cried that day, as the rain began to fall—slow and soft.
The world had taken everything from Axel once more.
And yet, something had changed.
This time, it hadn't taken his hope.
He returned to the farmhouse alone, carrying in his heart not just grief, but purpose.