A rustle. A creak. The heavy snort of a horse. The wagon jolted over the ruts in the road.
"Is he even alive?"
"He's breathing. But he's out cold."
"Hah! Remarkable. A little slip of a thing like that... and he survived that."
Kibo didn't move. He lay on his back, swaddled in a heavy blanket. His entire body ached, and his head was filled with a hollow silence. Occasionally, flashes of memory broke through: A violet sky. Thunder. His mother's scream. Emptiness. And then—darkness again.
"Do you know who he belongs to?"
"Just a boy from Woodenreach. You can tell by the clothes."
The wagon jolted harder as the road worsened. The air tasted of damp earth and raw timber. Someone tucked the blanket tighter around his shoulder.
"He hasn't opened his eyes, but his cheeks are warm. Maybe he'll pull through."
"As long as we get him there. Miss Era will take him in."
"Strange that she agreed. She usually keeps to herself in that house of hers."
"Aye. Well, her husband died... back then, didn't he?"
Kibo stirred slightly, but sleep held him fast. It felt as though his soul were drifting, detached from his body. Through the haze of his dreams, he caught fragments of voices:
"Poor thing... He's suffered enough, I reckon. Let's hope he finds some peace here." The harness groaned, and water splashed beneath the wheels. The wagon lumbered through the early morning mist. And the boy slept on.
The wagon rolled into the village under the restless shiver of the wind. The houses here were simple—timber-framed with steep roofs and shutters that bore the gaps of age. The village was already stirring: some were sharpening blades, others mending roofs, or carrying buckets of water from the well.
"Make way!" the driver called out. "Wounded child coming through!" The crowd parted. The elders nodded solemnly; the younger folk watched with wary eyes. Whispers trailed in their wake: "From the hill?.. That's Woodenreach..."
"What happened over there?" "Alone?.. Just the boy?.."
Near a long shed draped with drying herbs stood a woman in a grey kerchief. She was lean, her back as straight as a spear, her gaze kind yet tempered with iron. "Era," one of the men said, "we found him near the ruins. Alone. Unconscious."
The woman stepped toward the wagon. She looked at the child for a long moment, saying nothing. She reached out and brushed her fingers across his forehead. He flinched at her touch.
"He's burning up... but he'll live," Era said. "Bring him inside. Put him in the parlor."
Two men lifted Kibo carefully, as if afraid he might shatter. He opened his eyes a crack. The world was a blur, thick with the scent of wood and smoke. Deep in his mind, a single thought flickered: This isn't my home...
He slipped back into sleep. But this time, the sky wasn't burning. There was only the rustle of grass. His mother's voice—faint as an echo. And the face of the mysterious man in the fire. He stood there. He watched. He remained silent.
At first, there were only sounds. The crackle of logs. The sigh of the wind against the walls. The soft groan of floorboards as someone moved nearby. Hours passed. In the village, people whispered—what was wrong with the boy? Where was he found? Who was he?
Meanwhile, Kibo woke. He didn't open his eyes yet; he simply lay there and listened. His chest still throbbed, his limbs felt like lead, and his mind felt hollow. But it was warm. Beneath him was something soft. The blanket smelled of woodsmoke and dried herbs. The air was thick with the scent of the hearth, dust, and boiling grain.
"How much longer are you going to pretend you're asleep?" a calm, feminine voice asked. Kibo startled. The voice was kind, but it carried an edge of steel. He opened his eyes, the light stinging his pupils. Everything looked smeared, like a world painted in watercolors on wet paper.
A woman in grey sat before him. She had sharp cheekbones, slender fingers, and eyes that looked as though they had seen far too much. She sat on a stool, holding a bowl of infusion, watching him as if she could read his very thoughts. "There," she said. "You're back. What is your name?"
Kibo opened his mouth, but only a rasp came out. The woman silently handed him a mug. The water was warm, tasting of honey and something bitter. He took a sip."I'm... Kibo," he finally whispered.
"Kibo," the woman repeated. "Good. I'll remember that. I am Era. You are in my home."
She stood up, straightened his blanket, and pulled the window shut against the draft. "Rest. I'll have a use for you," she said, her tone turning cold. She had already left the room by the time Kibo closed his eyes again. This time, it wasn't from weakness, but from a sudden surge of fear. It wasn't Era's face he remembered, but another. A face lit by flames. That man... in the violet. He stood and watched, staring straight into Kibo's soul. Silent as the grave.
Meanwhile, Era walked the path to her garden, clutching a basket. The sun had only just risen, illuminating the dew on the cabbage leaves and the peeling fence posts. The wind was sharp, carrying the scent of wormwood and ash from the fields.
Era closed her eyes. Something twisted inside her—it had been a long time since she had felt a child's fear. Real, raw fear, not yet hardened into rage or pretense. What did he see, this boy? Why was he so terrified the moment he woke? Not of me... of someone else. A face in the fire.
She didn't know why it unsettled her so deeply. Perhaps because her husband had also perished in the fire. Or perhaps because the boy's dreams were more than just nightmares. There was... something in them. Maybe I shouldn't have taken him in... the thought flickered briefly. Era pushed it aside, yanking a bunch of carrots from the earth with unnecessary force. Clods of dirt fell away, staining her palms. "No," she murmured. "If fate brought him here, then he was meant to come."
Someone coughed behind her. Era spun around. "You're early, Lan." A man with silvered temples and a bucket in his hand stood on the path. He scratched his beard and stepped closer. "Wanted to check on the lad. The village is talking—some say he's a witch's spawn. That his eyes aren't like ours." Era gripped her basket tighter. "Let them talk," she replied calmly. "He's a child. And that makes him my guest." Lan fell silent. He nodded, avoiding her gaze.
"Right... well, if you need anything... call for me."