Weeks bled into months. What began as fever nights and poisoned breaths stretched into slow seasons of mending, until half a year had passed like water grinding stone.
Brandon's recovery was no miracle.
It was a slow war waged from a bed that smelled of herbs, sweat, and venom. The hibiscus nectar had pulled him back from the cliff's edge, yes—but the poison lingered, gnawing, whispering through his muscles like an enemy army that refused to leave even after losing.
Frostwing kept vigil, her good wing draped like a cloak of winter to cool fevers. The broken wing stayed bound and swollen, but she did not complain. Her breath frosted the air when Brandon burned too hot. The koi floated in his travel bowl at the bedside, half-watching the rise and fall of Brandon's chest, half-listening to the village patch itself together outside.
The villagers came often with offerings—bowls of broth, strips of cloth, charms of bone and twine. They did not know what else to give a man who had killed their tormentor and nearly died for it.
Others brought gifts.
May stayed.
The girl with ash in her hair.
She was young, perhaps Brandon's age, though grief had brushed gray along her braid like frost that refused to melt. Her parents had been among the first to fall when the serpent went rogue; she herself had dragged three children into a cellar before being pulled out half-conscious. Since that night, she rarely left his side.
May tended him with quiet steadiness. Water at dawn. Soup at dusk. Hands firm but gentle as she cleaned dressings. At first her presence was duty, gratitude turned into habit. But habit grows roots, and roots bloom into something else.
Brandon yielded in the only way he knew: by surviving.
When fever burned, May's voice anchored him back, whispering her lost family's names like a prayer. When tremors seized him, her fingers steadied the cup at his lips. And when he finally looked at her, his gaze lingered a heartbeat longer each time.
The koi noticed first. Of course he did—he had nothing else to do but watch. At night, when May brushed hair back from Brandon's damp forehead, his breath steadied. Her fingers hesitated just too long. Warmth passed between them, heavier than medicine, softer than duty.
It made something stir inside the koi, something he had buried beneath scales and vows.
Love.
Love had been Mari's laughter, Ian's red cord, bonds burned into fire and blood. Watching Brandon and May, he felt its ghost again—and it hurt.
—
Six months bled past. The ruins knit, plank by plank, stone by stone. Children's laughter returned, hesitant at first, then bold. The village began to breathe again.
Brandon mended too. Slowly, stubbornly. Scars crawled along his arm, but strength returned to his steps. Frostwing's feathers sprouted anew; the crooked wing healed strong enough to lift.
Through it all, May never faltered. And Brandon began to smile again—not with triumph, but with something quieter. A man finding a reason to live beyond duty.
The koi saw it in their hands brushing when May offered a cup, in Brandon's gaze when she passed, soft and unguarded. It was not the bond of System and beast, but the fragile, dangerous thread of human affection.
He was jealous.
Not of Brandon.
Of being human enough to love after loss.
But there was no resentment. Only respect. Brandon fought monsters with steel. May fought despair with her hands. Together they built something the koi could never hold, yet could not stop admiring.
—
By half a year, Brandon could train again. The villagers placed the koi's bowl by the riverbank to watch as he sparred shadows, spear flashing, sweat breaking. Frostwing circled overhead, shadow stretching long.
Yet at night, Brandon's gaze lifted to Emerald Peak, its crown of cloud glowing faint under the moon. His jaw set with the same vow as the koi's: climb, reach the lake, face the Emerald Dragon.
In daylight, his eyes drifted to May. To the ash-dusted braid. To her laughter returning in pieces. His heart was caught between destiny and love.
The koi did not rush him. For the first time in forever, no monsters clawed at the gate. Peace was a fragile, borrowed thing, but it was theirs. He let Brandon heal. He let Frostwing rest. He let the village live.
He floated in the bowl under sunlight and thought: If this is what it takes for us to stand again, then let the mountain wait.
The koi was patient. He had always been.
But mountains are not.
Emerald Peak does not forgive delays.