Kevin's frustration simmered just below the surface, his voice low and tight. "No, it's not," he muttered, each word bitten off. He wanted Christie to think beyond compassion; she needed to consider her own survival. "Imagine living the rest of your life with someone else, forced to relive all we shared. Imagine never seeing our child again, while the judgment of society bears down on you."
Christie's eyes narrowed, confusion sharp. "What are you talking about?" she snapped, as if he'd spoken in a forgotten tongue.
She flung up her hands. "Forget it. Keep your dreams to yourself and listen to me." The air was thick with tension as Kevin blinked, then fell silent, his jaw working.
Christie's voice trembled now, her words weighed down by fear. "Do you know what will happen to that child if the officials ever find him?" Her eyes locked onto Kevin's, pleading for him to understand.
Kevin's jaw clenched, his reply coming out like iron. "Yes. He'll be captured, his name stripped, his life forged into a servant's brand. Or worse – sold to slave traders, left to chance between the market and the sword. And if he's taken to Lepanga's castle..." His voice faltered, the unspoken end heavy in the air.
Christie's tone turned grim, her shoulders tight. "That's why we must send him to Bruno. Not because he's a good man, but because he's the lesser evil. He won't hand the boy to the officials, and for all his sins, he at least has some faint trace of a compass."
Kevin's incredulity was palpable. "Bruno? But he's –"
Christie cut him off, her voice soft but steady. "I know what he is, but I also know he's safer than the crown." Her eyes searched Kevin's face, pleading. "You told me once it would be wiser for me to reach Expert Mage rank before we could ever escape this place, before we could dream of children. And I will, Kevin. Two, maybe three years more. But this boy –" her throat tightened – "this boy feels like the child we never had."
As she spoke, Kevin's gaze faltered. Christie pressed on, her voice cracking. "It's been ninety-six years since we married, four more before that, learning each other. We are two hundred and fifteen now, and I have waited through it all. But if we abandon him now, I will carry the guilt forever. Knowing I could have given him even the smallest chance at rights – yet chose not to."
Tears shimmered in the firelight as Christie continued, "As much as I long to keep him as our own... it would bring more ruin than blessing. But please, Kevin. Please, let me do something for him."
Kevin's arms went around her, pulling her close. His voice softened, weary but tender. "Oh, honey... you know I would do anything for you without you asking. How much more now that you have?"
Christie's lips trembled into a smile. "Thank you, Kevin De Loise... for being the man I fell in love with, even after all these years."
Inside the farmer's wooden house, the air smelled faintly of smoke and damp earth. The boy lay on a straw mattress, a rough pillow tucked beneath his head. A single oil lamp flickered, casting shadows across the walls. Kevin paced the cramped room, his boots creaking against the floorboards. "Do you think we should wake him? Or how long before he stirs?"
Christie smoothed the sheet across the boy's chest, her hand gentle. "I'm not sure."
As if summoned by her words, the boy stirred. His eyelids quivered, then parted with the heavy weight of someone waking too soon. A groan escaped him, drawing both their gazes. Christie lifted the cup she had prepared, pressing it to his lips.
The boy's hands seized the vessel with surprising urgency, and he drank greedily, water spilling down his chin. Kevin's frown deepened. "So, boy," he said sharply, "will you tell us your name? And why you were in my fields, destroying my bunishi crops?" His words were laced with venom, meant to sever compassion before it grew roots.
Christie shot him a glare, then turned back to the boy gently. "I'm... Rick," he stammered, his voice sounding older and heavier than expected. His brows knit in confusion.
Christie sat beside him, her head tilted. "So, Rick. Do you remember how you got here?"
Rick's fingers twitched against the rough sheet. "No, ma'am. Last thing I remember, I was walking with my sister. She... froze, like she saw something I couldn't. She touched my forehead, and then –" he swallowed hard – "it felt like my bones were splintering, my skull tearing apart. After that – darkness. Then I woke here... in this place. Or prison, I guess."
The silence that followed pressed heavy on the room. Kevin's voice finally broke it, sharp as steel. "Boy... are you saying that what my wife and I have bled for these hundred years – you see as nothing but a prison?"
Rick flinched, a nervous laugh rising in his throat before dying under Kevin's glare. "Wait... you said a hundred years? You don't even look old. Not at all. You look... good. Really good. Are you sure 'century' isn't just, I don't know... a metaphor?"
Christie let out a brittle laugh, too sharp to be natural. "No metaphor, boy. We truly are more than a century old."
Her smile lingered faint, though her eyes were cool. "Now – why call our home a prison?"
Rick's chest tightened, his gaze falling. "I'm sorry, Granny. I meant no insult. Compared to my home... this place feels freer. I thought calling it a prison was a compliment. I didn't even know it was yours."
Kevin's jaw flexed, and he stepped forward, his voice clipped. "Listen well, boy. This place is no haven for children. Where do you come from? What Civilian rights do you hold?"
Rick shook his head, his voice trembling now. "I... I don't know. I've never left our building. I don't even know what the outside looks like. And Civilian rights? I don't..." He hesitated, eyes darting between them. "I mean... how could a two-year-old know that?"
Christie blinked, then let out an incredulous laugh. "Two years old? Boy, you're sixteen."
Rick's blood ran cold. "What?" His voice cracked.
Kevin raised his hand, and silver light pooled in his palm, molten and alive. "Vitrio fulgeo, forma clara, metallicus nitore splendeat!"
The air shimmered, and liquid silver poured forth, swirling into a flawless sheet. Metal cooled into brilliance, gleaming like liquid moonlight. Kevin angled it toward the boy.
Rick's breath caught as he stared at his reflection. The face staring back was not his own – older, sharper, and alien. His hands trembled as the world tilted. "That's not me. It can't be me. But the mirror says otherwise."