The peace that settled over our home after my talk with the Duke was a deep, resonant thing, like the quiet after a long and violent storm. The colors of the world seemed to have returned, richer and more vibrant than before. The birdsong wasn't an irritation anymore, but a melody. The weight was gone, replaced by a bittersweet, precious understanding. We weren't counting down the days to a loss; we were treasuring the moments we had left.
I started asking my parents to go out, to do things, to make memories that weren't stained by the fear of the future. My father, his hands once again busy with wood and purpose, often had to decline, but he would smile and tell my mother and me to go on without him. And so, we did. My mother and I would walk through the bustling market, something we hadn't done in years. She would point out the fabric stalls, her fingers gently brushing against the rolls of silk and linen, and tell me stories of the dress she had dreamed of for her wedding. We ate sweet pastries from a vendor, the powdered sugar dusting our clothes, and she laughed, a real, unburdened laugh that was the most beautiful sound I had heard in weeks.
Then, one morning, my father surprised us. The sun had barely crested the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and orange, when he appeared, already dressed, his face alight with a determined energy.
"Get ready," he said, his voice firm but cheerful. "We're going to the city. All of us."
My mother and I exchanged a look of delighted surprise. It was a rare thing for him to take a full day away from his work. We didn't need to be told twice.
The day was perfect. We went to the capital city, a place of overwhelming noise and wonder. We ate at a small, noisy tavern, my father telling loud, boisterous jokes with the owner. We watched street performers, my father tossing a copper coin into a hat with a flourish that made me grin. We played simple games at a festival, and for a few glorious hours, we weren't a family on the brink of a great change. We were just a father, a mother, and their son, lost in the simple, profound joy of each other's company.
As the sun began its slow descent, casting long, golden shadows, we started the walk home. Our steps were slower now, tired but content. The air was warm, filled with the scent of evening blooms and distant hearth fires. We were about halfway home, walking along a familiar path that skirted a gentle, rolling hill, when my father stopped.
He was looking at a massive, ancient oak tree that stood sentinel by the path, its branches spread wide like a protective canopy. Its bark was gnarled and thick, a testament to countless seasons.
"Let's sit here for a moment," he said, his voice quiet.
We settled in the soft grass beneath its sprawling branches, our backs against its sturdy trunk. For a while, no one spoke. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant lowing of a cow. The joy of the day settled into a deep, comfortable silence. But beneath it, I could feel something else—a current of emotion, deep and powerful, beginning to stir.
Then, my father turned to me. His eyes, usually so full of quiet strength, were glistening in the fading light. Without a word, he pulled me into a fierce, crushing hug. He held me so tightly I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against my chest.
"Kairu," he whispered, his voice thick and raw with a sob he was trying to choke back. "My boy. No matter what happens… no matter how far you go, or who you become… don't you ever be afraid."
The dam broke. A ragged sob escaped him, and he buried his face in my shoulder. My mother, her own composure shattered, wrapped her arms around both of us, her tears warm against my cheek. The sound of their crying, the raw, unfiltered love and grief of it, broke something open inside me.
I had been trying to be strong for them. I had held back my own fear, my own sadness, wanting to be the man they needed me to be. But in that moment, surrounded by their love, their own vulnerability, I couldn't hold it anymore. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down my face. Then another. And another. Before I knew it, I was sobbing, my own small frame shaking as I clung to them. We held each other, a tangle of arms and tears and love under the old oak tree, pouring out all the unspoken fears, the proud hopes, the devastating love we had for one another.
It felt like an eternity and yet no time at all. When our tears finally began to subside, leaving us spent and hollowed out but somehow cleaner, lighter, my father slowly pulled away. He wiped his eyes with the back of his rough hand, took a deep, shuddering breath, and stood up.
He looked at the tree, then at me, his expression now one of fierce, unwavering resolve.
"Listen to me, son," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "Once you get back from that academy, once you've learned all you need to learn and become the great mage you're meant to be… we will come back to this exact spot. Right here. And we will sit, and we will talk, and we will have fun, just like today. This is a promise."
From his belt, he drew his small, sharp woodworking knife. With a hand that did not tremble, he carved a single, deep, vertical line into the thick bark of the old oak. It was a simple mark, but it was a covenant. A promise of return. A testament that this was not an end, but a pause.
He sheathed the knife, put a hand on my shoulder and another around my mother's waist, and we turned for home. We walked in silence, but it was a different silence now. It wasn't filled with dread, but with a sacred, unbreakable pact. The cut on the tree was a scar, but it was also a seed. A seed of hope, planted deep, waiting for the day it would blossom into a homecoming.
The next morning, I woke with the memory of the carved tree etched behind my eyes, a solemn and comforting anchor. The raw emotion of the previous evening had left a strange peace in its wake. The air in our small house felt lighter, as if our shared tears had washed away the lingering fear. After a breakfast where my mother's smiles were less strained and my father's silence was more contemplative than sad, I made my way to the forest.
The clearing felt more like home than ever. The dappled sunlight, the scent of damp earth and pine—it was a sanctuary that existed outside of time, untouched by legal documents and impending goodbyes. I began my exercises, not with the frantic energy of before, but with a calm, focused intent. I let the magic flow, the violet and gold light weaving around my fingers in obedient, shimmering patterns. It felt like a conversation now, not a struggle.
I was so engrossed in maintaining a complex, floating lattice of light that I didn't hear the Duke's approach until he was already at the edge of the clearing.
"Kiddo," his voice called out, softer than his usual commanding tone. "Come here."
I let the lattice dissolve into a shower of harmless, glittering motes and walked over to him. He was standing with his arms crossed, a look of quiet appraisal on his face.
"Now," he announced, a hint of practicality cutting through the forest's serenity, "let's get you measured."
He gave a short, sharp whistle. Almost immediately, three people emerged from the tree line, their movements efficient and silent. They were clearly city folk; a tailor and two assistants, their clothes neat and devoid of the forest's dust. The lead tailor held a long, wide spool of silk thread, the tools of his trade hanging from his belt. They looked at me not with curiosity, but with the detached, professional interest of craftsmen assessing their next project.
For the next twenty minutes, I stood still as a statue while they swarmed around me. The cold, smooth touch of the measuring tapes against my arms, the length of my legs, the circumference of my chest—it was a stark, physical reminder of the new world I was about to enter. They murmured numbers to each other, their voices a low hum. "For the formal robes," one said. "For the daily uniforms," said another. Each measurement felt like another stitch in the costume the Duke had spoken of.
Finally, they stepped back. The lead tailor bowed slightly to the Duke. "The first set of uniforms will be ready within the week, your Grace."
With a nod from the Duke, they melted back into the forest as quietly as they had arrived, leaving the two of us alone again. The silence they left behind felt different, charged with a new kind of anticipation.
It was then that I noticed her...
...