Two years had passed since the days of wooden swords and stew that always simmered a little too long.
Reivo had grown. He stood taller now, nearing the height of his father, with shoulders that hinted at the man he would soon become. His once-round face had sharpened slightly, cheekbones more defined, jaw firmer. The scar above his right eye was fresh—earned after an accident while helping the village blacksmith, a slip of metal and heat. It didn't bother him much. If anything, it made him feel more like the heroes from Eldin's stories.
The village of Korazu hadn't changed much on the surface. The same cobblestone paths wound between sun-bleached homes. The same market stalls filled with braided herbs, carved trinkets, and fresh bread popped up every third day. But Reivo noticed the small changes—the deepening lines on his father's face, the slight stoop in Eldin's back, the way Mira lingered by the windows now, staring at the horizon more often than playing games.
It was spring when the festival of First Bloom arrived—a yearly celebration of the world's renewal. Lanterns strung from tree to tree, wildflowers woven into garlands, laughter in the air like pollen. Reivo had helped set up the stage in the village square that morning, his hands blistered from hammering boards and lifting crates. He didn't mind. The work was part of the ritual.
"Oi! You better not be skipping out now," Mira called, coming up behind him with her arms full of ribbons.
He turned, smirking. "You organizing this whole thing now?"
"Someone has to. The elders are too busy arguing about whether the flower crowns should use violet or thistle."
Reivo grinned, taking half the ribbons from her. "Important business."
"Deadly serious."
They worked in companionable silence, threading the decorations along the edge of the raised platform. Children ran past them, laughing, their faces smeared with berry juice. Senn, now six and with a mouth missing its front teeth, was among them—his shirt stained and his voice is the loudest.
"I think he gets louder every week," Reivo said, watching his little brother zip past, stick sword in hand.
"He's your problem later," Mira said, brushing petals from her braid. "I've got to help Ma with the honeycakes."
Reivo nodded, glancing toward the cottage in the distance. His mother had been up before the sun, kneading dough and slicing apples with fingers that moved like poetry. She always baked extra on festival days—enough for half the village.
Later that evening, the square bloomed with music and firelight. Reivo sat with his parents beneath the old oak at the edge of the celebration, Senn fast asleep across their mother's lap, Mira curled against her side. His father leaned back on his elbows, humming along to the fiddle.
"You dance?" a voice called.
Reivo turned. It was Hana, the baker's daughter, cheeks flushed and a grin playing on her lips.
"Only when no one's watching," Reivo replied.
"Well, lucky for you," she teased, "everyone's distracted by Garin trying to juggle torches."
He laughed, but shook his head. "Maybe next time."
Hana shrugged and twirled away, vanishing into the crowd.
"Why didn't you go?" Mira asked, cracking one eye open.
Reivo looked toward the stars. "Didn't want to leave."
His mother smiled at him, tired but soft. "You're a strange boy, Reivo."
"I get that from you."
"Flatterer," she said, nudging him with her foot.
As the fire burned low and families began to drift home, Reivo helped his father carry Senn inside, the boy murmuring sleepily about dragons and stew. Mira stayed behind to collect lanterns. Their mother followed, her hands still smelling of cinnamon and smoke.
That night, Reivo sat on the roof of their home, knees pulled to his chest. The moon was nearly full, bathing the village in silver. He watched the wind move through the trees, watched the windows flicker out one by one.
He liked this. The quiet after joy. The stillness of a village wrapped in peace.
A voice startled him.
"You're going to fall and break something."
It was Mira, scaling the roof with more grace than she had any right to. She flopped beside him, their shoulders brushing.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Too much sugar."
He chuckled.
They sat in silence for a time. Then she said, "You think the Will of the World will choose us?"
Reivo didn't answer at first.
"I don't know," he said at last. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"You'd want to be a warrior, right?"
He nodded.
"I'd want to be a songweaver. Like the ones in the capital. Not much use in a fight, but... they say their voices can stop a battle before it starts."
Reivo looked at her. "You'd be good at that."
Mira smiled faintly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "We've only got a few years left."
"Yeah," he whispered. "I know."
A few years.
A few years to laugh and cook and fight with sticks. A few years to sleep beneath a roof warmed by love, to chase dreams and tell stories and smell the smoke of festival fires.
The world was vast beyond their village. Filled with dungeons and mysteries and the Will that watched all things. Reivo had always wondered what it would bring him—what kind of man he'd be asked to become.
But that night, with the stars above and his sister beside him, he let the question rest.
Because here, now, he was whole.
And that was enough.