Narrator

Centuries passed; many cities rose, many empires fell, technology advanced. History books celebrated progress. Yet deep within forgotten hamlets, old stories endured in acceptable forms. The ones of spirits, sacred groves, and of a God who once walked among the mountains now became Lords and Ladies and the Holy Emperors. Most dismissed them as myths, but others knew better. And on quiet nights, when the wind moved through the branches just right, some still whispered the old prayers. Not because they expected an answer. Not because they believed salvation would come. But because there are wounds so deep that even time cannot heal them. And there are wars that never truly end.

Closer, somebody seemed to say. He took one step, then another. The warmth slipped out of the air, carrying noise to the ground. The wooden charm fell from his hand and landed in the dust, but he did not look down. His whole world had narrowed to the tiny, barely noticeable glow between the trees. He did not understand it. He did not fear it. Yule only knew that something was calling him, and some deep, hidden part of him wanted to answer. It sounded like peace, like home, like a mother.

The night air remained warm, and for a little while, the world felt kind. One of the boys wore a small wooden talisman around his neck. The carving swayed gently whenever he laughed. The other inherited a dagger he snuck under his clothes, so no monster would reach them, amber eyes blazing when jokes brought him to tears. Neither child knew what was waiting ahead. Neither knew of words of honor, alter egos, or destinies. They knew only the comfort of friendship—the comfort of home, and the simple joy of spring.