The storms never stopped.
Even after decades, the sky above the second world remained cracked with lightning and bruised with perpetual dusk. The soil was bitter, the trees leafless and gnarled. Hope did not grow here—not easily.
But change had begun.
Not from speeches.
Not from symbols.
From presence.
Argolaith remained.
He lived among the people—quiet, patient, tireless. He built homes from shattered stone. Taught sheltering techniques using bent metal and forgotten runes. He healed wounds even when they were given by the ones he helped.
He never raised his voice.
Never punished.
Never demanded.
And slowly, the people began to watch.
They didn't trust.
But they noticed.
One evening, as storms crackled faintly over the cliffs, a child stood outside Argolaith's rebuilt shelter. Her face was smeared with ash. Her clothes hung in ragged strips. She didn't speak.
Argolaith stepped outside and knelt, holding out a bundle of dried roots and spiced water. "Hungry?"
