Dawn's first light filtered through the narrow gaps of the small window in the vault ceiling, freshly made just yesterday. I stirred slowly awake stretching out my arms feeling much better than when I collapsed.
I looked around.
Everything looked as good and as never as ever.
Isabella and Rosaluna deserved to see this—their new home.
But before that since it looked early in the morning.
Why simply show them when I could give them something truly special?
The walk to Oren's workshop helped work the stiffness from my joints. As expected, the steady rhythm of hammer on wood already echoed from within—the carpenter had been rising before dawn for as long as I could remember, just as his father had before him, and his father's father before that, their hands growing more skilled with each passing year.
I pushed open the heavy oak door, breathing in the familiar scent of sawdust and linseed oil. Oren looked up from the chair leg he was turning, his weathered face creasing into a sympathetic expression when he recognized me.
"Harold, lad." His voice carried the weight of genuine concern. "Word travels fast in a village this small. I heard about what happened to your place. Terrible business, that fire. You and your family have my deepest sympathies."
"I appreciate that, old Oren, truly. But I'm not here to mourn—I'm here to rebuild. I need furniture. Three beds—sturdy ones that'll last. A dining table, large enough for a family but not so big it overwhelms a small room. Chairs to match, with good backs for long evening meals."
Oren's bushy eyebrows rose slightly, but his expression remained neutral. No doubt he was wondering where a thirteen-year-old boy planned to put such furniture, but his discretion had been honed over decades of village life. People had their reasons, and a good craftsman learned not to pry.
"I can do that," he said simply, already mentally cataloging his inventory. "Got a nice oak dining set finished just last week—was meant for the Hartwell farm, but they've postponed their order. And I've always got beds in various stages. When do you need them?"
"Right now, if possible."
This time both eyebrows shot up, but Oren merely nodded and began moving through his workshop, pointing out pieces that would suit my needs. We settled on a warm honey-colored oak table with matching chairs, their seats carved with simple but elegant flourishes. The beds were more practical—solid pine frames that would support even the most restless sleeper.
The transaction was completed with minimal fuss, though I caught Oren glancing at the substantial coin purse I produced. Another question he was too polite to ask, though I could see him filing away the information for later consideration.
Transporting the furniture proved easier than expected—wind magic had its advantages when it came to moving heavy objects. I shaped temporary earthen carts that glided smoothly over the rough terrain, carrying my purchases up the hillside to where our new home waited.
Arranging everything took longer than I'd anticipated. The dining set found its home in the main room, positioned to catch the morning light streaming through the eastern window. I placed the beds carefully—the largest in what would be Mom's room, a smaller ones for Rosaluna and myself.
But even with the furniture in place, the house felt incomplete. I spent another hour making adjustments—smoothing rough edges in the walls, adjusting the height of window sills, reinforcing joints that seemed less than perfect in the harsh light of day. My earth magic responded eagerly to my will, reshaping stone and timber with fluid precision.
When I finally declared the work finished, the sun had climbed well above the horizon. Time for my daily routines—the habits that had kept me grounded through the chaos of recent days.
I settled into meditation pose in the house's small back garden, letting my breathing slow and deepen.
Training followed meditation as naturally as sunrise followed night. My body moved through combat forms with practiced precision, each strike and block flowing into the next. My new version of Krava Maga was deadliest than the original version to say the least. It felt good to see how much I had perfectioned it over the years.
Next, standing in the bathroom I'd carved from living stone, I called upon my water magic. Clear, cool water materialized from the air itself, cascading over my sweat-dampened skin. Then I heated the water until steam rose around me like incense.
Hot water. In most homes, it required hauling buckets, stoking fires, waiting precious minutes for warmth. For me, it was as simple as breathing. I let myself savor the sensation, knowing how rare such comfort was in our simple village life.
When I finally emerged from my makeshift shower, I caught sight of myself in the polished window on the polished mirror on the bathroom wall, one of my additions of this morning.
Thirteen years old I was.
The lean muscle earned through years of training was clearly defined beneath unmarked skin—everywhere except my arms.
The burn scars stood out despite Mom's careful ministrations. Usually, her healing magic could erase such injuries within days, leaving no trace of trauma behind. But these wounds resisted her power, healing slowly and imperfectly.
Because Rosaluna's fire wasn't ordinary fire.
Whatever she truly was, whatever power she'd wielded in her rage or when she was out of control, it had left marks that even magical healing struggled to erase. Mom assured me they would fade in days after her repetitive use of her Healing Magic so it was fine.
I pushed these thoughts aside and tied back my white hair. Then I put on fresh shirt, breeches and tied my boots.
With one last glance around the house, I jumped over the earth walls I had erected around the house to hide it from the others. Isabella and Rosaluna would be the first ones to see it.
I was walking straight to Martha's house.
Her house had become our refuge in this latest crisis. Mom and Lisa had spent the night there after the fire, cramped but safe.
Speaking of Martha…Two years now since we'd lost her, and the ache of that absence still caught me at unexpected moments. Lisa had been inconsolable for weeks after the funeral, and even I—who'd never known the love of grandparents in my previous life—had felt something tear inside my chest when we'd laid her to rest.
Martha had been more than just our neighbor. She'd been teacher, confidant, and surrogate grandmother all rolled into one formidable package. Her stories had shaped my understanding of the world beyond our village borders. And I became this skilled at sewing only thanks to her.
My knuckles rapped against the solid oak door, the sound crisp and reassuring. Even this simple action carried memories—I'd paid to have this door replaced three years ago when the original had warped beyond repair, its wood cracked and splintered from age and weather. It had taken most of my carefully saved pocket money, but seeing Martha's face light up when the carpenter installed it had been worth every coins.
Footsteps approached from within, light and familiar. The door swung open to reveal a vision that never failed to catch me off guard, even after all these years of living in the same small village.
Lisa stood in the doorway, and despite having just awakened, she possessed an effortless beauty that would make the village girls—with their carefully applied powders and rouge—weep with envy. Sleep had tousled her dark brown hair, but even disheveled, it caught the morning light beautifully. Her dark blue eyes, still soft with the remnants of dreams, held a maturity that seemed to deepen with each passing season.
At seventeen, she had grown into herself with a grace that took my breath away. Where once had been the gangly limbs of adolescence, now curves had emerged with artistic precision. Her simple nightgown, modest though it was, couldn't disguise the woman she was becoming. In three years' time, when she reached her full bloom, she would be absolutely devastating—the kind of beauty that inspired poetry and launched ships.
"Hal," she said, her voice still husky with sleep as she tucked an errant strand behind her ear. The gesture was unconsciously elegant. "You finished whatever mysterious project kept you away all night? You should have stayed here with us."
"I had something important to take care of," I replied.
She stepped aside with fluid grace, gesturing me into the familiar warmth of Martha's home. "Come in, then. Though I warn you—it's been a difficult night."
I knew what she was talking about.
"How is she?" I asked, not needing to specify who I meant. "How is Rosaluna?"
Lisa's expression grew troubled, her brow creasing with worry. "Distraught doesn't begin to cover it. She's barely spoken since yesterday, just keeps staring at her hands like they're weapons she can't put down. Your mother has been with her all night, but..." She shook her head helplessly. "She blames herself completely. The guilt is eating her alive."
I had expected as much.
"Where are they now?" I asked, already moving deeper into the house.
"The back bedroom. Your mother thought the quiet might help, but Rosaluna hasn't slept a wink." Lisa's voice dropped to a whisper. "Harold, she keeps asking if you hate her. If you're afraid of her now."
Hate her? Fear her? The very idea was absurd, but I could understand how her tormented mind might construct such terrible possibilities.
I followed Lisa through the narrow hallway, past the sitting room where Martha used to tell her stories while sewing.
The bedroom door stood slightly ajar, allowing whispered conversations to drift into the hallway. I could hear Mom's voice, soft and soothing, punctuated by muffled sobs that tore at my heart. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Mom sat on the edge of the narrow bed, her back straight despite the exhaustion that lined her face. Her gentle hands moved in slow, comforting circles across Rosaluna's trembling shoulders.
Rosaluna lay curled on her side, facing the wall, her body wrapped so tightly in blankets she looked like she was trying to disappear entirely. Her normally lustrous white hair hung in tangled curtains around her face, and even from across the room, I could see the telltale redness around her eyes that spoke of hours spent weeping.
When Mom noticed me in the doorway, her face brightened with relief. "Look, sweetheart," she said gently. "Your brother is here."
The effect was immediate and devastating. Rosaluna turned slowly, as if the simple act of moving required tremendous effort. When her gaze found mine, I felt slightly bad for her. Never seen her like that.
Her eyes dropped immediately to my arms, to the glimpses of scarred skin visible beneath my rolled sleeves, and the shame that washed over her face was multiplied.
She turned away again, her whole body shaking with renewed sobs.
"Big sister," I said as I stepped further into the room. "Wake up. I have something special to show you and Mom—a surprise that I think will make everything better."
But she didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge that I'd spoken. The guilt had wrapped around her like chains.
I approached the bed slowly. When I reached out to touch her shoulder. "Big sister, please look at me."
Something in my tone must have reached her, because she turned again, her tear-streaked face emerging from the tangle of hair and blankets.
"I... I'm so sorry, Harold," she whispered, her voice broken and hoarse from crying. "I'm so, so sorry. I could have killed you. I could have killed Mom. I could have—"
"Stop." The word came out sharper than I intended, but it had the desired effect—her litany of self-blame ceased abruptly. "It wasn't your fault. I've told you this, and I'll keep telling you until you believe it. I'm fine. We're all fine."
Her gaze dropped again to my arms, to the evidence of her loss of control. "But your scars—"
"Are healing beautifully, thanks to Mom's magic," I interrupted, rolling up my sleeves to show her the progress. The angry red welts had already faded to pink, and the worst of the blistering had smoothed away. "See? In another week, you'll hardly be able to tell they were ever there."
But she shook her head frantically. "You don't understand. I felt it—the power, the rage, the fire that wanted to consume everything. I couldn't stop it, Harold. What if next time I can't—what if I hurt someone who can't defend themselves like you did? What if I—"
"Rosa." I sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough to reach for her hand. "Do you know why I love you?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She blinked, confusion momentarily replacing the anguish in her expression.
I smiled, letting all the genuine affection I felt color my voice. "Because you are the strongest woman I know."
It wasn't flattery or empty comfort—it was simple truth. In a village full of remarkable women, Rosaluna stood apart. Not just in physical strength, though her magic certainly made her formidable, but in the strength of her character, her compassion, her fierce protectiveness of those she loved.
"You are strong, kind, brave, and my big sister," I continued, watching as her eyes widened with surprise. "And I know that my big sister isn't someone who runs away from challenges or hides from her own power—even when that power frightens her. She faces things head-on, because that's who she is."
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but these seemed different somehow—less desperate, more cathartic. "Harold..."
"I don't want you to stay away from me because you're afraid of hurting me," I said. "That would hurt me far more than any burn ever could. Besides," I added with a slight grin, calling up a sphere of crystalline water that danced between my palms, "I know you can't really hurt me. My magic is strong enough to protect us both, remember? I proved that yesterday."
The water sphere pulsed with soft blue light, to remind her of how I'd shielded us from the worst of her flames. Not to make her feel worse, but to show her that we had safeguards, that her power didn't have to be a source of terror.
For a moment, the room was silent except for the soft sound of her breathing. Then, like a dam finally bursting, Rosaluna threw herself into my arms with desperate force. She clung to me as if I were the only solid thing in a world gone mad, her face buried against my shoulder as she sobbed—but this time, through her tears, I could see the ghost of a smile.