Episode 8: Changing Currents

  Chapter 023 - Without Magic

  The stars barely pierced the canopy, flickering like thoughts behind the tangled branches above.

  Wallan lay on his side, eyes open, watching the slivers of sky through the leaves. He counted the individual stars, though sometimes he miscounted one for a white beetle shining its abdomen. A dozen of them swarmed the trees, lighting the barks with rays of white, blue, and purple. And the fire in their camp had died down. Just a bed of old orange coals breathing soft warmth across the camp.

  He hadn’t moved for hours. Not really. Not with a running mind that couldn’t calm down for a moment. It circled the same thought, that some things that were once broken stayed broken, even after everything had settled.

  Memories resurfaced from years long past, the ones he had never wished to face again. Yet here they were, pressing against him, demanding his attention. It was as if the world itself insisted he confront the truth. The image of his dead son clung to him through the night, and his mind whispered the same question, over and over: Why? Why did you not save him?

  Temperament Slate — 1/13 Awakened

  Heartfrost ? Lv. 8: Remember what the sages did to you. You did what you could. Do not trust those who twist your loyalty against you.

  The system flickered before his eyes, reminding him of the coldness within—why he had to be this way. The world was unfair. He knew it. Nothing surprised him when he arrived in RrodKa. The nation’s words were sharp, violent, and hostile enough to drive away anyone foolish enough to think it a place of welcome.

  And now, here he was, training his so-called son, pushing him to gather the strength he would need to defend himself. A child’s mind was something a scarred man like him could never fully grasp. Vynelor’s heart yearned for RrodKa, for the chance to find his true mother and father. Whether they still lived or not, the boy only wished to know if they sought him still. All Wallan wanted was to make sure the child survived. He had no claim to raising another man’s son. Yet, seeing the ruin RrodKa had become, and knowing the aftermath of its infanticide, this might well have been the only favor he could grant the boy’s parents.

  But was this truly what Vynelor wanted?

  Wallan’s chest tightened as he recalled the words the boy had shouted before storming away. It was true—he was not Vynelor’s real father. Was this the boy’s wish all along? Would it have been better to risk sending him back to RrodKa in hopes he might find his parents? Perhaps all this training, this relentless preparation, was unnecessary. Perhaps it was simply Wallan’s way of trying to rewrite his past, to prove that things could change if only he were more careful.

  But nothing had changed. Not when he found Vynelor in such a wretched state.

  And when he thought about it… he realized he had never once asked how Vynelor truly felt about being his son.

  Wallan exhaled heavily, forcing the thoughts aside. He sat up slowly and heavily, brushing the back of his neck with a calloused hand. The aches of old wounds flared. He stood, boots whispering against the moss, and turned to step into the trees.

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  But something stopped him. A tug pulled on his cloak, prompting a quick stop. Small fingers, unsure in their grip, held a fold of the fabric. Wallan glanced down. Vynelor, in his wide eyes, looked back.

  The boy hadn’t said a word since sunset. Even while he was being carried back on Wallan’s back to the camp, the child remained quiet throughout it all. Even on the cold, familiar seat with the caught hare being eaten on an empty stomach, no voice had been said. Right now, his eyes blinked up, groggy and glassy. There was no accusation in his gaze. Just a quiet panic, a bit more exhausted than usual.

  “Where are you going?” he whispered.

  Wallan paused, letting out a quiet sigh through his nose. “Nowhere far.”

  He gave the boy’s hand a glance. It didn’t let go.

  Beside the firepit, blackened tools lay untouched. A flint striker and dried moss in a small dish were their usual fuel for fire. Wallan looked at them, giving them a prolonged stare before panning back to the boy. He gestured with his head to bring the attention to the tools.

  “It’s cold,” he said. “Want to light it?”

  Vynelor didn’t move. Wallan pressed his lips, his eyes unable to hold eye contact as he used to. He said softly, “You can use your magic. Just a flick of the hand. Easier than flint anyway.”

  Still nothing. The boy’s hand fell away from Wallan’s cloak and curled into his chest.

  “I don’t want to,” Vynelor mumbled, not looking up.

  Wallan’s jaw worked slightly, but he said nothing. The coals pulsed faintly in their cradle of ash. He didn’t press further. He simply nodded once and stepped back, settling onto a fallen log. His knees creaked as he sat.

  He’d taught the boy to be strong. He made sure of it. But his eyes lingered on Vynelor for a bit. Wallan knew the boy didn’t lack strength. That wasn’t the problem. Yet, even knowing the upbringing, he wasn’t sure how to approach Vynelor. It didn’t feel easy. Looking at the boy, it was like something changed in him.

  After a long silence, Vynelor sat up. Wallan perked his head and watched the child move since this evening. Although he didn’t stand, he scooched his way to the tools resting beside the fire. His hand hovered above the striker too long. There was a slight withdrawal until he extended an arm to it. One hand reached for the striker, and the other tossed the moss onto the pit. The first strike sparked and fizzled. The second caught the moss.

  A weak flame grew. The faint orange lit up his face, showing his dull expression just slightly. Besides warming the face and body, it couldn’t light the surroundings. But it was enough.

  Vynelor didn’t speak. He just drew his knees to his chest and sat near the fire, arms wrapped loosely around his legs. The flickering glow painted shadows under his eyes, too deep for a child that age. And in that state, he began to hum a nostalgic lullaby…

  The melody was always the same. Wallan remembered this when Vynelor was only a toddler, humming to it while he ate or gazing far into the sunset. In a way, it felt comforting to even him. No lyrics were spoken, but he could clearly feel that this was no ordinary melody. After all, the mother sang the lullaby while the boy was still in her womb. When he finished humming the full verse, he’d repeat it while the fire burned throughout the cold night.

  Wallan watched from the log, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He didn’t correct the boy’s posture. Nor did he offer advice. He didn’t even shift the wood to make the flame grow. The boy had lit it. That was enough.

  The fire danced in silence between them. Both outlined in orange light beneath. Both under a canopy that no longer felt protective. The boy’s eyes didn’t blink much. The fire moved, and he didn’t. It was like a staring contest. The one who lost would see a nightmare reaching to strangle them. And Wallan picked up a small pebble to fiddle with, never able to say a word to the child. Neither slept.