By the time the sun cleared the last folds of the eastern ridge, Greenveil Mountain had shed its morning mist.

  The bamboo grove basked in slanted light—sharper now, stronger, not the gold of dawn but a pale, burnished white. Shadows of swaying stalks moved across the forest floor like slow-drifting blades. The air, though still cool, carried the faint weight of day. Warmer. More real.

  A few insects clicked and buzzed near the roots. Somewhere farther off, the cry of a spirit bird echoed once—clear, abrupt, then gone.

  Veylan sat with his back against a stone, breathing had evened out, though his limbs still trembled faintly from exhaustion. Sweat had dried on his neck. His hair clung to his temples in dark, stubborn streaks, and though his eyes were open, they didn’t seem to see anything near. Only something far, far away.

  “…Because I remember mine.”

  The words floated into the quiet like smoke, impossible to grasp.

  Behind them, a faint rustle. Liora had arrived a few moments ago, drawn by the delay—quiet as always when it came to Veylan. Her hand had risen partway to her lips and stopped there, fingers curled slightly. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But her expression—wide-eyed, stricken—said enough.

  This wasn’t the child she feared losing to battle. This was something else entirely—and it frightened her more.

  Rhen, sitting beside his son, noticed her without turning. Just a glance. A flick of the eyes. She nodded once. Not for him, but for whatever this was. They’d face it together.

  Veylan didn’t turn. Maybe didn’t care.

  His gaze had drifted to the edge of the grove, to the sunlight speckling through open space. His voice hadn’t trembled. It hadn’t needed to. The stillness in his tone was its own kind of fracture.

  Rhen’s voice followed—lower, rougher.

  “…Was it a bad one? The life you remember?”

  Veylan turned at last. His face was unreadable. Not hardened. Not blank. Just… distant, as if the question had been asked too late. As if his eyes were trying to decide how much weight his answer should carry.

  He looked at his father for a long time. Rhen didn’t flinch under the stare. He waited.

  And Liora, though close enough to hear, remained motionless—her hands clasped in front of her, waiting as if the air might shatter with the wrong breath.

  “Not all of it,” Veylan finally said.

  His voice came soft, yet roughened at the edges. He sat still beneath the shifting shade of the bamboo, knees drawn loosely, eyes downcast. A shallow breath left his chest—then another, as though he were trying to exhale something older than his ten-year-old frame should’ve ever held.

  He didn’t look at them as he began.

  “My mother… she was just a normal woman. Worked all day. Didn’t want much for herself. Gave me everything.”

  The breeze passed, slow and uneven, carrying the scent of dry earth and crushed leaves.

  “She… used to save for years just to get me into the best school. Always said I should aim high. Said I’d go to college, get a good job, live better than she did. She took me to the best hospitals when I got sick, paid like it was nothing. But when she fell ill…”

  He paused. His lips parted, but nothing came. Then, with effort:

  “…she went to the cheapest place she could find. Didn’t want me to worry. Spent a hundred on herself after spending thousands on me.”

  His hands had curled into the dirt beside him. His voice remained even, but his shoulders trembled.

  “She only hoped for two more years. Just two… she wanted to make sure I was stable. Ready to live on my own. I let her go. I watched her go and did nothing.”

  His jaw clenched, the words now brittle as dry twigs.

  “I wasn’t even a good son.”

  His throat burned, but he welcomed it. If it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t feel real.

  Silence again. Only the high rustle of bamboo above. A bird flitted through the grove, wings slicing briefly across a shaft of light before disappearing.

  When he finally looked up, his cheeks were streaked with tears.

  Rhen sat beside him, unmoving, gaze heavy with a pain that wasn’t quite his—but which he felt all the same. Behind him, Liora stood frozen near the edge of the clearing. Her hands had curled into the sides of her robe. Her lips were trembling. Her eyes, red.

  They hadn’t understood every word—terms like hospitals, college were foreign. But they didn’t need to understand the details to hear what had been carried in his voice: the love, the regret, the unbearable weight of not being enough.

  After a long moment, Rhen finally spoke.

  “She sounds like a wonderful person,” he said quietly. “I wish I could’ve met her. I’d thank her… for bringing you up the way you are. I think… she’d be proud of you.”

  Veylan looked straight ahead. When he spoke again, it wasn’t to anyone present—it was like a vow whispered to the wind.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see her again. Once I’m strong enough… I’ll find her.”

  Rhen turned, catching a glimpse of the boy’s face—wet, flushed, but impossibly steady. Not a child’s face. Not now.

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  He wiped his tears and stood, not because the pain had passed—but because it hadn’t. And wouldn’t, until he changed the ending himself.

  He stepped toward the training poles—but Rhen’s voice stopped him.

  “Is that why you keep us at a distance?” he asked softly. “You’re afraid… we might replace her?”

  Veylan froze. A tremor ran down his spine, subtle but visible.

  Slowly, his head turned. Not to Rhen. But up—toward where Liora stood. His eyes found her hands, still clenched at her sides. He didn’t speak—but something in his silence reached her anyway. She had no words for this kind of ache. Not in any language she knew.

  Liora stepped forward slowly, her bare feet brushing through fallen leaves. The grove had grown brighter now, the light no longer soft but piercing, sifting through the canopy like threads of molten silver. The still air hung heavy, and even the distant hum of life seemed to hush—as if the forest was holding its breath.

  She stopped beside Rhen. He stood straight, but his hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale.

  Veylan didn’t move.

  Though he’d wiped the tears from his cheeks, the stains remained, fine lines of salt and dust drying across his skin. But his gaze didn’t falter—he was watching Liora, just as she was watching him.

  Her eyes were red. She didn’t try to hide it.

  From the edge of her robe, she pulled a corner and stepped forward. Her thumb brushed across the fabric, slow and unsure, as if seeking permission she hadn’t earned.

  Without a word, she reached toward him, brushing at the dirt smudged faintly across his forehead.

  Veylan flinched—just a half-step back.

  Liora paused. Her hand hung in the air. She didn’t say anything. Then, as if waiting had been enough, she reached out again. This time, he didn’t pull away.

  Her fingers were gentle, slow, brushing away grime not just from his skin but from something deeper. Something heavy and unspoken.

  She didn’t look away from his eyes.

  “Are you afraid that letting us love you… will lessen your love for her?”

  Veylan blinked, lips parting as if to speak—but no sound came.

  Liora didn’t wait for an answer.

  “But tell me this,” she said softly. “Does feeling loved again… or even loving again… dishonour her memory?”

  She knelt slowly, level with him now. “Or does it prove the heart she raised in you was strong enough to love even when it’s hurting so badly?”

  Veylan’s throat moved, his breath caught. His eyes were wide, distant. Lost.

  “Maybe you think,” Liora said, brushing a lock of hair from his face, “that because you loved her in your past life, you belong only to her… and she to you. But let me tell you something, Veylan.”

  She placed her hand gently over his heart.

  “The heavens don’t bind a soul to just one life. Or one person. Or one place.”

  Her voice shook a little now.

  “She gave everything for you. And why?” Her eyes searched his. “Because she wanted you to live. To smile. To be happy.”

  She drew in a breath. “Tell me… are you happy?”

  Veylan’s mouth opened. Closed. Something caved inside him, too sudden to brace against.

  Something cracked, sudden and silent—like a branch giving under too much snow.

  He crumpled to his knees.

  His body shook as the tears returned—sudden, harsh, helpless. They came faster than he could stop them. He gripped the earth, shoulders hunched like the sky itself had fallen on his back.

  Liora pulled him close, one hand sliding through his tangled, dust-filled hair, the other cupping the back of his neck.

  “Do you know what would truly make her happy?” she whispered. “To see you loved the way she loved you. And to see you love someone with everything, again.”

  “But…” Veylan’s voice broke. “What if I forget her? What if I forget her face… the feel of her voice…? How she always called me ‘my little storm’ when I used to get upset.”

  Liora pulled back just enough to look at him. Her smile was crooked, eyes wet with warmth.

  “Oh? I don’t believe my son would be so ungrateful,” she said, a playful edge slipping into her tone. “And if he is—then I’ll beat you with a stick, make you draw her face a hundred times, and kowtow in front of her shrine every morning.”

  A choked laugh escaped him—wet and trembling. But a laugh all the same.

  Rhen stepped forward now, kneeling beside his son. He placed a steady hand on Veylan’s back.

  “Son,” he asked quietly, “do you think loving someone… makes you weak?”

  Veylan nodded, barely.

  Rhen exhaled through his nose. Then he glanced around them, at the pale stalks swaying gently in the warm light.

  “You see these bamboo stalks?” he said. “Each one has roots that stretch deep and wide, all tangled together beneath the ground. If they clung to just one… they’d snap at the first strong wind.”

  Veylan looked at him—confused, tearful.

  He smiled, quiet and steady.

  “You were planted in another world, another life. That root gave you love, strength, a beginning. But now…” He nodded slightly toward Liora, then looked back to Veylan. “The heavens have given you new soil. New roots. Your mother here… and me.”

  Veylan’s lip trembled.

  “You fear forgetting,” Rhen said gently, “but trees don’t forget their roots, even as they stretch toward the sky.”

  His voice was steady now.

  “Having many roots doesn’t make you weak or divided. It makes you stronger. More whole.”

  Veylan didn’t respond.

  But his arms slowly moved—awkward, stiff. Reaching out.

  And for the first time in this life, he held his mother—not in memory, but in flesh.

  Liora closed her eyes. Not to stop the tears—but to let them come, unafraid.

  In the stillness of Greenveil Mountain, beneath the watchful hush of the bamboo grove, a boy born twice began to grieve. Not alone.

  And for the first time, that grief began to heal.

  In the quiet bamboo grove, grief no longer clung like mist—but drifted, thinner now, like breath warming in open air. The weight of it, though not gone, had eased. If only for a moment—barely enough to be peace, but enough to breathe.

  But elsewhere in clan, the winds that brought peace to one heart began to rouse another—to colder thoughts, and sharper intent.

  Within the Fogwood Branch estate, a manor carved from pale stone and dark ironwood, the air felt thicker—taut with silent pressure. Cool light streamed in from latticed windows, catching on the veined marble floor, the scent of crushed sandalwood lingering faintly in the corners.

  Lei Varian paced across the hall, robes trailing like a dark whisper behind him. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed with something that hovered between irritation and curiosity. His fingers tapped slowly against his side.

  Footsteps echoed down the long corridor.

  A man entered and bowed low. He was wiry, with a spidering scar stretched above his left eye—Lei Morin.

  “You called, Chief Varian.” he said, his voice smooth and oddly damp, like something wrung from wet cloth.

  Varian didn’t stop pacing.

  “Is it true?” he asked, voice flat but laced with edge. “Rhen’s boy. He’s entered the ceremonial test?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Morin said, straightening. “Announced publicly just this morning. Rhen himself declared it.”

  Varian stilled.

  He looked toward the window, though his eyes saw nothing outside.

  “Brother… brother,” he murmured. “Are you really so desperate to have your son discarded? Or are you this confident in your gamble?”

  A faint tightness pulled at his mouth. Their father had always looked at Rhen with softer eyes—rewarding kindness over calculation. As if sentiment made a man stronger.

  No more.

  He turned, the weight of his gaze settling on Morin like a blade.

  “Why don’t we… adjust the rules this time?” Varian said, slowly, each word precise. “Let’s broaden the competition. Allow the other young geniuses of Greenveil to compete.”

  Morin’s brow lifted slightly—but he caught on quick. A thin, practiced smile slithered across his face, like he’d been waiting to say something cruel all day.

  “As expected of the Chief. A wise move.”

  “Hm,” Varian said, voice cool. “But not too openly. I don’t want the old elders flapping their tongues. Let’s say… any child thirteen or under may participate. A chance to inspire competition.”

  Morin bowed again, deeper this time. “I’ll spread the word.”

  As the man departed, Varian moved back to the window. Light caught across his features—sharp, elegant, cold.

  A smile curled on his lips. Cruel and quiet.

  “Let’s see how far your boy really gets… dear brother.”

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.