After Reid declared the challenge, the road to Priscilla became… fun.

  Not loud fun.

  Not the kind that demanded laughter.

  But the kind that quietly settled into their days.

  Whenever Reid and Arttu spotted someone in need, they helped—often before even exchanging a word. A broken fence? Fixed. A field left dry under the sun? Watered. A cat crying from a rooftop? Retrieved with a careful climb and a gentle hand.

  They planted fields together, their boots sinking into soft soil. They watered crops until their arms grew tired, watching droplets catch the light like scattered glass. Once, they spent nearly an hour chasing a gray cat that refused to be rescued, only for it to jump into Arttu’s arms on its own, purring as if nothing had happened.

  Arttu’s smile grew brighter with each passing day.

  At first, it appeared only in moments—when someone thanked them, or when Reid praised him quietly. Then it lingered longer. It stayed even when they walked in silence. Sometimes, it came without reason at all, blooming on his face as they followed the winding road beneath open skies.

  They even began keeping score.

  “The one who helps the most is the greatest wandering knight,” Reid had said.

  So naturally, points were involved.

  One afternoon, they passed by a stable where the owner was struggling to clean the stalls, clearly exhausted. Reid stepped inside without hesitation, rolled up his sleeves, and began shoveling.

  Arttu stopped at the entrance.

  He looked at the mess.

  Then at Reid.

  Then firmly shook his head.

  That was where he drew the line.

  Reid laughed and kept working anyway, earning himself a full point while Arttu stood outside, arms crossed, pouting in silent protest. From that day on, Reid was officially one point ahead.

  Arttu never forgot that.

  Two months passed like this.

  Not all at once—but gently, measured in small kindnesses and shared meals. In nights spent under unfamiliar roofs. In mornings where the road stretched onward, yet never felt lonely.

  By the time they reached their first checkpoint, they barely noticed how far they had come.

  Promia appeared before them, its familiar gates rising at the end of the road.

  And standing just outside the entrance—

  “Hey.”

  Two familiar figures turned.

  Brog and Drool.

  The last time Reid had seen them was nearly three months ago. Back when everything had still been burning, and the world felt too heavy to carry.

  Arttu tightened his grip on Reid’s hand—not in fear this time.

  In recognition.

  Reid had never been this happy to see Brog and Drool.

  In the past, even spotting them from afar was enough to make his head ache. Their voices were loud, their jokes unbearable, their very existence irritating in a way only they could manage.

  But this time was different.

  The moment Reid’s eyes met theirs, his steps quickened without him realizing it. Arttu felt it too. The boy’s hand tightened in his, and then—without a word—both of them ran forward.

  They collided into Brog and Drool.

  Hugged them.

  For a heartbeat, Brog and Drool froze, staring at each other in confusion as if their minds couldn’t catch up with what their bodies were feeling.

  Then—something broke.

  Tears spilled freely down their faces, heavy and unrestrained. They wrapped their arms around Reid and Arttu with a strength so overwhelming it felt as though they were trying to hold them together, as if letting go might cause them to disappear.

  The embrace was crushing. Almost painful.

  Reid and Arttu looked up at them in surprise.

  They had never seen Brog and Drool cry.

  Not like this.

  Brog’s voice came out first, broken and loud, barely held together.

  “WE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”

  Drool followed, his own voice trembling, cracking completely.

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  “WE’RE SO GLAD YOU’RE BOTH OKAY!”

  Reid laughed softly, awkwardly, scratching the back of his head the way he always did when he didn’t know how to respond to emotions this big.

  “We’re fine,” he said gently. “Really. Don’t worry about us.”

  But as he spoke, his eyes dimmed.

  And after a moment, he asked the question he had been avoiding since they stepped onto the road.

  “The tavern…”

  His voice lowered. “What are they doing with it?”

  Brog and Drool exchanged a glance.

  Then both of them looked down.

  “They were thinking of tearing it down,” Brog said quietly. “With the cult attacks getting worse… they said it was dangerous to leave it standing.”

  Reid swallowed.

  “I see…”

  For a moment, he said nothing. Memories brushed against the back of his mind like ghosts afraid to be noticed.

  Then, softly—

  “But it’s still there… right?”

  Drool lifted his head. For once, there was no foolish grin, no careless joke. Only a calm seriousness Reid had rarely seen from him.

  “Yes,” Drool said. “It’s still there.”

  Reid smiled.

  It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t bright.

  But it was real.

  “Then… we’d like to see it. Just once more. If that’s alright.”

  Brog nodded immediately.

  “Of course,” he said. “Go on. I’m sure you missed it.”

  Reid squeezed Arttu’s hand, and together they turned back toward the road.

  The walk wasn’t long.

  But it felt endless.

  Every step carried weight.

  The birds sang overhead, and their melodies sounded too familiar—like the tunes Fiona used to hum without thinking while she cleaned tables.

  A woodpecker’s steady knocking echoed through the trees, and for a moment Reid could almost hear Roy’s axe chopping rhythmically, his voice complaining about being interrupted.

  The lake beside the road shimmered under the light, and Reid could swear he saw Betty there, sleeves rolled up, scolding someone gently while drawing water.

  The world had not changed.

  And that hurt more than anything.

  When they reached the tavern, Reid hesitated.

  Then he opened the door.

  Inside, everything was clean.

  Too clean.

  The mayor had hired people to scrub every surface, every wall, every floor—so thoroughly that not a single stain remained. No blood. No marks. No proof that anything terrible had ever happened there.

  It was meant to be respectful.

  But Reid knew instantly.

  This place had never been this clean.

  His eyes drifted upward.

  The ceiling.

  There was nothing there now.

  But once—long ago—there had been a faint red blotch. A tomato stain.

  He remembered it clearly.

  Betty and Roy had been talking, too distracted to notice Arttu and Fiona running through the tavern, laughing, chasing each other. They had crashed into Betty, sending her stumbling—and somehow, impossibly, the tomato in her hand had flown upward and splattered against the ceiling.

  They had laughed for days about it.

  Reid felt a tear slip from his eye.

  “They cleaned that too…” he thought.

  Beside him, Arttu’s expression shifted.

  The happiness he had been carrying dimmed into something quieter. Sadder.

  But he didn’t cry.

  He remembered too.

  This tavern was his whole world. Nearly every memory he had lived here. Fiona wasn’t just someone he knew—she was his sister. His best friend. The person who had always been there.

  The way they ran together.

  The way Betty scolded them when they were too loud.

  The way they hid behind tables when Betty got angry.

  The way Roy lifted him onto his shoulders and ran through the fields, laughing.

  The day Roy let him hold an axe—only to stare in shock when five-year-old Arttu swung it without effort.

  The memories hit him all at once.

  Like he had lived a full lifetime already.

  And now it was gone.

  Reid wandered further inside.

  His fingers brushed the wooden counter where he had once placed Arttu’s cradle. The chair where Harven had spoken to him—the moment his journey truly began.

  The bed upstairs where he used to lie awake, thinking how happy he was. Thinking that this place would always be here.

  All of it.

  Gone.

  Not slowly.

  Not gently.

  But in one night.

  One hour.

  Everything had changed.

  Reid took Arttu’s hand again.

  Without a word, they left the tavern.

  And together, they walked toward the cemetery.

  Both their faces burned.

  Not from despair.

  Not from fresh pain.

  But from that gentle, aching warmth that comes when memories refuse to fade—when love lingers even after loss.

  The cemetery welcomed them in silence.

  Rows of simple graves rested beneath the open sky, the wind brushing through the grass like a whispered prayer. Reid stepped forward first. He knelt before the graves of Betty and Roy, lowering his head.

  He clasped his hands together.

  Reid was not a devout man.

  He didn’t attend temples. He didn’t recite scripture. He had never claimed faith as something he owned.

  And yet—

  Sometimes, in places like this… his heart bowed before his mind could argue.

  “Shenrog,” he murmured softly, voice barely more than breath.

  “Please… watch over them.”

  He didn’t ask for miracles.

  He didn’t beg for forgiveness.

  He simply prayed that their warmth—the kindness that had shaped him—would not vanish into nothingness.

  When he finished, Reid exhaled slowly and turned.

  And then he saw Arttu.

  The boy was wrapped around Fiona’s grave.

  Not kneeling.

  Not standing.

  Hugging it.

  His arms clung tightly to the earth, his small body curled in on itself—rounded, fragile, trembling. He looked impossibly small against the stone. Like a creature hiding from a world that had grown too large.

  Reid’s breath caught.

  Arttu wasn’t crying yet.

  He was holding on.

  As if this grave were the last place that still remembered him.

  As if letting go would mean losing her again.

  For a moment, Reid could only watch.

  Something stirred in his chest—an image forming without words.

  A caterpillar.

  Wrapped tightly in its cocoon.

  Not resting.

  Not sleeping.

  Enduring.

  Arttu’s fingers dug into the soil.

  His shoulders began to shake.

  And then—

  He turned his face toward Reid.

  His lips trembled.

  And for the first time in three months—

  He spoke.

  “I miss them.”

  The words were small.

  Simple.

  But they shattered everything.

  Arttu broke.

  The sound that tore out of him was raw and unfiltered, a cry too heavy for such a small body to carry. He cried harder than he ever had in his life—years of unspoken pain spilling out all at once.

  He had been holding it in.

  Every step of the journey.

  Every forced smile.

  Every quiet night.

  All of it had been folded inside him, pressed tight, sealed away.

  Until now.

  Reid dropped to his knees beside him.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He wrapped his arms around Arttu and held him close, pulling him into his chest as his own tears finally fell.

  “I miss them too,” Reid whispered.

  His voice cracked.

  And together, they cried.

  Not because they were weak.

  But because they loved.

  Time lost its shape.

  The wind passed over them gently, carrying their grief upward, away from the earth that held their memories. Slowly—so slowly—Arttu’s cries softened. His grip loosened.

  The cocoon opened.

  Reid felt it.

  Not as joy.

  Not as relief.

  But as movement.

  Something inside Arttu had changed.

  When Arttu finally pulled back, his face was red, eyes swollen—but lighter. Empty in a way that allowed something new to breathe.

  Reid looked at him and understood.

  Caterpillars cannot stay inside their cocoons forever.

  They must break free.

  Even when it hurts.

  Even when the world outside is frightening.

  They stood.

  Hand in hand, they walked away from the graves.

  Behind them, the past remained—unchanged, unmoving.

  But ahead—

  There was sky.

  And one day—

  There would be wings.