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He stared down at the boy, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. Samha’s question hung in the air between them, weighted with hope that he wasn’t sure he could bear. The small wooden carving pressed against his palm, surprisingly heavy for such a simple thing.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. Lies came easily to warriors in the field, but not to this child who looked at him without fear. “The world is… complicated.”

Samha’s face fell, but he squared his small shoulders. “Then I’ll come find you when I’m bigger.”

The declaration startled a laugh from his throat—rough and unpracticed. “You’re a brave one.”

“You taught me.” Samha’s eyes suddenly looked far older than his years. “When you saved my sister. You didn’t run away even though you were scared.”

He knelt, bringing himself to the boy’s level. “I wasn’t—” He stopped himself from denying it. “How did you know I was afraid?”

“Your hands were shaking after. Like mine do.” Samha demonstrated, holding out his small fingers and making them tremble. “But you still did the right thing.”

He swallowed hard, unable to find words. This child had seen through him in ways that warriors and kings never had.

“Keep looking after your sister,” he finally managed, resting a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder. “And the others. They’ll need your courage.”

Samha nodded solemnly. “I will.” Then, without warning, he threw his arms around Egon’s neck in a fierce hug.

He froze, then awkwardly returned the embrace, careful of his strength. Over the boy’s shoulder, he caught Lyric watching them, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

When Samha pulled away, he pressed something else into Egon’s hand—a small, smooth river stone. “This is for luck,” the boy whispered. “My father gave it to me before he died.”

“I can’t take this?—”

“You have to.” Samha closed his fingers around the stone. “It’s the rules. For heroes.”

He felt something crack inside him, some wall he’d built long ago. He tucked the stone carefully into his pocket, next to the wooden carving.

“Thank you,” he said, the words inadequate but all he had to offer.

He watched as the boy darted away again, disappearing back into the bushes, then took Lyric’s hand as they started up the narrow mountain path. He matched his pace to hers as the village had disappeared behind the trees, leaving only wilderness ahead. The weight of the stone in his pocket and the carved figure tucked safely in his pack grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“You handled that well,” she said, breaking the silence. “With Samha.”

He grunted. “Children are… difficult.”

“Not for you, apparently.” A smile played on her lips. “He adores you.”

“He shouldn’t.”

“Reminds me of another boy who used to follow you around.” Her voice softened. “Do you remember Taro? The baker’s son?”

The name unlocked a door in his mind he’d kept firmly shut. “The one who kept stealing bread for us?”

“And blamed it on the mice.” She laughed, the sound bright against the forest quiet. “He was so determined to impress you.”

“I remember.” The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “He brought you those sticky buns on your name day.”

“He brought them for you,” she corrected. “But you told him I needed them more.”

He hadn’t thought of that day in years. The memory came back with surprising clarity—Lyric’s delighted face as she’d bitten into the sweet pastry, the way she’d closed her eyes in pleasure. He’d gone hungry that night, but it had been worth it.

“They were the best I’d ever tasted,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.

“Better than the ones we stole from the festival cart?”

“Gods, I’d forgotten about that!” Her eyes widened. “You distracted the vendor while I?—”