Later that evening, I sat curled up on the couch near the firepce, my tiny legs stretched out in front of me as the fire crackled softly beside me. Shadows danced across the wooden beams of the ceiling, the warm glow painting golden patterns on the walls. The adults had gathered close—mugs in hand, ptes on their ps, their ughter and voices mixing with the snap of firewood.

  I didn’t speak, of course. I just listened.

  And as I listened, I learned.

  They had once been adventurers. A full-fledged party of six. Not just friends, but comrades forged through countless battles and narrow escapes.

  Nathaniel—my father—had been the swordmaster of the group. A powerful front-liner who wielded twin bdes with deadly grace. Dual wielding, they said, was rare. It required strength, speed, and absolute confidence. And Nate had it all.

  Eleanor, my mother, had been their archer. Her arrows flew straighter than anyone else's, even across impossible distances. Archery might be a fading art in a world of magic , but she made it look like the world had it backwards. She even knew some magic—coating her arrows, enhancing her sight. A perfect blend of finesse and focus.

  The dwarf—Balgor, I would ter learn—had been their tank. Unmovable in battle, armored head to toe, able to take hits that would crush a normal man. He had a booming ugh and loved telling stories, stroking his beard like it fueled his tales.

  The beast woman, all muscle and madness, had been the team’s berserker. Fast, fierce, and relentless, she chased her targets with a predator’s intensity. Her ughter filled the room—wild, infectious—and the way she punched Nate’s shoulder every time she told a joke made me giggle inside.

  Then there was the rogue. Quiet, sharp-eyed. The scout and trap expert. She watched the exits even now, as if some instinct never left her. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, it was dry, witty, and just biting enough to make people ugh.

  And the mage. Hooded. Staff always at arm’s reach. His role had been obvious—magic. But his power wasn’t all about explosions or fir. He focused on control, support. Holding ground. Escaping when necessary. But they spoke of him with a reverence that hinted he could do a lot more than that.

  Together, they’d traveled far, faced nightmares I couldn’t yet picture. And now they were here—not fighting, but sharing a meal in my home. It felt surreal.

  I tucked my knees closer to my chest, letting the fire warm my face.

  Maybe one day… I’ll have stories like theirs too.

  As the fire crackled and another round of drinks was poured, the room shifted into something softer. Laughter dimmed, voices lowered. A calm only old friends could share.

  Dad leaned back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, gaze on the mage by the hearth.

  “So,” he asked, casual but curious, “what are you all pnning now that you're in the Velmire Kingdom again?”

  That caught my attention. Velmire? A kingdom? There were countries here? Borders, politics? This world was far bigger than I’d imagined.

  Balgor was first to answer. “Ah, well, I’ve got some smithing lined up. There’s a dwarven forge not far from here. Old friends, new alloy ideas. Peaceful work this time. Probably.”

  The beast woman grinned, stretching. “Northern border’s calling. Rumors of a beast problem. Sounds like fun.”

  The rogue sipped her drink. “That’s not a job, that’s a bloodbath. I’ll come too. Someone has to keep you from wiping out the vilge.”

  The mage didn’t answer right away. He stared into the fmes, his staff’s red gem flickering faintly.

  “There’s a pupil of mine nearby. I think I’ll visit.”

  Dad nodded, half-smiling. “Well, whatever roads you walk… I hope they lead back here again.”

  They raised their gsses in response.

  Then, Dad leaned forward slightly, putting his drink down.

  “What do you say,” he said, that familiar grin tugging at his lips, “once everyone’s done… we take on one st quest. Like the old days. One more adventure.”

  Silence.

  Then Balgor grinned. “Hah! Now that’s a damn fine idea.”

  The beast woman whooped and smmed her fist on the table. “About time!”

  The rogue smirked. “Tempting.”

  The mage gave a slow nod. “Better now than never.”

  Eleanor looked at my father with a sparkle in her eyes. “We could start training again…”

  Laughter broke out. Cheers echoed through the house. The fire crackled louder, almost as if it approved. Someone shouted, “To new roads, old friends, and adventures yet to come!”

  I didn’t understand all of it. But I understood the feeling. This was important. This was something I wanted to hold on to.

  Maybe… someday, I’d be part of something like that.

  The days that followed felt warmer than sunlight.

  They didn’t sleep here. They had rooms at an inn nearby. But every morning, without fail, they came back. Not out of duty or politeness—but because they wanted to. Because this pce felt like home.

  For three perfect days, the house overflowed with stories and ughter.

  For me, those days felt like I’d been pulled into the pages of a storybook. The kind my old dad might’ve read to me once—back when I was Haruki. Stories full of swords and spells and heart. I was surrounded by things I couldn’t have imagined even in my wildest dreams, and I was learning more than I thought possible—not just about this vast, unfamiliar world, but about the remarkable people who filled the quiet corners of our home.

  Each of them carried something within them. An energy. A weight. A silent history that echoed in the way they moved, the way they looked at one another. I didn’t need to understand the nguage to feel it. It was there in the way they sat together, in the ughter they shared when they thought I wasn’t watching.

  Take Nathaniel—my father. Before he was "Dad," he’d been the sword master of their party. A front-liner, they said. The kind of fighter who wielded twin bdes with a confidence most men could only dream of. Dual wielding wasn’t common; it demanded perfect control, impossible discipline, and the guts to charge in without a second of hesitation. That was Nathaniel. First through the gate, st to retreat. Fire in his past. Steel in his bones.

  But to me? He was just… Dad. The man who scooped me up like I weighed nothing. Who carved meat with the same grace he probably used to split monsters in two. Who smiled with a softness that didn’t quite fit the stories others whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear.

  He met Balgor during one of his early solo expeditions.

  Balgor Stonegrip. The name fit him like a hammer to an anvil. He looked like walking granite—broad, stout, and all muscle—but when he smiled, everything softened. His ugh rumbled like thunder through the halls, and his voice only got louder when the topic turned to his favorite argument: axes versus swords. (He was a diehard axe man.)

  His beard was something else. Thick, chestnut-colored, braided with silver rings etched in runes. I’d catch him stroking it thoughtfully, usually while recounting “the old days” over mugs of ale.

  He came from the Ironhold Mountains, a dwarven fortress buried in bck stone, famous for its master smiths. He told the story—well, someone else did, but I pieced it together—about how he met Dad in the tunnels below, pulling him from a cave-in Nathaniel had caused chasing after crystals. Balgor dug him out with his bare hands. That moment forged a friendship stronger than steel.

  Despite his gruffness, Balgor had a soft spot for kids. One night, I found a wooden figurine—carved like a knight—resting on my pillow. No one said anything. But I knew. He didn’t need to say it.

  Then there was Eleanor. My mother. She joined ter, after the group had begun to take shape.

  Eleanor was… grace, wrapped in silence. She moved like wind through trees. Her voice was soft, like silk catching the breeze. She’d been their archer. Archery had apparently fallen out of favor in the age of magic, but she made it look effortless. Her arrows flew straighter, sharper—guided by light magic that danced at her fingertips. She rarely missed.

  She didn’t talk much about her past, but I’d often catch her gazing out at the horizon. Like she was remembering something too far away to touch. In their group, she was the calm. The bance. And now, she was the quiet rhythm of our home. Her hands that once downed monsters from a hundred paces now bandaged my scrapes, brushed my hair, and held me when I had nightmares.

  Next came Cedric.

  He was always wrapped in those flowing robes, his staff never far from his side. Tall, dark, and carved with a crimson gem that pulsed like it had a heartbeat. Cedric didn’t speak often, but when he did, people listened. Every word felt deliberate—like he never said anything he didn’t mean.

  Once, he’d been a court mage. Respected. Sought after. But something had broken in him—politics, lies, the kind of betrayal that doesn’t leave clean scars. He left it all behind and drifted alone for years. Until, one night, he heard ughter in some far-off tavern. Real ughter. He followed it and found my parents and Balgor at a table, warm and unguarded. He joined them the next day. They never asked why.

  I’d sometimes see him create little illusions—dragons flying above the fire, glowing butterflies circling the chandelier. One night, a consteltion of stars hovered above my head while he feigned innocence. I giggled. He winked. And in that tiny moment, I felt something I couldn’t name. Something safe.

  Sylvi came after.

  Sharp-eyed and shadow-footed, she slipped through rooms like a breeze through cracks. Ptinum hair, tied back. Always watching. Always calcuting. She didn’t speak unless she had something important to say—but when she did, everyone listened.

  She’d grown up in some port city’s alleys, surviving by stealing. She’d once tried to rob Eleanor. Instead of punishing her, Mom gave her food. Asked her one question: “Why not stay?”

  And Sylvi did.

  She became the scout, the trap expert, the silent bde in the dark. But to me, she was something else too. She was the one who caught me trying to sneak like her and fall ft on my face. She didn’t ugh. Just helped me up and said, “Try again. Quieter this time.”

  Then came Mira.

  You couldn’t miss her if you tried. Tall. Wild. Beautiful in the kind of way storms are beautiful. Her feline ears twitched with her mood, and her tail swayed behind her like a warning. She was strong—absurdly so—and loud, and fast, and full of life.

  But her story was darker than the rest. Stolen as a child. Sold. Passed from hand to hand like a thing instead of a person. She’d escaped during a botched deal, bloodied and barely alive. The party found her in the forest, feral and snarling.

  They didn’t fight her.

  They fed her. Covered her. Spoke kindly.

  She stayed.

  She became their berserker. Fearless. Fierce. Loyal beyond reason. She called me cub and cradled me like I was her own. She had a thing for sneaking sweets from the kitchen and pretending no one noticed.

  I noticed.

  We all did.

  But none of us ever said a word.

  By the fifth day, I stopped seeing legends.

  I saw people.

  People who told stories over dinner, who bickered and teased and passed around bread like it was the most important thing in the world. People who sang off-key songs by the fire and smiled with their whole face.

  People who felt real.

  Family.

  On the st night, as the fire crackled low and ughter settled into something softer, I sat curled in Mom’s p. Her fingers brushed through my hair, and I watched the flickering light py across the faces around me.

  And for the first time since being reborn, I didn’t feel like a stranger.

  I felt like I belonged.

  Like this—this impossible, strange, wonderful thing—was the beginning of something new.

  A chapter I hadn’t expected.

  But one I couldn’t wait to turn the page on.