The hearth crackled quietly.

  Evening had settled in, heavy and slow. The fire cast long shadows on the stone walls, and the smell of stew drifted in faintly from the kitchen. Takahiro and Kana sat in the small sitting room, wrapped in silence.

  There was no clock, but they had learned to read time in how the light moved, how the world quieted. It would be dinner soon.

  Kana sat with her legs tucked beneath her, eyes distant, fingers laced together in her lap. The warm color in her cheeks had returned, but something in her posture was hollow.

  Takahiro leaned back against the wall, arms resting on his knees. He didn’t speak first. He didn’t need to.

  “Those clothes,” Kana said eventually, voice low, “used to belong to their son.”

  Takahiro looked down at himself. The tunic fit comfortably. The fabric was soft with age, but well-kept. Not the kind of thing left forgotten.

  “He went to the war?” he asked.

  She nodded once. “They said he died after a couple of months. Not even near the front. Just some outpost overrun in the middle of the night.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. There were no right words. Only the weight of someone else’s absence, now sitting across from them both.

  Kana’s voice dropped further. “They had a daughter too. They made her leave—told her to go east with the others. Somewhere safer.”

  Takahiro’s hand instinctively went to his forearm, rubbing it lightly. There were always more stories like this. Every village. Every family. Pieces torn out and never returned.

  Kana shifted and glanced at him. “You’ve got a cut.”

  He followed her gaze to his right hand. A shallow nick on the side of his palm—probably from working with Brann earlier. It hadn’t even stung until she pointed it out.

  She leaned forward and extended her hand over it. “Like this, right?”

  She muttered something under her breath. A familiar warmth pulsed through his skin.

  He watched, stunned, as the wound closed before his eyes.

  His mouth opened slightly. “You—how did you—?”

  She laughed. Quietly. Sadly. “I watched Serenya use it about a dozen times. I just copied her words. Her movements.”

  He stared at her, then at his hand again.

  “Try the other one,” he said, almost playfully.

  She took his left hand and repeated the words, slower this time, drawing the same pattern in the air.

  Nothing happened.

  They both stared.

  Kana burst into a soft laugh, leaning back. “Guess I still have to study.”

  Takahiro chuckled. “You already passed the test. I was always top of the class. Now you’re out here doing magic and I’m—” He raised his hand. “—the patient.”

  Kana smiled, but the sadness didn’t leave her eyes. “I think I’m going to join the army.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  She looked at him, serious now. “I’ve been thinking about it. Since before I got sick.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  He frowned. “But… this isn’t your war. We don’t belong here. We weren’t even supposed to be summoned.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Her voice was steady. “People are dying. That does matter.”

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  He looked down. “You sound like Riku.”

  “That’s the point.” She turned toward the fire. “If it were him, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d already be out there, doing something.”

  Takahiro was quiet for a long moment.

  Then he said, without drama: “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  She turned back to him.

  “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “We’ll find a way to help. Even if we’re not from here. Even if we’re not the hero.”

  Kana stared at him.

  “Besides,” he added, trying to smile, “you’ve got magic now. Can’t let that go to waste.”

  She snorted. “One spell.”

  “It’s a start.”

  They both turned back toward the fire. Somewhere beyond the wall, they heard movement in the kitchen—dishes being set, voices murmuring.

  Dinner was ready.

  But for a moment longer, they just sat there, letting the firelight hold them still.

  After two more days in the village, the group prepared to leave.

  It wasn’t easy. The old woman tried to hide it, but her hands lingered too long when she handed Serenya the travel pack. Her voice caught when she gave Kana a pouch of dried herbs and a long wool scarf. Even Brann, usually stoic, took Takahiro aside before they departed and gave him a firm nod. No words. Just a nod. As if that meant something.

  Perhaps it did.

  “We’re starting to feel too comfortable,” Serenya said that morning, tightening the straps on her cloak. “It’s time.”

  The villagers gave them food wrapped in cloth, hand-sewn bags filled with dried roots, fruit, and bits of smoked meat. A flask of something that smelled faintly sweet. Even a few coins, despite Takahiro’s protests.

  “You’ll need them more than we do,” the old woman said firmly. “Just promise me you won’t go through the Crimson Forest.”

  Serenya raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Brann answered. “It’s cursed. Or haunted. Or worse. No one goes in, not even the demons.”

  Takahiro blinked. “Not even the demons?”

  “They go around it. Always. That should tell you enough.”

  “The mountain pass is steep,” the woman added, “but safer. Quicker too, if the weather holds.”

  Serenya bowed deeply. “Then the mountain it is.”

  And after one last round of thank-yous and a long, quiet look back at the little house that had given them warmth, they left.

  The climb was hard, but not unexpected.

  The road narrowed the further they went, until it wasn’t a road at all—just a worn path of flattened stone and old roots. They moved slowly, testing each step, leaning on branches when their legs trembled. But the higher they climbed, the more breathtaking the world became.

  Below them stretched an ocean of green. The village they'd left behind looked no bigger than a grain of rice nestled among the trees. Rivers glinted like veins of silver in the valley. The air thinned, but it was clean, sharp, like breathing ice.

  They made camp in small hollows, surrounded by rock and scrub. Serenya taught them how to find dry tinder even when it seemed like everything was wet, how to wrap cloth around your feet when your boots began to wear through.

  But most surprising of all was what came next.

  It started with a lesson.

  Serenya had asked Kana, half-joking, how she had managed to mimic a healing spell.

  Kana had shrugged. “I just watched you do it.”

  Serenya paused. “You cast a spell... from memory?”

  “I didn’t think about it. I just... copied you.”

  And from that moment on, something changed.

  Serenya began teaching them. Not formally. Not in lectures or drills. But in quiet moments around the fire, or during rest breaks. She would trace sigils in the dirt and explain how different tones shaped the intent of the magic. How the will mattered just as much as the words.

  Kana picked it up almost instantly.

  Takahiro... didn’t.

  He tried. He listened. He practiced. But while Kana could conjure sparks of light after a few tries, he barely made the air shift. His sigils wobbled, his pronunciations were off, and his concentration often broke before anything happened.

  He laughed it off, at first. Then grew frustrated. Then went quiet.

  So he trained.

  He practiced kenpō with Kana in the mornings. Her movements were sharper now—fluid and aggressive. She was a good teacher, patient but firm. She didn’t let him take shortcuts. Every misstep was corrected, every hesitation punished with a sweep to the legs or a quick jab to the ribs.

  In the afternoons, he trained with Serenya.

  She had found him a short sword—nothing fancy, just well-balanced and worn smooth. Her style was elegant but forceful, built on precision. She moved like someone used to being surrounded but never touched.

  He wasn’t bad. But he wasn’t good either.

  He was learning. Slowly. And painfully.

  One morning, while the others thought he was still asleep, Takahiro stirred to the sound of hushed voices.

  He didn’t open his eyes, but he listened.

  Kana’s voice: “I’m joining the army when we get to the city.”

  A pause. Then Serenya: “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve already decided. This war... it is mine. I want to fight.”

  More silence.

  Then Kana again, lower this time. “But I want Takahiro to stay in the city. Or go east. Somewhere safe.”

  Takahiro’s chest tightened.

  “He doesn’t belong on the battlefield,” Kana said. “Not like this.”

  Serenya didn’t reply, or if she did, he didn’t catch it.

  He lay there, still and quiet, until the camp stirred for real.

  When they looked at him, he smiled. Said good morning. Pretended everything was fine.

  He didn’t mention what he’d heard. How could he?

  She wasn’t wrong.

  He wasn’t Riku.

  Riku wouldn’t have hesitated. Riku would have fought. Protected. Led. If Riku had been summoned, Kana wouldn’t have needed to volunteer. She could’ve stayed safe. She could’ve leaned on someone who deserved her trust.

  But she had Takahiro.

  So he kept training.

  He let Kana throw him to the ground again and again. Let Serenya bark corrections until his shoulders ached. Let the cold mountain air burn his lungs as he ran through drills.

  Because maybe, just maybe, if he worked hard enough…

  He could become someone worth trusting.