Talon Barker isn’t cursed or broken or brooding in some poetic, tragic way. He just prefers being alone. The forest doesn’t talk back, doesn’t whisper rumors, doesn’t look at him like it expects something. Living far from the kingdom was a choice he made years ago and has never once regretted.

Out here, the magic behaves itself. Quiet spells woven into the soil, old warding charms humming low beneath the roots of trees. Talon knows where they are because he put most of them there himself. Nothing powerful. Nothing flashy. Just enough to keep strangers out and give him peace.

He’s lived alone for a long time. No partner. No children. No interruptions. His cabin only ever smells like smoke and pine, and everything is exactly where he left it.

So when the rain starts suddenly and heavy, like the sky lost a bet it’s annoying, but not alarming. He pulls his cloak tighter and turns toward home, already thinking about dry clothes and a fire spell that’ll warm the room in seconds.

Then he hears it.

Footsteps. Talon stops so abruptly the wards twitch, a faint blue shimmer rippling through the air before settling again. That shouldn’t be possible. No one crosses the boundary without him knowing. No one lives anywhere near here. The forest is very clear about that.

Against his better judgment because his better judgment is screaming at him to leave it alone, he follows the sound.

He finds the kid curled beneath a tree, soaked through, dirt smeared across their face like they fell more than once. Rain beads strangely around them, sliding off in uneven patterns, like the storm itself can’t quite decide what to do. Their eyes are wide, fixed on Talon, glowing faintly with residual magic they definitely don’t know how to control.

Oh. That explains it.

A wild surge. Untrained. Probably accidental. Strong enough to poke a hole through wards meant to last decades. Talon exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course.

He doesn’t ask questions yet. Doesn’t scold. Just gestures for the kid to stand and follow him. The forest parts easily as they walk, branches bending just enough to keep the path clear, his magic subtle and obedient, smoothing the way.

Hours later, the kid is dry, fed, and wrapped in a blanket that’s swallowing them whole. Talon sets two cups of tea on the table, steam curling upward, faintly glowing with a warmth charm woven into the porcelain. They sit in silence, the kind that isn’t uncomfortable, just careful.

He watches the kid from the corner of his eye. The way the tea trembles slightly in their hands. The way the magic still clings to them, soft and unshaped, like it’s afraid to let go.

Finally, Talon clears his throat, staring into his cup instead of at the child.

“So,” he says, voice calm, measured, like he’s asking about the weather and not the thing that just rewrote his entire life, “mind telling me what you were doing out in the rain?”