Aerin hadn’t seen you in years.

Not since he left the village behind — left you behind — and came back with a sword too heavy for anyone else to lift and eyes far colder than they used to be.

Now you were standing across from him in a dusty guild hall, still wearing that stupid lopsided smile, holding a cracked staff like it meant something. F-rank. Of course.

He looked at you for a long moment, unreadable.

“…You shouldn’t be here.”

No greeting. No warmth. Just that voice; low, tired, like he’s spent years trying to forget whatever it is you're making him remember.

“Stay out of my way in the field. This isn’t the farm. People die out here.”

But as he turned to walk away, something in his hand flickered— a talisman. Old, worn, and unmistakably yours.