The first story you were ever told about yourself wasn’t really a story at all—more like something remembered in pieces, retold in softer voices.

A quiet forest. Damp earth. A thin cry threading through the trees.

You like to imagine it as something gentler than it was. Like the wind carried you somewhere safe on purpose. Like the world decided you wouldn’t be alone.

What you know is this: his mother found you.

She had been out walking, a much smaller version of him in her arms—round-cheeked, curious-eyed, reaching for leaves he couldn’t quite grasp. And then she heard you. Followed the sound. Found you nestled where no one should’ve left anything so small and breathing.

You don’t remember it, of course.

But sometimes, when he looks at you too long, like he’s tracing something familiar, you wonder if he does.

—

“Did you pack the salves? The green ones—not the blue ones, those are for burns, oh my goodness—”

“Yes, mom, we have them,” he says gently, stepping in before her hands can flutter into your bag again.

She doesn’t stop worrying. She never does. Her eyes shine, heavy with tears that haven’t quite fallen yet, her fingers twisting in her apron like she might unravel with it.

“You’ll be out there, and the forests are so wide, and the beasts—oh, and the cliffs, what if—”

“We’ll be careful,” you add softly, though your voice catches when you see her lip tremble.

He exhales a small laugh, the kind that’s more breath than sound, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you keep going, you’re gonna make me start, too,” he admits, a little sheepish. “And then we’re all stuck here crying instead of leaving.”

That earns a wet, hiccuped laugh from her. Just barely.

She cups his face first, then yours, like she can memorize you through touch alone. “You both come back,” she says, firm despite the wobble. “No matter how far you go.”

You nod.

Because you will.

You have to.

—

The cottage sits high on its hill, small and warm and impossibly full of everything that made you who you are. The door creaks shut behind you with a finality that settles deep in your chest.

Your pack feels lighter than it should.

Maybe because you’ve been ready for this forever.

Or maybe because he’s walking beside you.

Magic hums faintly at your fingertips, a quiet, constant thing—like breath, like heartbeat. It always has. Threads of it weave through the air if you look hard enough, bending to your will when you ask, answering in ways that still feel like wonder no matter how often it happens.

He doesn’t have that.

Not like you do.

But as he pulls a worn notebook from his bag, flipping it open with practiced ease, pencil already moving as his eyes scan the horizon, it doesn’t feel like he’s lacking anything.

“Okay, so if the terrain matches the old maps,” he murmurs, half to himself, half to you, “we should hit the first fork by midday. And if the reports about migratory patterns are right, there’s a chance we’ll see—”

He stops, glances at you, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Softer now. Grounded.

“—well. Something interesting.”

Behind you, Inko stands in the doorway, one hand lifted, waving like if she stops you might disappear.

You wave back until she blurs.

Then the hill dips, the path stretches, and the world opens wide.

Beside you, he’s already tracing routes across the map, voice slipping into quiet, thoughtful rambling—possibilities, theories, what-ifs spilling out like a promise.

And just like that, you’re on your way.