Chapter 137 — The Day She Was Born (Part II)

  The heat greets her first.

  Iron. Charcoal. Sparks rising like fleeting stars.

  Harlund looks up from his anvil the moment she steps inside.

  He studies her for a second longer than usual.

  “I set today as the day I count my age,” she informs him. “So I turned fourteen.”

  He wipes sweat from his brow.

  “Your birthday?”

  “Mm.”

  A grunt.

  He disappears behind the counter and returns with a wooden case.

  When he opens it, the forge-light catches polished surfaces.

  Accessories.

  Rings worked in silver and ironwood.

  Bracelets reinforced with hidden runic seams.

  Earrings shaped like leaves, like flames, like wings.

  Armbands, belts, necklaces—some inlaid with small gems, others simple and sturdy.

  Every piece unmistakably his.

  Honest craftsmanship.

  Durable.

  Meant to endure.

  “These,” he says simply. “Pick one.”

  They were not made today.

  Months ago—when Brannic’s men had let slip that Ivaline had taken a bride—Harlund had begun crafting quietly.

  He assumed she would come eventually.

  Awkward.

  Grumbling.

  Requesting something practical but meaningful.

  She never did.

  So he kept making them.

  Waiting.

  And today—

  She stands here.

  Chronicle gently nudges her awareness.

  Not one.

  Two.

  A matching set.

  A pair of bracelets—intertwining metalwork resembling vines, subtle enough for daily wear.

  “One for me,” she says. “One for Seraphine.”

  Harlund’s lips twitch upward.

  He packs them carefully into a decorated box, movements steady despite the forge’s heat.

  “Congrats on your fourteenth birthday, little Ivaline.”

  “I’m not little,” she replies flatly. “I’m taller than you now.”

  The smith freezes.

  Silence.

  Then—

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “BWAHAHAHAHA!”

  The entire smithy erupts.

  Apprentices double over.

  Someone drops a hammer.

  Harlund locks into a rigid smile.

  “…Out,” he mutters to his workers after she leaves.

  Later that afternoon, the rhythm of iron striking iron becomes merciless.

  “HIT HARDER YOU LOUTS!”

  “AYE! EAY! BOSS!”

  No one comments on why the training is particularly brutal today.

  By the time she reaches the guild, it is louder than usual.

  Mireya moves rapidly behind the counter, issuing assignments with crisp efficiency.

  Adventurers are running errands that do not resemble normal quests.

  Ivaline stiffens.

  “What happened? Another goblin raid?”

  “Hm? Oh!”

  Mireya turns, ears and tails flicking brightly.

  “Happy birthday, Ivaline!”

  “…The goblins?”

  “Forget goblins!” Mireya swats the air dismissively. “Guild Master’s covering half the party expenses. The rest? Donations. Adventurers insisted.”

  “…Party?”

  Chronicle chuckles silently.

  Mireya leans closer.

  “We’re holding it at the orphanage. The kids will eat well tonight too. And don’t worry about Tomas’s cake—someone’s already fetching it.”

  “…M’kay.”

  She stops asking.

  Again.

  The clinic feels different.

  Quieter.

  Intent.

  Dr. Suniel’s gaze is as sharp as ever, but something rests beneath it.

  “So,” he says. “Today is your birthday?”

  “I set today to count my age. I don’t know when I was born.”

  “I see.”

  He nods once.

  “…Your wife?”

  “She ran out immediately.”

  “Then she will return with a gift.”

  His certainty carries centuries of cultural understanding.

  Without further discussion, he turns to his shelves.

  Rare herbs.

  Crystalline vials.

  Prepared reagents.

  He begins.

  “You may observe,” he says. “Both of you.”

  “Umu.”

  “Er—okay!” Bubble scoots closer.

  Four hours pass.

  The clinic closes early.

  Bubble flips the sign herself.

  When one impatient visitor ignores it—

  They are expelled by a precise burst of magic.

  Painful.

  Educational.

  The sign glows brighter afterward.

  By evening, Dr. Suniel places a single vial on the table.

  Clear.

  Viscous.

  No more than ten drops.

  “This is Elven Tears.”

  “…WHAT!?” Bubble squeaks, immediately silenced by his glare.

  “Is it rare?” Ivaline asks.

  Bubble lowers her voice.

  “One drop from true Elven Tears can pull someone back from the edge of death. Reattach a limb if it’s fresh. Neutralize most toxins. Unless the curse is absolute. Unless time itself has claimed them.”

  “And production is unstable,” Dr. Suniel adds calmly. “Four hours for me. Weeks for others. No guarantee.”

  Ivaline studies the vial.

  She remembers the ingredients.

  The precision.

  The density of mana.

  “This is my gift,” he says.

  A living vine twines around the vial, forming a resilient cord.

  He places it around her neck.

  “Take it, child.”

  “Umu. Thank you.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  She bows deeply.

  Before leaving—

  She invites him to the orphanage.

  He does not answer.

  But later—

  He appears.

  For a while.

  Then vanishes quietly.

  The courtyard is transformed.

  Tables.

  Lanterns.

  Food laid in abundance.

  Children running between adults, laughing, carrying plates too large for them.

  Garrick.

  Hennel.

  Ayra.

  Nicole.

  The Four Bastions—minus one.

  Edwyn and Tomas.

  Brannic and his guards.

  Edric with armfuls of meat.

  Harlund.

  Corvix, with Nasha hovering nervously nearby.

  Sister Alme and Father Roud bow deeply, grateful that this celebration fills their home with light.

  The Guild Master speaks briefly.

  Cheers follow.

  Gifts begin to stack.

  Bread.

  Clothes.

  Tools.

  A dagger from a retired adventurer.

  Small handmade tokens from children.

  Dr. Suniel stands at the edge long enough for Ivaline to notice.

  Then he is gone.

  Ivaline sits slightly apart, sipping juice.

  “…This is… nice.”

  She does not understand why.

  But the warmth is undeniable.

  Then—

  Wind rushes through the courtyard.

  “Sorry! I’m late!”

  Seraphine descends from her staff.

  Hair disheveled.

  Clothes dusty.

  Shrine incense clinging faintly.

  Exhaustion evident.

  Aldric, Bram, and Nyssa immediately begin teasing her.

  She only smiles.

  “I’ll show my gift later.”

  She walks straight to Ivaline.

  “Happy Birthday, love.”

  “Umu. Thank you, Seraphine.”

  Home is quiet.

  No crowd.

  No cheers.

  Just tea.

  Two plates.

  One remaining slice of Tomas’s cake.

  Seraphine finally produces her gift.

  A vine-shaped bracelet.

  At its center, a pale crystal etched in flowing elven script.

  “It signifies existence,” Seraphine explains softly. “And being cherished. Blessed by our shamans.”

  “…Is it expensive?” Ivaline asks honestly.

  Seraphine laughs faintly.

  “Not compared to you.”

  Silence.

  Ivaline steps forward and hugs her.

  Seraphine holds her tightly.

  After their baths, moonlight spills across the bed.

  Seraphine sits stiffly at the edge, hands clasped too tightly.

  “I was thinking…” she whispers. “I can’t wait for your fifteenth birthday.”

  Ivaline tilts her head.

  “So I can give you everything,” Seraphine continues. “My time. My life. My everything.”

  It is not lust.

  It is vow.

  Ivaline moves closer.

  Their foreheads touch.

  Lips only slightly apart from each other.

  “I don’t mind taking you anywhere,” she says quietly. “Anytime.”

  A pause.

  “But the town would look at you strangely.”

  “…Then one more year.”

  “One year.”

  They kiss.

  Soft.

  Careful.

  Private.

  Another line permitted.

  A promise sealed in quiet.

  Somewhere unseen—

  Chronicle watches.

  He records nothing.

  Only observation.

  And something unfamiliar rises within him.

  Warmth.

  Pride.

  Because this—

  Was not the day she was born into the world.

  It was the day the world answered back—

  And said,

  We are glad you were.