Chapter 8: The Threads that Bind Us

“Oren Meditating” oil pastel and pencil by Chaiga T. Cheska

The Mistwing forged onwards, its flanks cleaving the quietly burgeoning breadth of the Emaris river. Each sunrise found the river broader than the last, the water’s mirror stretching in silky panes beneath a sky mottled with the slow drift of cloud. The sailors, shoulders braced, and eyes narrowed to slits against the lucent glare, coaxed the vessel into the river’s heart, steering clear of the rightward shoals where Twiststones brooded in hidden clusters. Malign as old grudges, their razor edges lay just beneath the blue, ready to unseam the bravest hull, runes or no. The helmsman’s hand was as steady as could be. Captain Sten himself kept a weather eye for the way the river darkened, and the glassy surface fractured with the telltale ripples above submerged peril.

Days on the river began to flow like rain, each one tumbling into the next, a thousand silver threads chasing themselves down the glass of memory. Mornings shimmered with the waking call of the banks, lavish with light. They were adorned in wildflower slopes that rolled from the water’s edge to the horizon, stitched with pale star-blossoms, dust fragile, and golden river cups that bowed and nodded in the warming breeze as if in silent benediction. Laughter rose from the deck, quiet at first, then stronger, as the world outside the hull softened into the familiar and the unknown became, once more, simply the road ahead.

Empressfisher birds, with their iridescent plumes, descended in a flash like sapphires and emeralds dashed from an emperor’s diadem, arcing through the air and plunging after fish with a diamond-bright gleam in their sharp eyes. At dusk, the Lanternreed beds along the lazy banks kindled their gentle, ghostly light, faint as candles glimpsed through rain, illuminating the reeds in a soft, steady glow. Night after night, the ship slid through those wavering mosaics of light, everyone atop the deck stilled and reverent.

It was on such a tranquil evening, with the dusk leaning soft and blue across the water, that a Nuinheron, tall, spectral, all moon-pale limbs and patient, gold-flecked eye, alighted upon the weathered railing of the Mistwing. The longship stilled; even the river seemed to still around them. Ingrid, her voice a trembling thread, leaned to Bran and whispered that the Nuinheron’s coming was an omen of grace, a silent gift, the blessing of river spirits for safe passage and the mending of hearts. The Nuinheron remained for a breathless span, then drifted aloft, ghostly as mist, leaving behind a reverent silence of awe and a secret smile on Ingrid’s lips.

The days uncurled in their sinuous rhythm, the crew sliding back into the work and rituals of the river: the quiet clatter of bowls at dusk, the soft murmur of old river songs.

Each morning, the world unfurled new secrets along the Emaris, and with it, a quiet ritual took root amongst the friends. Nix would gather Oren, Tavik, and Bran, arranging themselves in a modest circle, knees pressed lightly together, a fragile ring binding them in intention if not symmetry. At first, the exercise seemed faintly absurd: Oren and Tavik, broad-shouldered and statuesque, dwarfed both Nix and Bran, and the circle pitched unevenly upon the planking, a lopsided constellation of earnest faces. Tavik, ever the pragmatist, had muttered his doubts, but Nix’s gentle persistence wore away resistance as surely as the river shaped stone.

When the weather favoured them, they met upon the open deck, the sun painting delicate traceries across their closed eyelids; at other times, they huddled within the dim shelter of the passenger hut, rain drumming a slow cadence overhead. Nix would draw a breath, deep and deliberate, as if inhaling the very essence of the world around him. In that held silence, the others would strive to match his rhythm, drawing in calm, exhaling uncertainty, and wondering, in the privacy of their thoughts, whether something marvellous might unfold.

It was upon such a morning, the river glistening with the ghost of early mist, that the improbable occurred. They sat as always, knees barely touching, hands resting upon legs, when Bran straightened as though a string ran from the centre of the earth to the crown of his head.

“Oh,” he murmured, wonder threading his voice, and for a moment, the air seemed to pulse with anticipation.

Oren, his composure slipping, cracked open one eye to regard his youngest brother with mild curiosity, but Nix only smiled, his own eyes still cloaked beneath lowered lids.

Then Tavik, who had borne the whole charade with good-natured scepticism, startled as if a fish had leapt in his lap.

“Stars above!” he breathed, his words trailing into the space between them, and he stared at Nix, whose serenity seemed untouched by surprise.

Without so much as a twitch, Nix said, “Do not open your eyes, not yet.” His voice was low and steady, compelling obedience.

Oren, whose trust was as deep as the river, complied, though bewilderment flickered behind his brow.

And then, impossibly, Oren felt the world shift beneath him: the creak and sway of the vessel receded, replaced by the spring-soft give of moss beneath his legs, the scent of loam and green things rising in his nostrils. He drew breath, and it was as though he inhaled the memory of rain among ancient branches, the quiet, no, the solemn expectancy of old woodlands at dusk. Dappled light filtered through a canopy unseen, gilding the shadows in green and gold. It was not a vision but a presence, palpable and enfolding, and he could no more feel the deck beneath him than recall the taste of salt in that moment.

A gasp escaped him, surprised and hopeful, and his eyes flew open, banishing the forest and replacing it with the familiar outline of the Mistwing’s deck. Across the circle, Tavik and Bran, eyes wide and breath held, seemed equally transported, rooted for a moment to a world not their own. Nix, at last, opened his eyes and regarded them all with quiet triumph, the corners of his mouth curling upwards like the first bud after frost.

“You see?” he said softly, joy flickering in his gaze. “There is Elfishness in each of you. It only needed waking.”

The river flowed on, indifferent to marvels, but beneath the sweep of the sky, four friends sat in a circle changed, each bearing the trace of wonder, and the promise, however faint, of worlds yet undreamt.

Life on the river gathered them all in its long, unhurried sweep, the days a series of shifting lights and living colour: Empressfishers wheeling, the Lanternreed beds flickering to life, the rare glimpse of a Nuinheron blessing the night. All the while, the Mistwing pressed onwards, and the river, in its generous unfolding, bore them gently, inexorably, towards whatever lay ahead.

The days that followed unfolded in a slow, gentle rhythm, the river’s song meandering through sunlit mist and cool, drifting shadows. The Mistwing glided onwards, carved from the silence of early dawn into the golden murmur of evening, each day passing with little incident. Only the occasional trading barque interrupted their passage, patched, workaday vessels with hulls heavy with wares and the scent of distant settlements. Barter became a brief, welcome ritual: quiet exchanges over polished oars and pouches of coin, the traders’ voices low and practical as they handed up their offerings for a few moments’ parley before the current hastened them apart again.

It was during these individual passing traders that Bran and Ingrid proved enterprising. Quick words and clever smiles secured parcels of dried meats cured in juniper smoke, jars of sun-golden Moonberry preserves that glimmered when the lids were cracked, and a small, tightly knotted pouch of Frostroot, kept, as Ingrid said, “for those just in case moments.” There was laughter in their eyes as they returned, arms balancing the spoils, and the crew’s spirits lifted with the promise of new flavours.

Bran’s stammering awkwardness around Ingrid had begun to ease into something more comfortable. Where before he had stumbled over words about baskets and knots, now he found himself able to string together actual conversations. Ingrid, for her part, had noticed. A shared joke over the cooking pot would linger a moment too long. Their hands would brush, reaching for the same ingredient, and neither would pull away quite as quickly as before.

Tavik caught Oren’s eye one evening and grinned. “Well, well. Looks like our Bran’s finally managed to speak in complete sentences.”

Oren smiled, watching his youngest brother laugh at something Ingrid said. “Progress.”

“Think she’s noticed?”

“Oh, she’s noticed.” Oren’s tone was fond, amused. “Question is whether she minds.”

The answer came soon enough. Evenings became a mosaic of shared meals, the air sweet with the mingled scents of woodsmoke and spice. Bran and Ingrid cooked side by side, their movements unconsciously mirrored, hands brushing as they reached for a knife or pausing to taste a simmering broth. The others watched with poorly concealed amusement as what had been one-sided awkwardness transformed into something mutual.

“Think they realise they’re courting?” Bo murmured to Tavik one night.

“Bran doesn’t. Ingrid might.”

Nix, quiet and observant, caught every glance, every smile that lingered. He found it fascinating, this dance between humans, and through his newfound awareness of connection, he could almost see the strands between them brightening, interweaving, strengthening with each shared moment. It made something in his chest feel warm and tight at once, though he couldn’t name what it was.

The next morning dawned with a clarity so precise it seemed the very air had been newly minted. Sunlight scattered across the river’s surface in trembling diamonds, the banks luminous with their customary fringe of Lanternreed, their filaments pale as spun glass in the untroubled light. The day, in its serenity, might well have been a mirror to any other, save for the singular marvel that unfolded near the sixth hour, when a bask of Shellback Turtles revealed themselves along the portside, their broad carapaces rising from the shallows like ancient stones newly awakened by the sun.

It was not uncommon to glimpse a shell cresting the waterline. Still, today the Shellbacks lingered, drifting in a stately procession just beneath the surface, old as the river’s memory, their shells etched by nature’s hand into labyrinths of runes and spirals. As the light struck them, those markings shone out silvered and spectral, shifting as the turtles paddled lazily near, their faces lifted in tranquil study. One by one, they turned their gaze upwards, and Nix, standing at the railing, found himself the object of their patient, unblinking curiosity.

Oren stood a little apart along the railing, watching with evident amusement as Nix became the unwitting centrepiece of the Shellbacks’ deliberations.

“Careful, Nix.” His voice was steady, warm. “They might decide you’re some rare river oddity fit for their collection. You’d look resplendent alongside those ancient shells.”

Nix, undaunted by either scrutiny or jest, offered a sharp smirk, his reply gliding out with fluid ease. “I rather think they’re here to recruit a new leader. But I’d make a poor Shellback. My back’s not nearly broad enough, and I’ve yet to master the art of basking all day.” His eyes danced with mischief, the sun catching faint glimmers across his cheekbones like fragments of river glass.

Oren’s eyes widened, and he snorted with laughter at Nix’s wit and opened his mouth to respond, but his eye was caught as his brother, Tavik, emerged from the shadowed doorway of the passenger hut, his boots thudding softly against the timber as he joined them. Positioning himself with casual familiarity between Nix and Oren, he peered over the rail with a raised brow, then turned half aside, his words slipping out, quiet but clear.

“Not just turtles worth watching.” He nodded towards where Bran sat with Ingrid near the bow, their heads bent close over some task. “Those two have been thick as Lanternreed lately.”

Oren’s jaw tensed slightly, though he said nothing immediately. Nix, meanwhile, watched the Shellbacks watching him, their ancient eyes reflecting the steady patience of the river itself. He listened, half-absorbed, to the conversation unfolding beside him, a quiet curiosity threading through his own musings.

Tavik glanced at Oren. “You’ve noticed.”

“I’ve noticed.” Oren’s voice was careful, measured.

“And?”

“And nothing. It’s his choice.”

“But we leave the Mistwing in three days. Four at most.”

Oren was quiet for a long moment, his gaze still fixed on where Bran and Ingrid sat together. “I know.”

“Does he?”

“He knows.” Oren’s tone carried something complicated, concern threaded with restraint. “Whether he’s thought about what that means is another matter.”

Nix, still observing the Shellbacks, felt the conversation like ripples across still water. Not quite discord, but the beginning of strain, a thread pulled slightly taut. He didn’t turn, didn’t offer commentary, simply observed the way worry could manifest between people who cared for each other.

“You could talk to him,” Tavik said.

“And say what? ‘Don’t feel what you’re feeling’? That’s not how it works.”

“No, but...” Tavik’s voice trailed off, then strengthened. “He’s fifteen, Oren. He’s not thinking about what happens when we walk away from the river.”

“He’s fifteen, not five. If he chooses to have his heart broken, that’s his to choose.”

The words were measured, but Nix could hear the tension beneath them, the way Oren was trying to convince himself as much as Tavik. The Shellbacks, patient as stone, continued their slow drift, and Nix found himself thinking about connection and loss, about the strands that bind people together and the pain that comes when those strands must stretch or break.

“The river speaks of you,” Oren said suddenly, his voice softer now, and Nix turned to find Oren looking at him rather than at the turtles.

“Does it?” Nix’s reply was equally soft.

“Says you understand things we’re still learning. About letting go and holding on at the same time.”

Nix considered this, then smiled slightly. “The sea dragon is teaching me that nothing lasts forever. But that doesn’t make it less worth having.”

Tavik snorted, though not unkindly. “Wise words from someone who’s never had his heart broken.”

“Haven’t I?” Nix’s tone was light, but his eyes held something older. “I grew up in a family that despised my existence. My heart broke so many times I learned to carry the pieces.” He paused, looking at the water. “Every connection I have now could be torn away tomorrow. But I’d rather have them and lose them than never have them at all.”

The brothers were quiet after that, and the Shellbacks, as if their vigil was complete, began to drift away, sinking slowly beneath the surface until only the faintest ripples marked where they’d been.

Bo’s shout sliced through a peaceful afternoon, a note of command, gravel-edged and insistent. “Heads up! Traffic upriver. Stay sharp!”

The mood on deck shifted immediately, playfulness replaced by practised vigilance. Nix, who’d been standing at the rail observing the water, felt a warning thread through him, ancient and certain. The sea dragon’s presence beneath the hull pulsed with caution. Stay hidden, little mage.

Rather than panic rising, Nix felt the familiar pull of meditation, the same centring he’d discovered with the dragon. He drew a quiet breath and moved towards the shadowed space between the passenger hut and the larger cargo storage, a narrow gap where someone small could crouch unseen.

Tavik, moving to position himself at the rail, caught the movement and gave an approving nod. Oren took up a stance that happened to block the sight line to where Nix had settled.

From upriver, the first vessel emerged, its silhouette sombre against the gilded water, a barge rendered ancient by decades of toil. Its timbers bore the wounds of seasons and storms, while upon its deck stood the Stoneskin Ferrymen, their sinewy arms bared to the sun, latticed with the pale tracery of tattoos. Each stroke of the oar was measured, inexorable, their faces carved in the stoic lines of river folk who ferried stories and secrets alike.

Riverbone fetishes and talismans hung from prow to stern, swaying softly in the breeze: bone and driftwood, river glass and feather, each relic a ward against ill fortune. The Stoneskin Ferrymen’s glances lingered but a heartbeat upon the passengers of the Mistwing, eyes opaque as silted pools, their regard unreadable as the current.

Before the river’s silence could settle, a second craft materialised, sleek as a blade, its hull bound in reeds and painted in sinuous patterns that caught the light in shifting tides. On its decks, figures draped in vigilant grey, eyes sharp beneath the brims of regulation hats, scanned the Mistwing with practised suspicion. Their insignia marked them as the enforcers of passage and boundary, their presence a shadow stretched long upon the river’s surface.

A terse exchange sparked across the water. Bo’s words were crisp, each syllable measured, deflecting inquiry with gruff assurance.

“All in order here. Just traders westbound.”

The authority in his tone served as a shield against unwelcome scrutiny.

The officers aboard the other craft lingered, eyes raking the Mistwing’s deck for evidence of difference or dissent, their silence weighted with the threat of intervention.

Nix remained still in his chosen spot, his breathing slow and deliberate, the sea dragon’s presence a steady warmth beneath the hull. He could sense its vast shape coiled below, feel its approval like a hand on his shoulder. Oren and Tavik stood easy at the rail, their postures relaxed but ready, giving nothing away.

At last, the vessel drifted by, its officers granting them only a final searching look before turning their attention upriver.

When they’d passed safely beyond earshot, Nix emerged from his spot, brushing off his breeches. Tavik caught his eye and grinned.

“Good instincts.”

“The dragon warned me,” Nix said simply.

“Useful friend to have.”

That evening, as the sun lay copper and gold across the water, Oren found Bran alone at the stern, watching the wake unravel behind them. He hesitated a moment, then moved to stand beside him.

“Walk with me a moment?”

Bran turned, curious rather than wary. “Of course.”

They stood together, watching the river scatter their passage into ripples. Oren was quiet for a long moment before he spoke.

“You and Ingrid.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s good to see you happy.”

Bran’s ears coloured, though his smile widened. “She is... yes. She’s wonderful.”

“I can see that.”

Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but weighted with things unsaid. Finally, Bran spoke.

“You’re worried.”

“I’m...” Oren exhaled slowly. “We leave the Mistwing soon. You know that.”

“I know.”

“And I worry what that will mean. For you.”

Bran’s jaw tensed slightly. “You think I haven’t thought about it?”

“Have you?”

“Every day.” Bran’s voice was quiet but firm. “Every moment I’m with her, I know it’s temporary. That doesn’t make it less real.”

Oren nodded slowly, hearing the certainty in his brother’s voice, the maturity he sometimes forgot was there. “No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

“I’m not a child, Oren.” There was no anger in it; it was just a statement of fact. “I know this will hurt when we leave. But I’d rather have this time with her than spend it protecting myself from pain that’s coming anyway.”

Oren looked at his brother, really looked at him, and saw someone who’d thought this through more carefully than he’d given him credit for. “That’s... actually quite wise.”

“Nix said something similar. About the sea dragon, teaching him that connection is worth the risk of loss.”

“Did he?” Oren smiled slightly. “He’s full of surprises, that one.”

“We all are.” Bran met his brother’s gaze steadily. “I appreciate that you worry. I do. But I need you to trust that I can handle this.”

“I’m trying,” Oren said honestly. “It’s just... you’re my brother. Watching you hurt will hurt me too.”

“I know. But you can’t protect me from everything. Sometimes you just have to let me walk my own path.”

Oren was quiet for a moment, then reached out and gripped Bran’s shoulder. “You’re right. I’m sorry if I’ve been...” he searched for the word, “overbearing.”

“A bit.” Bran’s smile took the sting from it. “But I know it comes from love.”

“It does.”

They stood together at the rail, the tension that had been building between them finally easing. Not gone entirely, but loosened, breathable.

From his position near the mast, Nix opened his eyes from meditation and smiled. The strand between them had reconnected, woven back together with the understanding that came from honest words spoken between equals.

Within the amber-lit hush of the passenger hut one evening, bodies sprawled in easy disarray, fatigue softened by the glow of supper. Outside, the river pressed its slow palm against the Mistwing, a lull that underpinned their words. Steam curled from emptied bowls, spice and smoke lingering in the air. Nix lingered over his last mouthful, gaze drifting past the lamplight, mind adrift upon currents deeper than the river itself.

Reflection stole over him, quiet and profound. Since that first meeting in the floating market, the sea dragon had remained, an unseen guardian in the fathomless dark. Even now, Nix could sense its vast, coiled shape beneath the Mistwing, a pulse of wild magic that eddied up through the timbers and brushed against his thoughts. Its delight sparkled like sunlight on water, an exuberant burble that warmed him to the core. He smiled, eyes glinting, a secret joy kindled within.

Oren, stretched beside the fire, caught the change and gave a low, genuine laugh.

“There he is. See that look? You’re speaking to your sea dragon again, aren’t you, Nix? I can always tell.” His voice was rich with teasing affection. “It’s as though you’re trading secrets, the pair of you.”

Colour rose in Nix’s cheeks, but he did not look away. He lifted his head, mischief sparking in his gaze.

“Perhaps. But more surprising still is how you seem to know my thoughts so well, Oren. One might almost suspect your Elfishness is showing.”

A ripple of amusement stirred the cabin. Ingrid’s eyes shone with curiosity, Bo’s grin widened, and Captain Sten leaned forward, elbows on his knees. For a moment, the talk stilled, all eyes upon the brothers, as though hoping to glimpse some hidden truth.

“Is it true, then?” Ingrid pressed, playful yet earnest. “Does your blood gift you with the reading of thoughts, or is it simply keen observation?” Her gaze flicked from Oren to Tavik and Bran, drawing them in.

Bo, never one to miss an opening, intoned with mock solemnity. “Aye, and do you sprout leaves when the moon is full, or wake at dawn to sing with the larks? Come, confess your secrets! Let us see what marvels the Elves have left in your bones.”

Captain Sten stroked his beard, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ve seen many a thing upon the river, but never a man who could catch a thought as quick as Oren catches Nix’s. Tell us, lad, is it true?”

Oren found himself cornered, the collective attention a gentle but unyielding net. His cheeks coloured faintly, and he shot Nix a glare, tempered with reluctant amusement.

“I assure you, there’s no leaf sprouting, unless Bran has been hiding something from us,” Oren said as Bran snorted softly. “As for reading minds, I can only claim the wisdom that comes from long acquaintance with troublemakers.” His gaze flicked to Nix, who only grinned wider.

Tavik, emboldened by the laughter, shrugged with theatrical ease. “Our grandmother claimed we had a knack. A sense for things unsaid, a way of hearing the forest’s moods or knowing when storms would come. Whether that’s Elfishness or simply luck, I cannot say.”

Bran, caught in the lamplight’s glow, nodded. “It’s less magic than people suppose. More the habit of listening, and watching, and sometimes finding more than you meant to.” His words trailed into quiet, the corners of his mouth curving.

The talk wound on, laughter mingling with speculation, stories of childhood mischief and moonlit woods. Nix nestled into the warmth of it, contentment settling over him like a cloak. Beneath it all, he felt the steady, joyful presence of his friend below, an ancient creature delighting, as he did, in the odd, lovely company of humans and half-Elves drifting together on the endless tide.

Sometimes, in the deepening night, talk turned to what awaited them further downriver and where best to land. Maps were unfurled, fingers tracing the winding course, the rough, grey-brown lines of ravine country fanning eastward, twenty miles, perhaps, from water to the ancient sprawl of the Eldertree Forest. Captain Sten described the land in slow, deliberate tones, painting it with the patient words of a man who had traversed every crevice and copse: the ravines, riddled with hidden creeks and rocks sharp as knives; the strange grasslands between ravine and wood; the woodland edge, shrouded and deep, where the ground fell soft and strange beneath the roots; and the wolves that sang at twilight, their voices rising in mournful, predatory chorus before the hunt.

“They hunt at night. Best to travel by first light, and if you hear them singing, keep to the high ground with the wind at your back. Never walk alone. And if you see the moon shining through their jaws, do not look away.”

All four friends bent close, their faces intent, memorising every caution, every whispered trick for survival. The weight of what lay ahead settled over them, but it was shared, which was some comfort.

Nix sat with the others, listening carefully. He closed his eyes briefly, reaching for that meditative state, that awareness of connection he’d discovered. He could sense the wolves Captain Sten described, not as individuals but as a presence in the web of living things, predators with their own songs, their own place in the pattern. Dangerous, yes, but not unknowable. Not something to flee from in panic, but rather something to navigate with awareness and respect.

When he opened his eyes, he found three pairs looking at him with curiosity.

“What did you see?” Bran asked.

“The wolves.” Nix’s voice was thoughtful. “They’re part of the pattern, like everything else. Dangerous, but... understandable. If we’re careful, if we listen to what the land tells us, we can move through their territory.”

“You sound certain,” Tavik observed.

“I am. The sea dragon has been teaching me to trust what I sense in the web of things.” Nix looked at each of them in turn. “And you’re learning it too. Your elvish senses will help us navigate what’s ahead.”

The next morning, the river breathed in silvery silence, its mist-laden air curling about the deck in delicate folds. Oren, Tavik, Bran, and Nix huddled together, shivering slightly beneath cloaks not quite thick enough for the chill, each breath dipping in time to the measured cadence Nix had taught them. Their faces, solemn and intent, were illuminated by the faint pearlescence of dawn, eyes closed to the world but open to whatever lay within.

Nix let the weight of his own hopes and worries subside, steadying his thoughts with the gentle repetition of breath. He had laboured these past weeks to awaken the latent gifts in his companions, employing a patient coaxing and quiet guidance, his Caelvarae and Lightweaver heritage shadowing every gesture and phrase. Yet, this morning, the air thrummed with a peculiar expectancy, as though the river itself leaned close to observe.

As the meditation deepened, Nix became aware of something shifting in the web of connection between them. Not the frayed tension of recent days, but something new, something bright and unfurling like a flower opening to the sun.

Oren’s features softened, the tension in his brow relaxing; and from the space just beyond his heart, unnoticed by its owner, a ribbon of radiant purple unfurled. It glimmered, liquid and unbidden, slipping from his chest in a spiral of shimmering light.

Nix’s eyes opened, drawn by the beauty of it. He watched, transfixed, as the ribbon wound through the dawn air, swept in a slow, deliberate arc to encircle Bran, whose eyes flickered beneath closed lids, then Tavik, whose hands trembled as if in anticipation. It returned to Oren, binding them in a subtle web woven of protectiveness, kinship and something older than either.

Bo, ever the watchful sailor, stood a little apart, hands braced upon the rail, his gaze fixed, fascinated, on the unfolding spectacle. The ribbon wound through the dawn air, and at Nix’s fingertips, sparks of blue-white magic crackled, illuminating the rising mist with tiny starbursts.

The river, the air, even the wood beneath Bo’s boots, seemed to thrum with the pulse of magic, raw and unhurried. Nix felt it resonate through him, not something to control, but something to witness and honour. This was their heritage waking, their mother’s gift finally visible.

Oren, his brow furrowing in gentle curiosity, spoke without opening his eyes. “Nix, what is it you do now?” His voice, though hushed, carried a note of earnest searching, as though he sensed, on some level, the shift in the world around them.

Nix, roused by the question, gazed at Oren. His eyes caught the morning light, reflecting a startled clarity as he stared at Oren, and then at the ribbon of purple light still suspended in the air. For a fleeting moment, he saw that Oren’s ears, and those of Bran and Tavik, bore a subtle, pointed grace, the shape of their heritage rendered visible by magic. Astonishment flared in Nix’s gaze, mingled with awe and delight.

“By the river’s name.” His voice trembled. “Oren, look at your ears! Look at all of you!”

Bran, startled, opened his eyes and reached up a hand, fingertips brushing the altered curve of his ear as if to confirm the truth of Nix’s words. His breath caught, wonder softening his features. “It’s real. I can feel it. The point, the shape...” He looked at his brothers, eyes wide. “We truly are what our mother was.”

Tavik’s eyes snapped open, the misty morning reflected in their widened depths. His hand rose slowly, tracing the unfamiliar contour, and for once, words seemed to fail him. “Gods,” he breathed. “All this time...”

Oren, blinking, looked from one brother to the next, his own fingers finding the delicate point of his ear. Confusion gave way to a dawning understanding, then to something deeper, a recognition of self that had long been buried. “Our mother.” His voice was quiet, reverent. “This is what she looked like. This is what we are.”

The purple ribbon of light pulsed gently, wrapping around them once more as if in blessing, and the brothers sat transfixed, touching their ears with the tentative wonder of those discovering themselves anew.

Nix watched, his throat tight with emotion. He could see the strands between them brightening, reconnecting, any previous discord dissolving in the face of this shared revelation.

“Your heritage has always been there,” Nix said softly. “It just needed to be seen.”

Bo, unable to contain his wonder, spoke at last, his tone both teasing and reverent. “A fine trick, lads. Next, you’ll be sprouting wings, I wager. Or perhaps the river will teach you to speak to the stones.”

Oren, cheeks flushed with the strangeness of it all, managed a laugh, though his hand remained at his ear, as if afraid the change might vanish. “We are as the river makes us, Bo. If wings appear, I’ll be sure to carry your boots aloft.”

Bran, unable to stop smiling, traced the lines of his ear again, as though committing the shape to memory.

Tavik, eyes shining, nodded slowly. “Then let’s see what more we might awaken, whilst the mist is with us, and the world is quiet.” His voice was rough with emotion, but his jaw was set with determination.

For a moment, all were silent, bound together by the gentle light of the ribbon and the knowledge of change. The brothers looked at one another, seeing themselves reflected anew in each other’s faces, the subtle grace of their heritage now unmistakable.

“We’re still us,” Oren said quietly. “Just... more ourselves than we’ve ever been.”

And in that shared moment of discovery, four friends sat together as equals, each changed, each whole, each ready for whatever the river would bring them next.