Euryale's POV
There was a strange sort of buzz in the air.
Not the kind that comes from power or danger—no. This one was gentler. Lighter. It slipped between conversations and laughter, threaded through the village like a held breath of anticipation. Everywhere I looked, people were busy—and smiling while they worked.
Banners were being stitched in the community hall, bright fabric stretched between careful fingers. Long wooden tables were dragged into the square, scrubbed until the grain of the wood gleamed. Children ran through the streets with scraps of cloth tied around their shoulders like capes, shouting names they barely understood.
"Protector of the skies!""No—protector of the sea!"
Their laughter rang out, sharp and free.
Salah explained it one morning as he sat outside, whittling a piece of driftwood into a toy boat for Silas. His knife moved with slow, practiced ease.
"It's the Remembrance," he said. "For the protector. The one who saved us all back then."
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the shavings fall to the ground.
"Some say he was a warrior," Salah continued. "Others say a god. But either way, people feel safer thinking he's still out there somewhere. Watching."
I said nothing.
What was I supposed to say? That I was neither god nor legend—just someone who acted because the world was burning and no one else could stop it? That I never asked to be remembered? That I never wanted statues or stories?
I had only wanted them to live.
Still… seeing the excitement on their faces stirred something inside me. A quiet movement. Like an old memory finally losing its sharp edges.
Silas was thrilled by the talk of the festival. He was three now—fast on his feet, sharp with questions, endlessly curious.
"Are there going to be sweets?" he asked one afternoon, bouncing beside me on the porch.
"Yes," Xena said from the doorway, one hand resting on her round belly. "Sweets, music, lights—maybe even fireworks."
Silas's eyes widened. He turned to me. "Will you come too?"
I blinked. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
He shrugged, serious. "You don't like big noises."
I didn't deny it. Loud sounds still sent something sharp through my chest. Not fear—memory. Echoes of storms and screaming skies.
But for him, I would go.
For them, I would stand in any crowd.
The night before the celebration, the village square transformed. Lanterns glowed in the trees like trapped stars. Tables overflowed with warm bread, ripe fruit, and sweet pastries dusted in sugar. Wooden masks were laid out for anyone to wear—some carved with horns, some with wings, some left blank to "honor the unknown."
Salah wore his cleanest shirt, sleeves rolled up. He helped Xena into a soft blue dress that caught the light beautifully. She moved carefully, and I stayed close, ready to steady her if she faltered.
Silas wore a tiny cape stitched from leftover cloth.
"I'm Little Wind," he declared proudly, spinning in place. "I protect Mama."
I smiled. "Then the village is very safe."
When we arrived, flutes and drums filled the square. The central fire burned high, its flames casting shadows that danced along the walls. Someone placed a garland of flowers around Xena's shoulders. Another handed Silas a sweet bun, already sticky with honey.
A few villagers nodded to me respectfully—but most didn't look twice. Why would they? I didn't resemble the statues carved in the capital. I was just a boy now. Growing. Ordinary.
And yet, I could feel it—the echo of gratitude in the air.
"They say the protector never showed his true form," one woman whispered near the tables.
"My grandfather said he had too many arms," another replied. "Or eyes everywhere."
"No one knows what he looked like," a third said softly. "Only that he gave everything."
I turned away.
Not because I felt exposed—but because I realized something.
I wasn't separate from them anymore.
Later, the village elder stepped forward, raising his hand. The music faded.
"Tonight," he said, "we remember the protector. The one who gave us the world we live in now. Though we do not know his name, we know his heart."
Candles were lit. Hands were joined. The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was grateful.
I closed my eyes.
Once, that kind of silence meant loneliness. Endless drift. Forgetting.
Now… it meant rest.
When I opened them, Silas was looking up at me.
"Are you sad?" he asked quietly.
I shook my head. "No. Just remembering."
He leaned against me. "I like remembering. It makes the quiet feel full."
I smiled.
Yes. Full.
We walked home beneath the stars. Xena hummed softly. Salah carried Silas, already asleep, candy still clutched in one hand. I followed behind them, listening—to the crickets, the trees, the fading laughter of the square.
I didn't need anyone to know who I really was.
I was no longer the protector of the world.
I was the protector of this peace.
And that… was enough.