The first lie came before the door even closed behind him. It was at the first encounter after the long separation. Kevin had not meant to speak it. But once spoken, there was no taking it back. And from that moment on, every word he gave his son carried the weight of that single choice.
At the Guild gates, Levin tugged at his shirt, small fingers curling tight into the worn fabric. His voice came small and uncertain, trembling on the edge of hope.
"Where's Mom?"
Kevin's heart lurched. The words caught in his throat. Still kneeling, he forced a tired smile that trembled at the edges.
"She's out there," he said softly. "Saving the world, the poor people still need her."
The boy's eyes searched his, as if sensing more than he could understand. Kevin looked away first.
"Actually," he whispered, "she sent me here to tell you... she loves you very much. And she misses you, more than anything. We both love you, son."
As if it had all been his dream—the only one he had ever asked for, the only thing that mattered. He needed to hear it from the father himself. He was not abandoned. He was not hated.
Tears burst forth, sobs shaking his tiny frame. Levin threw his arms around Kevin for the first time.
"I... I thought..." Levin sobbed, voice breaking. "Thought Dad... Mom... hate me... I bad... no good... bad boy... wuaaaaaah..."
"I... I cry... no... no cry... Dad go away again... I no cry... no... uwuu... waaa..."
And there beneath the falling snow, in the arms of a man drowning in guilt, Levin wept.
The first lie had been spoken. Kevin held his son tighter than any vow could bind. Snow drifted softly through the air.
Later, when the storm of tears had finally stilled, Kevin lifted his head. Through blurred eyes, he saw them—not far away, at the edge of the courtyard, a small circle of Guildmates stood in silence. Words stayed unspoken. They watched the small reunion, breath held, faces softened by the sight.
One by one, the others wiped at their eyes as the snow drifted between them. Even the Guildmaster, known for a heart of stone, softened in that moment, her gaze misted. A single tear traced the curve of her cheek, a sight Kevin had never witnessed before. None stepped closer. This was a moment meant for father and son alone. One Kevin would remember in silence.
Long after snow had gathered on cloak and stone alike, Kevin still knelt there, holding the boy he had once left behind. He knew this time he could not do so again. By the time he rose, his choice had already been made.
He had made his choice. He would leave the life of an adventurer behind, and raise his son in a quiet place, far from the noise of the world. No words of ceremony marked his resignation, only the weight of a choice no one dared question. At first, they tried. His closest comrades pleaded with him to stay.
"Kevin... are you sure? You've given everything to this Guild. We can help you. You don't have to do this alone."
But he had already made his choice. One forged in guilt, bound by love and when they saw the boy clinging to his cloak, silent but unrelenting, their protests faded. One by one, they stepped back, saying nothing. Their silence weighed heavier than any farewell.
In the end, only the Guildmaster remained. She said nothing at first, studying Kevin with a gaze both knowing and weary.
"You know this path will not be easy," she said quietly.
Kevin met her eyes. "Staying would be harder."
A long pause followed. The Guildmaster's gaze softened, sadness flickering beneath it.
"Then go. Raise him well. And if ever you need us, you know where to find us."
With a nod, he turned. Snow drifted around them, soft and silent. Levin clung to him, small arms wrapped tightly around his neck, face buried against his shoulder.
"I... I don go," he whispered. "I miss them. They take care me... I like them. I leave, they miss me. I don want them sad... like me."
Kevin's heart clenched again. He held the boy close.
"Levin," the Guildmaster spoke, voice soft. "Didn't you say you wanted to be a hero? Go with your father. We will miss you, but we know you love us. Just like your mother, we believe in you. You trusted your father and mother to come back. See? Your father came back. We trust you the same. One day you will come back, and when you do, we will welcome you home. Always."
Levin sniffled, voice smaller now.
"And... Mom come here. I go... she not find me."
Kevin pressed his cheek gently to the boy's hair.
"She will find us. No matter where we are. And when she does, she will see how strong you are."
Levin held tighter, small fingers clutching at his cloak.
"You promise? You no leave me again. I have nobody else..."
"I promise," Kevin breathed, each word carved from the weight of all he had left behind. "I will never leave you again." He held the boy tighter, as if the words alone could never be enough.
The Guild watched in silence, snow gathering at their feet, eyes misted, their silence speaking more than words could. And so, without fanfare or farewell, the First Ember of the Guild carried his son into the snow beyond the gates.
One chapter closed behind him.
***
He had carried his son through the snow. He had promised never to leave again.
And so he stayed.
The snows melted. Seasons passed. But guilt, unlike snow, did not wash away so easily. Kevin had left the life of an adventurer behind. In a quiet corner of Arial Village, he now raised his son—alone, far from the world's eyes, far from its noise.
But not all wounds healed with time. And not all lies stayed small forever.
The house stood at the edge of the village, where the forest shadows stretched long in the evenings and no guild banners flew. Here, Kevin built a new life from pieces he barely understood. The days that followed were simple, structured. He learned to cook plain meals. Learned to brush a child's hair with rough hands better suited for flame and steel. To patch worn clothes with uneven stitches. To soothe nightmares he could not banish. To wake at dawn to small footsteps beside his bed, to soft voices asking if today would be the day Mom returned.
The hardest lessons were not the daily chores that challenged him, but the ones no hands could mend.
How to hold his son without guilt, how to speak without lies, how to fill the silences when Levin asked about the mother he barely remembered. And through it all, he answered with the same tired smile. Sometimes, Kevin would find him by the window, small hands pressed against the glass, gaze lost in the trees beyond.
"She will come back," Levin would whisper, as if saying it aloud might make it true and Kevin knelt beside him and answered softly, voice worn thin.
"She will. She loved you." But even as he spoke, he wondered how many times a lie could be told before it became a truth too cruel to bear.
Seasons turned. The snow gave way to rain, then to sun-dappled mornings. But the ache beneath their days remained unchanged. Each day, Kevin wove the same fragile thread: cooking, teaching, holding his son close, while the words he could not take back lingered between them. But no matter how many years passed, some questions still returned.
"Where's Mom?"
Kevin always smiled when he answered. A quiet, tired smile.
"She's out there," he would say. "Being a hero."
It was a beautiful lie, and painful all the same. When Levin grew stubborn, Kevin would tell him stories instead. Stories about adventure. About heroism. About a mother who had gone to save the world. And in the end, those stories always soothed him to sleep.
The years passed in a quiet beat.
Kevin taught his son how to hold a staff, how to balance firewood, how to bite his tongue in front of petty nobles. He tucked him in every night. Washed his scrapes. Sang off-key lullabies when the nightmares came. They had no luxury and status. But they had routine. And sometimes, routine was enough to keep sorrow asleep.
Yet peace in their home had always felt fragile.
It happened during one of those quiet afternoons. The kind that began like any other. Kevin was cooking again. A pot of over-salted cabbage soup simmered lazily over a small flame. He hummed without rhythm, sleeves rolled past his elbows, mind drifting through nothing in particular.
Then came the shift.
It filled the house in an instant, warping the air. Kevin froze. Slowly, he turned. Levin stood in the center of the room, small body trembling. Both hands lifted in front of him, fingers curled around empty space.
Black flame coiled across his palm. It carried a darkness no child should ever touch. The fire crept up his arms. But the worst part was not the fire.
It was his eyes.
Hollow. Stripped of iris and light. Filled only with darkness.
Yet he did not scream.
He was crying.
"Dad..." Levin whispered, voice breaking at the edges. "Dad... I know this feeling."
A sharp weight struck Kevin's chest. "Levin?"
"This... this Mom," the boy said, staring at his hands. "She was warm... I remember..."
He drew a trembling breath.
"Inside... inside mom... I felt it... all the black... and... mom say 'son'... to me…"
Kevin staggered forward. Tears fell instantly.
His knees buckled. His arms opened. He hugged Levin tightly.
The black flame rose to meet them both. Both of Levin's hands stayed at his shoulders. Pain carved into Kevin's back, searing through cloth and flesh. He felt every line of it. The scar would remain always.
But he refused to let go.
Because his son called it warmth.
Because he believed his mother loved him.
In Kevin's mind, that warmth could only be one thing. It was the only hope his son had of feeling his mother's love, and yet it was the cruelest lie of all. It had been born from the moment she had tried to kill him.
Kevin could not steal that belief away.
He held the boy tighter. Rocked him gently. Lied through clenched teeth.
"Yes," Kevin whispered. "That was her. She loved you. She's strong, that's why she left. She went to save the world. Remember? Her flame will always be inside you."
The black flame flared harder.
Levin's tears soaked his shirt.
"I... I remember," he whispered. "This black thing... was Mom. I was sleepy, she wake up me and... and she give me name... Levin, Mom make me name."
Kevin said nothing more. He buried the truth beneath silence.
He remained there, holding his son. Wrapped in fire. Wrapped in guilt. Waiting, knowing the lie would take root. A memory that would grow deep. A memory that would shape the boy forever. Kevin could only pray the memory would be a comfort... not a chain. And if there had been any mercy left in the world, it would have been kinder for the boy to forget. But with his own lie, Kevin had sealed the memory too deep to fade.
Then, as the awakening reached its peak, a deafening boom shattered the air. The house exploded around them.
Later, when Levin spoke of that day, only a faint image seemed to remain, holding his father close, warmth against his cheek, and a sound like thunder tearing the world apart.
One thing mattered most to him, Mom had saved him once. She had called his name. And Kevin knew the boy believed it had been her voice that had chosen his name Levin. And there was no sign the black flame remained in his memory.
After the awakening, Levin's questions about his mother grew relentless. Out of helplessness, Kevin took out the one photo he had kept hidden.
It showed a woman mid-laugh, caught mid-spin, her golden hair lit by sunlight. Full of life.
Levin would stare at it for long minutes, brows drawn together, as if trying to remember a dream he had never fully held. The first time he saw it, he whispered with a small smile, "She looks just like they said, just like I see in my head. She's golden... happy... smiling in the sun."
From that day on, he no longer asked Kevin about her.
One evening, Kevin asked why. Levin smiled softly and said, "Now I can see Mom. I happy, if she no here. I know... she come soon."
And so, staring at Callista's picture became his daily ritual. Over the years, that ritual began to fade. Not all at once. Just a little less each time. A little shorter each stare. And then, one day, it stopped. As if Levin himself had begun to understand.
That the mother he waited for had never truly been there.
Or that something else had begun to take her place. Watching that change, Kevin felt no relief, only the quiet ache of a father who had built his son's hope upon a lie he could never take back.
And Kevin could see it.
It began to change the first day Levin met Lyra Swift.
When he looked at her, truly looked, Kevin saw it in his eyes.
The reflection of golden hair.
The same untamed laugh.
It was not love. Not yet. But it was something else entirely. Something in her — that impossible warmth. Kevin recognized it at once. Levin was not drawn to her because of who Lyra was.
He was chasing a shadow.
The shadow of someone who had almost held him once. But Kevin did not feel unease. If anything, it gave him hope.
If someone, someday, could take the place of that memory, the one memory too heavy for any child to carry, give his son a new warmth to follow, and free him from the weight of Kevin's lie, so the lie would no longer be needed, then perhaps... that would be all he could ask for.
She gave them hope.
Yet beneath that hope, a quiet wariness remained. He knew the world did not move in perfect lines. A child's longing could not shape another's heart. And should Lyra walk her own path, as she must, Kevin could only pray that Levin's heart would weather it. But for now, in her presence, he saw the first spark of a chance. And that, for the moment, was enough.
They were still children, after all. Feelings would shift. Paths would change. And perhaps, in time, they would both move on as they should.
Whether they would walk forward together or apart, Kevin could not say yet. But if, for now, that shadow could be softened even a little, Kevin would be grateful for it.
Yet it was not only Levin who had changed.
Kevin knew it, though he could not quite say when it had started. Back when they moved to Arial Village, he had barely spoken. The words came heavy, the silences made everything easier. Too much weight made it simpler that way.
But Lyra did not leave space for silence. She had that way about her, with her strange antics. The way she spoke, the way she laughed at things no one else noticed. Somewhere along the way it had pulled words from him he had not meant to give. He caught himself talking more. Listening more. Remembering things he thought he had buried too deep to find again.
It was clearest when he taught her magic. The words came easier than they should have. The lessons never stayed simple. She asked questions that wandered, chased thoughts that forced him to explain more than he intended. And in those moments, when her grin slipped through a failed spell, when her bright spirit refused to fade after a mistake.
Then she laughed at some foolish line he had not meant to speak. Kevin felt it.
She reminded him of things he thought he had lost.
The things he had left behind.
The warmth of easy conversation.
The stubborn joy in small moments.
The courage to speak, even when the heart was tired.
He never said it aloud. But part of him knew.
She had changed him too.