Hearthollow didn't know how to thank him—but they tried.
By morning, the village square was alive with faces—farmers, weavers, children—all gathered to honor the man who'd freed their lost.
Caelen stood at the edge, uncomfortable under their gazes, their gratitude a warm thread in his curse's weave. But it wasn't enough to quiet the pain.
The lake's grief. The vision's fire. The scar's burn.
They were too heavy.
His body was fraying. His breaths shorter. His hands unsteady.
Marren spoke first, his gruff voice carrying over the crowd.
"Caelen's one of ours. Always has been. He brought Torm and Lila back. Faced what we couldn't. We owe him."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the villagers.
Lila's mother stepped forward, her eyes red but bright, and pressed a woven shawl into his hands.
"For you," she said, her voice thick. "It's not much, but it's ours."
Others followed—bread, apples, a carved wooden bird from a shy boy.
Each gift was a gesture of love.
But each one hurt.
Their hope, their relief, sank into Caelen, mingling with the pain he carried. He smiled. Thanked them. But inside—he was drowning.
The scar burned hotter.
The vision's flames flickered at the edges of his sight.
And he knew he couldn't stay.
Elira stood beside him, her presence a quiet anchor. She didn't speak, but her eyes said enough:
You can't carry this alone.
When the crowd dispersed, she pulled him aside, her voice low.
"You're not well, Caelen. I can see it. The pain—it's killing you."
He didn't deny it.
"It's always been killing me," he said, his voice raw. "But now… it's worse. The lake, the vision, this mark—" He touched his chest, wincing. "I can't stay here. If I do, I'll break. And they'll suffer for it."
She nodded, her face set. "Then we leave. The temple. It's where the answers are. For both of us."
He looked at her—at the fire in her eyes, the pain she carried as bravely as he did.
Hearthollow was home.
But it was also a cage—holding him to a life he couldn't sustain.
The road to the temple was dangerous. But it was a chance.
A chance to stop the fire.
To find meaning in his curse.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We go."
She squeezed his arm, her touch a spark in the dark.
"Tomorrow," she echoed.
That night, Caelen packed what little he owned—a cloak, the dagger, the villagers' gifts.
The scar burned. The vision lingered.
But Elira's words stayed with him:
We'll break together.
For the first time, he believed it might be enough.