The morning mist clung to the clearing, faint shafts of sunlight slipping through the trees. Yet, despite the warmth of dawn, a chill hung over the camp. Rael's words still lingered in the air like echoes that refused to fade.
No one spoke. The boy sat there, calm in his own bewildered way, while the others exchanged glances heavy with disbelief and awe. Herbert had not moved since touching the handkerchief. His old fingers still trembled faintly, though he had long since let go.
The silence stretched, fragile, until Rael broke it with a sigh and sat back against the oak. "You all look like you've seen a ghost."
But no one answered. Even Darren, usually quick with sharp retorts, said nothing.
Herbert lowered himself to the earth slowly, the weight of years pressing into his spine. He stared into the distance, not at Rael, not at the forest, but somewhere far beyond.
Alice's lips parted, a question on her tongue, but she stopped herself. She could feel it—the old man was slipping into memory.
And in that silence, Herbert remembered.
Flashback
He was twenty-two then, a bright-eyed prodigy with robes too fine for his station and a tongue far sharper than his spells. Herbert the Magnificent, he called himself, because why shouldn't he? No mage in the academies could rival his theory, and none in his village dared challenge his fire.
"I am not merely a magician," he had declared to the barkeep of a roadside inn, standing atop a table. "I am the future Archmage of Elenfyr! The stars themselves will envy my brilliance!"
The barkeep had rolled his eyes. The patrons had laughed. Herbert had scowled, muttering about fools who did not recognize genius.
It was that night, sulking over a half-finished drink, when he first saw them.
A broad-shouldered man in travel-worn armor, sword slung across his back like it belonged there since birth. His presence drew silence the way storms drew clouds. And beside him—a woman with hair like copper fire, eyes sharp as tempered steel, her very steps carrying the hum of magic.
The room shifted around them. Even the laughter hushed.
Thorne.
Martha.
Though Herbert didn't yet know their names, he knew at once that these were no mere wanderers.
He had laughed then, bitter and proud. "So? Another sellsword and his sorceress. Hardly worth the whispers."
When their eyes turned toward him, Herbert had felt something stir in his chest. Not fear—no, he told himself later—but a weight, as though the air itself dared him to measure himself against them.
"Are you a magician?" the woman had asked, her tone casual, almost amused.
Herbert had puffed out his chest. "Not just a magician. The magician. Remember my name, for it will be carved into history."
The man had only chuckled, low and deep, before ordering ale. "History carves names, boy. Not the other way around."
Herbert had seethed. He had promised himself then and there that he would show them. He would prove himself greater than any warrior or witch who dared look down on him.
But fate had other plans.
A week later, he was clinging to life in the ruins of a burned-out village, magic spent, pride shattered. Monsters had come, and his brilliance had nearly cost him his life.
And it was Thorne's blade that cut a path through the chaos.
It was Martha's hand that dragged him back from death.
Present
Herbert's eyes refocused, the memory burning behind them. His hand clenched around his staff, knuckles pale.
"They were not myths," he whispered hoarsely. "They were not stories. I stood beside them once—if only for a handful of battles. And I was a fool. I thought myself their equal… when I was barely their shadow."
Alice leaned forward, her voice breaking the hush. "So it's true. Rael… really is…"
Herbert's gaze fell on the boy—no longer with suspicion, but with a complicated, almost pained reverence.
"You carry their blood, though you speak it as though it were nothing. Thorne Stormbreaker. Martha the Elemental Matriarch. Heroes who shook the realm itself."
Rael frowned, scratching his head. "I don't get it. They were just… Grandpa and Grandma. Why do you all make them sound so terrifying?"
Darren scoffed, though it lacked his usual bite. "Because they were."
The group fell silent again, the weight of revelation pressing down. Only the forest stirred, whispering through the leaves.
And Herbert—Herbert sat quietly, haunted by the memory of two figures who had once made him feel small, and now returned through their grandson to remind him how small he still was.