Asha nodded to herself, clearly satisfied with her declaration of duty, then added, "But not from the old villagers. They scare me."
Lira gently pressed a finger against her lips. "Hush now. Don't speak of them like that."
Asha's expression tightened. "Everyone's talking about the light."
Lira stiffened.
"That's nonsense. Do not repeat every rumor you hear."
Asha nodded, but her eyes drifted back to Adam with a different kind of scrutiny—one mixed with worry and fascination, as if he were something fragile, strange, and important all at once.
Adam tried to blink up at her to tell her to mind her own business, but the best he managed was a slow, wobbly flutter.
Asha gasped. "He looked at me!"
"Of course he looked at you," Lira said. "You're his sister."
The girl practically glowed at that, puffing her chest in pride. "Yes. Obviously."
Then her face shifted into a comically serious frown, the kind a child adopts when they're about to ask something dangerous.
"Mom… he really did come back from death?"
Lira's expression froze for the briefest moment, but Adam didn't miss it.
Her arms tightened around him as if shielding him.
"No," she said firmly. "He was simply tired that day."
"But—"
"Asha." Lira's tone turned cold. "Enough."
The girl pressed her lips together and lowered her head. "…Sorry."
Lira sighed and softened again, brushing her daughter's cheek gently. "What matters is he is here and safe."
Asha nodded quietly, clearly she is finally convinced with her mother words.
Finally, Asha asked again, "Can I hold him?"
Lira hesitated. "You need to sit down first."
Asha scrambled to the nearest cushion and plopped down with a soft thud, legs crossed, back straight, arms lifted in a serious, ceremonial pose.
She looked like a tiny monk receiving a very sacred potato.
Lira carefully moved toward her, adjusting the cloth and Adam's position.
Oh no. No, no, no. I am far too young—again—for this. She's going to drop me. I can see it. My life is going to end because a nine-year-old slipped on a rug.
"Support his head," Lira instructed gently.
"I will," Asha said.
Lira eased Adam into her daughter's arms. Asha grunted softly at the unexpected weight—even though he was small, he wasn't weightless—and carefully adjusted her hold.
Adam stared up at her.
She stared back.
A slow smile bloomed across her face.
"Hi," she whispered. "I'm Asha. You can call me… actually, you can't talk yet." She frowned thoughtfully. "So I'll pick your nickname. Until you get a real name."
Lira raised an eyebrow. "A nickname?"
Asha nodded. "Yes. Every hero starts with a small name first."
Hero?!
Hold on. Wait. Wait. Are we setting expectations already? Can I at least finish being born first?
"What nickname?" Lira asked warily.
Asha considered him with great seriousness.
"Hmm… something strong. Something grand." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Potato."
Adam's soul nearly left his body again.
Lira sputtered. "Asha!"
"What? He looks like one!"
"I am not calling my son a potato!"
Asha hugged him protectively. "My potato."
Oh god. This is my life now.
Before Lira could argue further, a heavy knock landed on the wooden door.
Lira and Asha froze at the same moment as Marek's voice came from outside the door—
"Lira… they're here."
Asha instinctively pulled Adam closer, her small arms tightening protectively as if she could shield him from whatever waited on the other side of the door.
"Stay behind me," Lira said urgently as she plucked Adam from Asha's hold.
The girl obeyed without protest, slipping behind her mother like a shadow.
The door opened gently as three figures stepped inside, each of them dressed in long white robes marked with thin gold and dark lines, and each wearing a strange pendant around their neck.
Elders.
Even without fully understanding this world, Adam could feel it. These three were different—their bearing, their robes, even the faint pressure in the air around them carried a quiet, intimidating weight.
The first elder, an elderly man with sunken eyes, swept his gaze across the room before letting it settle on Adam. His expression didn't soften—if anything, it sharpened with interest.
"So the child truly survived," he murmured.
Lira stiffened. "Of course he did. He was never in danger."
The second elder, a woman with braided grey hair, stepped forward and extended her hands. "May I…?"
"No," Lira replied before she even finished speaking.
The third elder raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Peace. We only wish to examine him, nothing more."
Lira hesitated slightly.
Marek appeared in the doorway, looking conflicted. "Lira… it's better if they check him."
Better for him, or better for you to avoid punishment? Adam wondered.
Reluctantly, Lira loosened her grip, and the braided woman stepped forward, lifted Adam carefully, and tilted him toward the lantern light.
"Hmm…"
The sunken-eyed elder leaned in, studying Adam's face, then his chest, then his tiny hands.
"Nothing unusual," he muttered.
"His Ka?" the thin elder asked.
"I sense no activity."
Perfect, now please leave with that conclusion, Adam thought, half relieved.
The woman gently shifted the cloth to check his shoulders and back. "No special birthmarks either."
The elder with hollow eyes sighed. "Then perhaps the omen wasn't related to this child at all."
Lira let out a sigh of relief. "As I said."
The elders exchanged disappointed looks, yet the thin elder reached into his sleeve and withdrew a small, polished mirror.
He lifted the mirror toward the lantern, letting the dim golden light wash across its surface, then angled it down toward Adam's chest.
The mirror remained dark without any changes.
"Nothing," the braided woman said. "Not even a spark."
"Then our time is wasted," the sunken-eyed elder muttered, waving his hand dismissively.
Lira exhaled in relief as the elders turned toward the door.
And then the mirror, still dangling loosely from the thin elder's hand, twitched.
A sudden, sharp pulse of golden light flashed across its surface—but not toward Adam.
—toward Asha.