The village felt heavier than ever as I made my way through it, each step echoing the unease in my mind. The aftermath of the battle lingered in every corner—shattered tools, broken walls, people casting wary glances at the stranger they now saw in me. The quiet murmur of voices drifted through open doorways, conversations halting as I passed. There was no anger in their eyes, no resentment, just... fear. And that alone was enough to make me feel like a stranger in my own home.

I wandered through the pathways until the huts became sparse, and finally, the dense edge of the forest loomed ahead. Shadows from the canopy of trees stretched across the forest floor, dappling the ground with spots of muted light. The further I walked, the quieter the village's echoes became, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird somewhere within the green.

I found a spot near an ancient oak, its trunk thick and gnarled, its roots weaving into the earth like a tapestry. Sitting down against the rough bark, I let out a long sigh, feeling the forest's silence close around me. For a while, I simply sat there, my thoughts adrift, caught between guilt and uncertainty.

And then, almost instinctively, I began to speak, my words barely a whisper.

"If you're out there... if you can hear me," I said, my voice soft and tentative, feeling almost foolish. "I need guidance. I need... something. I don't know where to go from here."

The forest was silent, only the faint rustling of the leaves responding. The elven woman had come to me once, her voice clear and calm, guiding me when I needed it most. Now, I found myself longing for her wisdom once more.

"I'm failing them," I whispered, my gaze on the ground. "They needed a protector, and instead, I've become someone they fear. I've seen the way they look at me now, like I'm something to be wary of." I took a shaky breath, my voice growing quieter. "They're my people. I want to protect them, to be someone they can trust... but I don't know how anymore."

The silence deepened, but I continued. Talking to her, even if she wasn't truly there, was a comfort in itself.

"What would you do?" I asked, my gaze lifting to the trees. "You told me once that my path was my own to choose, that I needed to learn my own strength. But what if it isn't enough? What if the magic inside me... isn't something I can control?"

A gust of wind brushed through the trees, stirring the leaves and carrying the faint scent of wildflowers. For a moment, it felt as though something in the air shifted, a presence settling just beyond the edges of sight. My heart quickened, and I held my breath, hoping—just hoping—that she might answer.

"Please," I mumbled. "I don't know if I can do this without you."

But there was only the soft sigh of the wind, the branches gently swaying in response. I bowed my head, my words lingering in the quiet as the forest embraced my thoughts, a silent witness to my plea. I stayed there, waiting, hoping, lost in the rhythm of my own heartbeat, hoping that somehow, somewhere, she could hear me.

The footsteps came first, small and quick, padding over the soft forest floor. Then, before I could turn, a bright peal of laughter cut through the quiet—a sound so pure and unexpected that it jolted me out of my heavy thoughts.

I looked up to see her. She couldn't have been older than two, her frame small and unsteady, her cheeks smeared with a mix of dirt and mischief. Her hair was a wild tangle, falling in uneven waves that framed her face, and her eyes, wide and curious, settled on me with the innocence only a child could have.

For a moment, she stood there, examining me as if I were a strange creature she'd just discovered. And then, to my surprise, she broke into a warm smile, so full of light and trust that it pulled me out of the darkness I'd been swimming in. Her gaze, free of fear or judgment, felt like a balm on wounds I hadn't even realized were bleeding.

"Hello there," I murmured, keeping my voice gentle, as though afraid any sudden sound might send her scurrying off like a startled bird.

She didn't respond, only tilted her head, still studying me with those wide eyes. I reached out slowly, offering her my hand, and after a moment's hesitation, she took a shaky step closer. She placed her tiny fingers against my palm, her touch warm and soft. There was a surprising strength in her grip, a reminder of the resilience life could hold even in its smallest forms.

"What are you doing out here, little one?" I asked softly, not expecting an answer.

Her answer was more laughter, a sound that echoed through the trees, scattering my doubts like leaves in the wind. She seemed content just to be near, to exist in this moment with no thought of the past or future, and something about that innocence filled the empty spaces within me.

The young girl took a step closer, her eyes fixed on the golden buttons on my jacket. Her little fingers hovering just inches away, as though she couldn't decide whether she dared touch them. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and wonder, a look that tugged at something deep inside me.

"Do you like them?" I asked gently, a smile touching my lips as her eyes flicked up to meet mine. For a moment, she just stared, her expression thoughtful in a way that felt far beyond her few years. Then, with the solemnity only a child could muster, she gave a small, emphatic nod.

With my encouragement, she reached forward, her tiny fingers brushing over the smooth metal, tracing the edges as if memorizing each contour. The brightness in her gaze made the buttons feel like treasures, and somehow, I felt lighter watching her.

"Shiny," she murmured, her voice soft and filled with wonder.

"Yes," I agreed, "they are."

She glanced back up, meeting my eyes once more, her face lighting up as though she'd found the answer to some unspoken question. Then, she released the button and stood back, her smile as warm as ever.

"Where's your parents?" I asked, my voice low, not wanting to startle her. But she didn't answer. Instead, she looked around briefly, as though she hadn't even considered the question before.

Then, with a small, contented sigh, she turned, settled herself right onto my lap, and leaned back against me as if she'd known me all her life. I froze for a moment, surprised by her ease, by the innocence of the trust she had given so freely. Her small body relaxed, and soon she began humming a soft tune to herself, lost in her own little world.

I felt an unexpected warmth settle over me, like a fleeting spark of light against the darkness. She was completely unafraid, at ease here, as though nothing could harm her in my presence. Gently, I placed a hand on her shoulder, trying not to break the quiet peace of the moment.

"You're quite comfortable here, aren't you?" I murmured, half to myself, half in wonder at this fearless little girl who, somehow, had found her way to me.

She didn't respond, only leaned back further, her eyes blinking drowsily as though she were about to drift off to sleep. A soft, contented sigh escaped her, and I realized that, even amidst the storm of worry and doubt, this child's quiet trust was a gift—one I hadn't known I needed.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours, the weight of her small form a gentle reminder of everything I'd vowed to protect. The quiet of the woods, the warmth of her trust—it settled something within me. I had been selfish, letting my own fears and doubts cloud my resolve, and now, holding this child, it was as if she had brought me back to the core of my purpose. These people, vulnerable yet brave, needed me to be the leader they deserved. For them, and for her, I needed to find that strength again.

With newfound resolve, I rose, careful not to wake her, and cradled her gently as I made my way back to the village. Her small head rested on my shoulder, her breaths slow and steady, as though she'd always belonged there.

Hours passed as I moved through the village, speaking to everyone I came across, hoping someone would know who she was. But each time, I was met with furrowed brows, shaken heads, and murmurs of confusion. No one recognized her; no one claimed her. She was a mystery, appearing as suddenly as a wisp of mist.

Yet something deep within told me her presence wasn't by chance. As night fell and the search continued, I began to wonder if she had been brought here for a reason—one I was only beginning to understand.

So I took her back to my home, cradling her carefully. The firelight flickered through the windows, casting a warm glow as I stepped inside. Mathew sat at the table, leaning over a spread of maps, his focus intense. When he heard me enter, he looked up, his gaze meeting mine before shifting to the small figure asleep in my arms.

A look of surprise flickered across his face, softening as he took in the sight. "Who...?" he started, his voice quiet with a mix of curiosity and concern.

"I'm not sure," I admitted, moving to stand across from him. "I found her near the woods. I searched the village, asked everyone I could, but... no one knows her."

Mathew's expression shifted, an understanding dawning as he stood, his hand resting on the edge of the table. "She's one of them, then—a refugee."

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words. I didn't know what that reason was yet, but there was a strange sense of purpose in her presence, one that I couldn't quite put into words. My arms suddenly wrapped themselves tighter around the small frame. Her locks pressed against my cheek. "I want to give her a home," I whispered.

Mathew's gaze softened as he stepped around the table to stand beside me. "We'll take care of her," he said quietly and reached out gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his expression filled with a quiet determination.

The girl slowly opened her eyes, blinking sleepily as she took in her surroundings. Her gaze shifted from me to Mathew, studying him with an open curiosity. She seemed so small and fragile, but there was an unexpected calmness in her eyes, as if she understood more than her young age would suggest.

Mathew offered her a gentle smile, speaking softly, "Goodmorning sweetheart." He crouched down to her level, his voice warm and reassuring. "Are you hungry?"

She didn't respond but seemed content in the quiet of the moment, nestling closer against my chest. I felt a strange sense of responsibility and an equally strange calm wash over me, as if holding her was the most natural thing in the world.

Mathew glanced up at me, a question lingering in his eyes. "What are you going to call her?" he asked softly, reaching out to brush his fingers along her tiny hand.

The question caught me off guard. It was a small thing—a name—but in the quiet of the room, it felt monumental. I looked down at her, feeling the faintest smile tug at my lips.

"I suppose I'll have to ask her," I said, and she looked up, as if sensing that I meant her. Her eyes were bright and curious, the hint of a smile forming at the corner of her mouth, though she still hadn't spoken. "What's your name, do you remember?"

She shook her head and wriggled out of my arms and trotted towards the table, standing on her tippy toes to reach a piece of left out bread. Mathew instantly followed her and pulled her up in his arms and took her to the kitchen counter where he removed the lid of a pot to reveal a steaming hot stew.

The little girl giggled as Mathew lifted her, her tiny hands reaching for the stew pot as if she knew exactly what was inside. Mathew chuckled softly, his eyes warm as he held her carefully. "Not just yet, little one," he said, gently pulling her hands away from the pot.

Her face scrunched up in a mixture of curiosity and frustration, but Mathew was quick to distract her, moving over to the nearby shelf to fetch a small bowl and spoon. "How about we start with some fresh bread first, hmm?"

She watched him intently as he set the bowl in front of her on the counter, and she immediately grabbed a piece of bread, taking a bite as if it were the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

I leaned against the doorframe, watching the scene unfold. The warmth in Mathew's eyes as he interacted with her was unmistakable, and it made something inside me stir. There was a gentleness in his touch that I had never seen before, a softness that made me realize just how much he had changed. We both had.

"She's a little whirlwind," Mathew said with a grin, glancing over at me. "But I think we can handle it."

I nodded, a quiet laugh escaping me. "I think she'll keep us on our toes, that's for sure."

The girl looked up at us both, her face smeared with crumbs, and then—almost as if she understood the mood—she reached her tiny hands out toward Mathew, as if to ask for more. The act, though simple, felt oddly profound. It reminded me of something we had lost. Something that could still be rebuilt, but only if we were willing to face the broken pieces of our past.

"She's special," I said softly, my gaze never leaving her. "What about Solene?"

Mathew's expression softened as he handed her another piece of bread. "Sunlight? That fits her perfectly."

The silence that followed felt comfortable, like a shared understanding that we were doing what we could with what we had. But I still couldn't shake the feeling that the girl was more than just a lost child. She was a sign. A reminder. And perhaps even a guide to the future we were struggling to shape.