The days passed sluggishly.

  The Shrine Oak Forest, which had once swallowed their blood, was now only a distant memory—not gone from the mind, but from the everyday. Fourteen weeks in which the forest had receded behind them step by step, while life carried on undeterred, as though nothing had happened.

  Life goes on, even when you're still hanging somewhere between ash and crimson.

  In those fourteen weeks, the Wolfclaw estate became a small hub: quiet enough to heal in, and lively enough that no one could drown in their own thoughts. Mornings brought dew on the paving stones of the training grounds; evenings brought the smell of tea and fresh blankets in the wood of the house. From the barn, a trace of hay drifted over now and then, and at the edge of the grounds the small wood stood still and serene, as though it were a reminder that there are places that simply are—without biting.

  Rubin filled shelves with herbs and phials. Her hands were everywhere before anyone called: on bandages, on teakettles, on Smaragd's tiny fingers when he clung to something and refused to let go. Diamant checked scars and healing progress with the gaze of a man who reads pain like data. He didn't need to say much. A brief look at a rib, a finger on a spot, and you knew: That, you push through. That, you don't.

  And Krent…

  Krent didn't become "calm."

  But he became clear again.

  He and Diamant kept going out. No great heroics, no glory—instead, missions that no one writes songs about: escorting inexperienced teams, running alongside them at the dungeon front, intercepting the risk before anyone noticed. Krent called it training for others. Valeria knew it was also training for him—training against the image in his head, against that moment when a demon had hurled him through the night like something useless.

  Sometimes they returned in the evenings smelling of damp earth, boots still caked with mud. Sometimes a young adventurer would be sitting at the table, pale and quiet, because they had understood for the first time what "danger" truly meant. Then Diamant would wordlessly set a cup before them, Rubin would add something warm, and Valeria would smile as gently as she could manage—not as a hero, but as someone who knows how quickly an "I can do this" becomes an "I'm about to die."

  During this time, Valeria felt her body changing.

  At first it was only a tiredness that didn't match sleep. Then it became weight. Warmth. A rhythm that wasn't hers. And eventually, it became visible.

  She often sat by the window, the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. Outside, the fields gleamed in the sun's gentle gold, and the wind played with the curtains, carrying in the scent of earth and summer. When the door to the courtyard stood open, you could sometimes hear steel on wood, a rhythmic clang that no longer sounded like fury but like focus.

  Her belly was noticeably rounded now.

  A visible sign.

  Life that had found its way despite all the darkness.

  Fourteen weeks… and yet the forest sometimes feels as though it were yesterday.

  The door opened.

  Rubin stepped in, Smaragd in one arm, a tray in the other hand. The baby slumbered peacefully, and yet he had one of Rubin's strands of hair clamped so tightly that even sleep wasn't enough to let go. Rubin's steps were quiet but firm. She set the tray down as though it were an order dressed in kindness.

  "You should eat."

  Valeria smiled weakly. "I'm not hungry."

  Rubin planted her hand on her hip, her gaze clear and incorruptible. "Then eat for her, at least."

  Valeria raised an eyebrow. "Her?"

  The corners of Rubin's mouth twitched. "I have a feeling."

  A soft laugh escaped Valeria, small and warm. For a moment the pressure in her chest eased. But when she picked up the piece of bread, she hesitated. Her fingers held it as though even eating were a decision you could get wrong.

  "What if I'm too weak?" The words came quietly, almost inaudible.

  Rubin laid Smaragd in the cradle, tucked the blanket a little higher, then sat down beside Valeria. She suddenly looked not like an alchemist or an Iridium adventurer, but like what she had always been for Valeria: a support that doesn't ask whether you need it.

  "I had the exact same thought before Smaragd came," Rubin said. "I thought I wouldn't make it." She placed her hand on Valeria's belly—warm, calm, matter-of-fact. "But you know what? You grow into it. And you… you're stronger than you think."

  Valeria closed her eyes. A lump sat in her throat, but Rubin's voice pressed it smaller until it no longer blocked everything.

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  Rubin stayed seated a heartbeat longer, as though she had something else on the tip of her tongue. Then she turned her head and studied Valeria—not as an alchemist, but as a friend. As a sister.

  "Do you remember… the Academy?" Rubin asked quietly.

  Valeria opened her eyes and looked at her. "How could I forget."

  Rubin laughed briefly. "The two of us, same class, same row. We thought we were already invincible just because we'd survived the first dungeons without panicking."

  Valeria snorted. "And then they arrived. Krent and Diamant."

  "Not until the third year." Rubin shook her head. "And they were already Platinum by then. At thirteen."

  Valeria gazed out at the fields. The light out there looked so peaceful it was almost insulting. "Like someone had dropped two legends into a classroom and said: 'Right, carry on as normal.'"

  Rubin propped her chin on her hand. "And yet most people don't understand until later what those ranks actually mean."

  Valeria nodded slowly. Too many think it's just a word on a card. "Most start at Registered." She raised her hand as though counting invisible steps. "Then come the Star Points—one through five. Small monsters, small dungeons, small mistakes… until a mistake isn't small anymore."

  Rubin pulled a face. "The Star Points always seem so harmless until you watch someone break on a 'small thing.'"

  "And after that, it gets serious," Valeria said quietly. "Veteran ranks. Copper. Tin. Bronze. Iron. Steel." She spoke the names as though they were not materials but scars. "From there, you're no longer a 'beginner.' From there, you've seen how fast it gets dark—and you keep going anyway."

  Rubin nodded, solemn. "And when you reach Prestige… Silver, Gold, Platinum…" Her voice grew quieter, because she knew how dearly those words cost in lives. "Then teams no longer look at you as though you're luck. They look at you as though you're responsibility."

  Valeria's gaze drifted to the cradle. Smaragd breathed calmly, as though there were no world full of monsters, no ranks, no dungeons. "Platinum is where you start carrying responsibility. Not just for yourself."

  Rubin gestured with a small glance toward Valeria's belly. "And Iridium…" She smiled crookedly. "Iridium is elite. Where the question is no longer 'Can you?' but 'Who do you protect?'"

  Valeria exhaled slowly. "And that's exactly why Krent and Diamant are escorting beginners now."

  Rubin nodded. "Because someone has to stand between 'I can do this' and 'I'm about to die.'" Then she looked at Valeria sidelong, and in that look lay the familiar blend of worry and humour. "And because your husband will go insane if he just sits here and waits."

  Valeria had to smile. "He'll go insane either way."

  From outside came the rhythmic clang of steel on wood.

  Krent.

  Sweat gleamed on his skin, lightning crackled across the twin blades. But this time there was no more fury. Only calm. Focus. Every strike looked as though he weren't training against the air but against a promise.

  I will protect you.

  Later that afternoon, the gate creaked. Voices. A short, nervous laugh. Valeria leaned forward only slightly to see through the window.

  Krent returned with Diamant—and behind them two young adventurers who looked as though they had been trying the whole time not to be noticed. Their shoulders were drawn too high, their eyes too alert. They looked like people who had learned only hours ago that "safe" is a word you lose quickly.

  "You have… a house?" Valeria heard the boy whisper, as though that alone were luxury.

  "No," Krent answered dryly. "We have Rubin."

  From inside, Rubin shot him a look that instantly turned him back into a well-behaved husband. Diamant only grinned, as though he had seen this exchange a thousand times.

  The young adventurers sat down at the table, cautiously, as if they weren't allowed to touch anything. Rubin set food before them as though hospitality were a duty not up for discussion. Diamant said little, but whenever he spoke, the pair's shoulders loosened by a millimetre.

  Valeria watched it all with a strange feeling in her chest.

  She saw how Wolfclaw had changed in these weeks—not weaker, not tamer. Just… fuller.

  More than blades. More than ranks.

  At night, when Rubin and Diamant had long since gone to sleep, Krent would slip into the bedroom. Quietly, as though he could break the world again with noise. He sat at Valeria's side, and his hand settled gently on her belly.

  "Hey… little light." His voice was so soft only the night could hear it. "I'm your papa. And I promise you… no matter what comes… I'll protect you both."

  Valeria lay with her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.

  But her heart beat fast, aching almost with love. A smile threatened to steal onto her lips.

  Tell him. Tell him you can hear it.

  She didn't.

  Not yet.

  The next morning, Diamant stood with arms crossed at the edge of the courtyard. The sun was still mild, the dew not quite gone, and somewhere a bird cawed as though commenting on what it saw.

  "You're training too much," Diamant said.

  "And you're talking too much." Krent grinned crookedly and spun the blades, as though it were all a joke only the two of them understood.

  Diamant blocked the strike effortlessly, moved elegantly, precisely. "If you train yourself to pieces, Valeria will personally kill you."

  Krent snorted. "Then teach me how to do it better." Sparks sprayed.

  "Same stubborn fool as always…" Diamant laughed softly, but his eyes stayed watchful.

  Their blades met, and for a moment they stood still, nothing but breath against breath. Then Diamant let the tension drain away, as though demonstrating to Krent that even a fight doesn't have to shout.

  "Do you remember," Diamant began, "when we used to run barefoot across the fields and practise on tree trunks with sticks? You always wanted to be the strongest."

  Krent growled. "And you always wanted to be right."

  Diamant smiled. "Some things never change."

  And for a moment they weren't Iridium. Not elite. Not legends. They were two boys who had decided not to stay small. Two brothers who had sunk their teeth into the same idea until it became real.

  Rubin didn't stay idle either. Between cauldrons and phials she brewed potions, enchanted weapons—and lovingly scolded Valeria whenever she stayed on her feet too long.

  "If you overdo it, I swear I'll tie you to the bed."

  Valeria laughed, but she knew: Rubin meant it. And that was the reassuring part.

  In the evenings, when the sun sank and Krent's blades finally came to rest, they all sat together.

  They laughed.

  Told stories.

  Rubin recalled the time Krent had mistaken an entire swarm of slimes for an army. Diamant silenced everyone with a dry quip, only to end up grinning himself. Valeria watched them and felt something growing warm inside her—not just because of the fire in the hearth.

  The house was full of warmth.

  Time passed.

  Valeria's belly grew.

  And with it, so did hope.

  But deep in their hearts, they all knew:

  These quiet days were a gift. A rare light in a world full of darkness.

  And even the brightest light…

  casts shadows.

  A gust of wind howled across the fields. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed. For a moment, a shadow lay over the idyll—quickly gone, but not forgotten.