Harvest of Bonds

The Verdant Hollow glowed under the amber light of an early autumn evening, its clearing a vibrant canvas of tall grasses and fading wildflowers, their petals curling—crimson flamehearts drooping like embers, indigo duskcaps shedding delicate seeds, amber glowseeds scattering husks that crunched underfoot, glinting like copper in the dusk. Bare earth patches gleamed near the stream, their dark soil cool and fragrant, marked with the tracks of hares and the deeper grooves of wagon wheels, softened by morning dew. The air was crisp, heavy with the sweet decay of fallen leaves, woven with the earthy tang of freshly harvested roots and the sharp, resinous scent of oak logs stacked near the forge, their surfaces rough, their rings tight from decades of growth.

The heart-tree's stump stood as an enduring anchor, its blackened core now swathed in vibrant vines, their leaves turning gold and scarlet, heavy with ripe red berries, their glossy surfaces catching the fire's glow, shining like polished rubies. The berries' tart aroma swirled through the air, blending with the smoky warmth of a firepit where logs burned steadily, their flames casting a golden haze across the clearing, and the rich, savory scent of stew simmering in a cauldron, its steam thick with potatoes, venison, and rosemary, stirred by a wooden spoon.

A broad table stretched beneath a canopy of woven reed mats, its wood weathered to a deep chestnut, etched with swirling leaves carved by Lir, now laden with autumn's bounty: clay bowls brimming with roasted turnips, their golden flesh caramelized; baskets of apples, their red and green skins dusted with dew; slabs of smoked boar, their dark surfaces glistening; and loaves of barley bread, their crusts thick, studded with pumpkin seeds, still warm from Veyra's oven. Wooden tankards held spiced ale, its warm steam rising, warming hands that gripped them, fingers stained with apple juice, nails flecked with soil from morning digging.

The stream murmured softly, its water clear and cold, gliding over pebbles polished to a sheen, their surfaces flecked with quartz that sparkled in the dusk. Reeds stood tall, their brown tips rustling, tied with fresh ribbons—crimson, violet, indigo—knotted by Wren and Lir, their colors bold, swaying like banners of a fruitful season. Saplings ringed the clearing, their branches heavy with ripening fruits, their leaves turning yellow, their bark warm under hands that brushed them, a promise of harvests to come.

Sparrows flitted through the pines, their wings flashing brown and gray, their chirps soft, blending with the fire's crackle and the rhythmic thud of a loom from the weaving shed, where threads wove into cloth for winter's cloaks. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of leaves, woodsmoke, and the faint musk of wool blankets draped over benches, their fibers soft with evening mist. The Hollow thrummed with life, its pulse steady in the murmur of voices, the laughter of children tossing apples, and the clink of tools from the forge, a community knit by shared harvests and shared dreams.

Kaelith Varn stood by the cauldron, stirring stew, her wooden spoon swirling through chunks of potato and venison, steam rising in fragrant clouds, warming her face, her fingers gripping the handle, calluses brushing smooth wood. Her tunic was a deep burgundy, thick linen laced with leather, its collar embroidered with acorns, hugging a frame lean but strong, scars on her hands faded to silver threads, like veins in a leaf. The shard at her belt was a quiet relic, its crystal catching the fire's glow, throwing prisms of blue and gold across her hip, a badge of courage, not weight. Her dark hair was loose, tucked into a knitted cap, a few strands clinging to her cheek, flushed from the heat, her gray eyes bright, sparkling with a warmth that matched the flames, her smile soft, like she'd found a home in the dusk. She hummed a harvest song, her breath carrying the scent of rosemary, her heart a steady ember, stirred by Rhydian's laugh nearby, his eyes meeting hers, a spark igniting she couldn't ignore.

Torren Ashkarn knelt by the forge, shaping a plow blade, his hammer striking iron with a clang that echoed, sparks flying like stars, searing the air before fading into the grass. His tunic was a deep slate, patched at the knees, rolled to show arms thick with muscle, scars crisscrossing like rivers, faded but proud. His hands were steady, gripping the hammer with a smith's precision, sweat beading on his brow, his face flushed, lit by the forge's glow, his dark eyes warm, catching Sylvara's hum, lingering with a grin that softened his jaw, like her voice was a flame he couldn't quench. His hair was cropped, curling at the temples, his beard faint, making him look younger, untouched by the Waste. He sang a forge ballad, rough and low, his voice a rumble, his laugh deep when Lir tossed a leaf, like he was forging the Hollow's roots.

Sylvara Ren sat on a log, sorting apple seeds, her fingers separating tiny specks into a clay bowl, their faint scent clinging to her skin, her hands steady, stained with juice. Her tunic was a vibrant amber, embroidered with vines, its hem dusted with soil, swaying as she leaned, her auburn braid swinging, tied with an orange ribbon, strands glinting like copper in the dusk. Her arms were freckled, smooth, her smile wide, like the Hollow was blooming in her chest. Her green eyes sparkled, grief a forgotten shadow, her laugh sharp, cutting through the chatter, blending with the stream's murmur. She sang a planting tune, her voice clear, soaring like a lark, calling the earth to rest. The air pulsed, alive with her rhythm, and she brushed juice from her nose, her heart a wildfire, her gaze flicking to Torren, her cheeks flushing, a thrill in her pulse, like his hammer was beating for her.

Rhydian Thalor leaned against the table, stringing a net, his fingers weaving hemp through knots, pulling taut with a soft snap, his knife resting beside a pile of floats carved by Tira. His vest was a deep olive, paired with a shirt loose and bright, sleeves rolled to show forearms lean and scarred, tanned by autumn's light, muscles flexing as he worked. His blue eyes glinted, catching Kaelith's hum, his smirk curling, like he was reading her heart. His dagger was sheathed, his hands busy with craft, not war. His face was full, stubble faint, his grin wide, whistling a sea shanty, his voice bright, like a sailor calling shore, his laugh sharp when Nyssa tripped in grass, like he was weaving the Hollow's joy. His gaze lingered on Kaelith, watching her stir, his smirk softening, a warmth in his chest, like her smile was a tide pulling him closer.

Lila darted through the clearing, her tunic a vivid crimson, patched with leaves, flapping as she chased Lir, their giggles a bright duet that danced with the fire's crackle, their boots kicking up leaves. Her brown hair flew, a ribbon slipping, her cheeks pink, her eyes wide, like the Hollow was a puzzle she'd never solve. She clutched a handful of apples, juice staining her fingers, her grin fearless, like autumn was a game she'd win. Her voice was loud, shouting rules for an apple toss, her laughter sharp, making adults pause, like she was the Hollow's spark.

Mara sat on a blanket, knitting a scarf for Sana, the toddler giggling, her tiny hands clutching a flameheart petal, its red surface soft against her skin. Mara's shawl was a deep indigo, soft, slipping off her shoulders, her dark hair loose, catching the dusk, her face warm, her eyes soft as she watched Thom split logs, his axe steady, his limp gone. Eli hauled kindling, his tunic muddy, his brown hair wild, his laugh quick, echoing Kian's, his hands eager, learning Thom's swing. Their cabin stood warm, joined by tents, lean-tos, sheds, a barn, a forge, a weaving shed, a smokehouse, a tannery, a granary, a dye shed, a pottery shed, and a new cider press, logs glowing in the dusk, a village thriving.

Eryn and Lora sorted apples by the table, their hands quick, tossing cores to a goat kid, their tunics bright—Eryn's green, Lora's red—swaying as they worked. Eryn's gray hair was braided, her face lined but glowing, her voice low, humming a tune, her eyes flicking to Cal, who carved a peg, his beard white, his tunic loose. Lora's hair was silver-streaked, her eyes sharp, her laugh clear, joining Eryn's song, her hands steady, like she was sorting the Hollow's warmth. Cal's voice was creaky, warm, calling a jest to Orin, his hands sure, like he was carving for seasons ahead.

Gavyn and Orin hauled logs to the cider press, their shirts damp, their grins wide, tossing wood with a rhythm like a drum. Tira stood nearby, sharpening a spear, her tunic sage, her short hair tucked back, her eyes focused, her voice sharp, teasing Orin's stack, her smile quick, like she was hunting joy. Their tent stood firm, canvas bright, beside Soren's lean-to, Dren's cart, Ysmeine's wagon, Torv's shed, Myra's barn, Sigrid's lean-to, Drenvar's cart, Vira's tent, Elara's wagon, and Mira's tent, a home rooted deep.

Veyra knelt by the orchard, pruning apple trees, her gray curls loose, her tunic patched but vibrant, her hands steady, her laugh warm, like a mother's call. Orin paused, wiping sweat, his cane forgotten, his face flushed, his voice rough, joining her laugh, like he was pruning for life. Nia wove a basket, her red hair braided, her voice soft, humming Sylvara's tune, her smile shy, like she was crafting the Hollow's soul.

Soren glazed pots, her shawl slipping, her face warm, her eyes soft as she watched Kian wrestle Miro, his tunic dusty, his blond hair wild, his laugh loud, like he'd claimed his place. Tarn sat nearby, playing his flute, its notes soft, his beard gray, his voice creaky, telling Lir a tale, his hands steady, like he was piping for years ahead. Dren tanned leather, his scarred face calm, his voice low, joking with Lyss, who tuned her fiddle, her eyes bright, her laugh quick, like she was tuning the Hollow's heart. Miro slung stones, his tunic patched, his grin wide, his voice loud, challenging Kael, like he was aiming for the stars. Ysmeine sorted pelts, her braids swinging, her voice warm, joking with Brant, who forged a hinge, his grin wide, like he was shaping their place. Calla sorted turnips with Nia, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice soft, asking Lila about apple tosses, like she was blooming with the Hollow. Torv carved a staff, his cloak shed, his voice low, joking with Elira, who wove a shawl, her eyes bright, her laugh quick, like she was weaving their future. Myra sorted herbs, her gray hair tied back, her voice warm, joking with Joren, who sharpened a bow, his grin wide, like he was aiming for their home. Finn drummed a stick, his tunic patched, his grin wide, his voice loud, challenging Wren, like he was beating the Hollow's rhythm. Sigrid sorted seeds, her staff propped, her voice warm, joking with Hal, who mended a net, his grin wide, like he was netting their place. Wren sang softly, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice clear, asking Nyssa about flutes, like she was singing with the Hollow. Drenvar sorted hides, his scarred face calm, his voice low, joking with Liora, who strung her lute, her eyes bright, her laugh quick, like she was strumming their future. Kael slung stones, his tunic patched, his grin wide, his voice loud, challenging Miro, like he was aiming for the Hollow's heart. Vira sorted dyes, her cloak shed, her voice warm, joking with Toren, who carved a spoon, his grin wide, like he was carving their place. Toren told a story, his beard streaked, his voice low, his eyes bright, like he was spinning their home. Elara sorted wool, her braids swinging, her voice warm, joking with Rorik, who sharpened a bow, his grin wide, like he was aiming for their home. Nyssa played her flute, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice clear, asking Lir about drums, like she was playing with the Hollow. Mira sorted herbs, her cloak shed, her voice warm, joking with Gavric, who carved a peg, his grin wide, like he was carving their place. Lir drummed a stick, his tunic patched, his grin wide, his voice loud, challenging Kael, like he was beating the Hollow's rhythm.

They'd kindled this dusk from embers. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, chasing the Codex's heart, had led her through rifts, seas, deserts, peaks, chasms, and ruins, to this autumn's harvest. Torren's flight from the Emberfall Dominion, burned by guilt, had shaped him from the Waste to the Veil's pulse, his hands now creators. Sylvara's fight for the Verdant Hollow had grown her from healer to soul, her roots eternal. Rhydian, dodging his Riftborn blood, had tied himself to them, his tablet gone. Lila, Mara, Thom, Eli, Sana, Eryn, Lora, Cal, Gavyn, Tira, Veyra, Orin, Nia, Soren, Kian, Tarn, Dren, Lyss, Miro, Ysmeine, Brant, Calla, Torv, Elira, Myra, Joren, Finn, Sigrid, Hal, Wren, Drenvar, Liora, Kael, Vira, Toren, Elara, Rorik, Nyssa, Mira, Gavric, Lir—family forged—were the Hollow's harvest, proof it could thrive for all. The Weaver's Voice was silent, its ruin buried, but its lesson lingered, a root from the Sunken Isles to the Voidheart's crypt.

Kaelith stirred the stew, her eyes catching Rhydian's, her smile teasing, her voice light, like a spark on kindling, her cap slipping. "Your net's loose, Thalor. My stew's simmering—bet's mine. Ready to pick my apples?" She stepped closer, her hands brushing juice, her heart quickening, like his grin was a flame she couldn't dodge.

Rhydian paused, his hemp still, his smirk wide, his eyes glinting, his voice smooth, like a sailor's charm. "Pick apples, Varn? This net catches true—your stew's no match. Dance tonight, or you're baking my bread." He leaned in, his hand grazing her arm, his grin daring, his chest tight, like her laugh was pulling him under.

She laughed, her voice sharp, playful, her eyes dancing, her fingers brushing his, lingering. "Baking? I'm winning, Rhydian—you'll be hauling my logs by dawn. Dance's only if you beg." Her smile widened, her cheeks flushing, her heart racing, like the fire between them was blazing.

He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing, his eyes locked on hers, his breath warm. "Beg? I don't beg, Kaelith. I'll spin you till the stars fade—bet's mine. Ready to melt?" His hand caught hers, squeezing gently, his heart thudding, like he was wagering his soul.

Kaelith's breath caught, her voice softer, bold, like a flame catching. "Melt? You're dreaming, sailor. I'll have you stirring my pot before you touch me." She squeezed back, her smile fierce, her eyes bright, pulling away slow, her heart pounding, like she'd lit a blaze she couldn't quench.

Sylvara sorted her seeds, catching Torren's gaze, her voice bright, teasing, like a bell's chime, her braid bouncing. "Torren, your blade's crooked. Forge failing, or you just lost in my seeds?" She flicked a seed at him, her laugh sharp, her eyes gleaming, like she knew his heart's rhythm.

Torren paused, hammer still, his grin wide, his voice deep, warm, like a hearth's glow, his eyes soft. "Lost, Ren? Your seeds are dust—my blade's art. Bet I finish this before your bowl's full." He stepped closer, wiping sweat, his laugh low, his chest warm, like her voice was a fire he wanted to tend.

She stood, bowl down, her voice sharp, playful, her smile wide, her cheeks pink. "Art? I'd rather the goats sort my seeds. I'll win, Torren—loser sings tonight, just us." She leaned in, her hand brushing his chest, her laugh loud, her heart quick, like his grin was pulling her closer.

He caught her wrist, his voice teasing, bold, his eyes locked on hers, his breath catching. "Sing? If I win, you're cooking my stew—just us, Ren. If you win, I'm your smith for a season. Deal?" His hand lingered, warm, his heart thudding, like her laugh was his forge.

Sylvara grinned, her voice soft, daring, her eyes sparkling, her hand squeezing his. "Deal, Torren. But you're scrubbing my cauldron when I win—hope you like grease." She pulled back, her laugh bright, her heart pounding, like the Hollow was kindling their flame.

Lila tugged Lir's sleeve, her voice high, spilling over, like a stream's rush, her ribbon gone, her grin huge. "Lir, your toss is weak! Bet I throw more apples—loser sweeps the cider press!" She waved her hands, her eyes bright, her feet bouncing, like the Hollow was her arena.

Lir laughed, his voice young, bold, his tunic patched, his smile wide. "Sweep? Lila, I'll bury you! Double chores if I win—deal?" He tossed an apple, his eyes sparkling, his hands quick, like he was chasing Lila's fire.

Nyssa darted in, her voice loud, bold, her tunic patched, her smile wide. "Apples? I'm in—my toss is farthest! Lila, you're hauling my reeds if I win!" She grabbed an apple, her grin huge, her hands waving, like she was stealing their game.

Kael shoved Nyssa, his voice loud, bold, his tunic patched, his eyes bright. "Reeds? I'll win, Nyssa! Lir, Lila, you're slow—my sling's the champ!" He spun his sling, his laugh sharp, his hands dusty, like he was king of the toss.

Wren protested, her voice loud, her tunic patched, her eyes sparkling. "Champ? Kael, I'm crushing you! Lila, you're done!" She tossed a leaf, her laugh wild, her hands quick, like she was racing the dusk.

Mara looked up, her needle pausing, her voice warm, her shawl slipping, her smile soft. "Crushing, Wren? You're all chaos—toss apples, not fights. Sana's watching!" Her eyes teased, her laugh clear, her heart full, like she was cradling their storm.

Thom set his axe down, his voice rough, kind, his grin wide, his hands steady. "Chaos is good, Mara. Wren, Kael, toss true—Lir, help Nyssa. Lila, no tricks." His laugh was deep, his eyes bright, like he was splitting their joy.

Soren glazed a pot, her voice warm, her shawl slipping, her smile soft, her eyes on Kian. "Tricks, Lila? Keep it fair, or I'm judging. Pots for stew—ready?" Her laugh was clear, her hands steady, like she was shaping the Hollow's feast.

Tarn played a note, his voice creaky, warm, his grin wide, his eyes soft. "Stew's fine, Soren. I'll play for the kids—tune for their toss. Lir, toss hard." His flute sang, his hands sure, like he was piping for life.

Dren stretched leather, his voice low, warm, his scarred face calm, his eyes on Lyss. "Hard, Lir? Kael's got spark. Lyss, fiddle tonight—make 'em dance?" His laugh was soft, his hands steady, like he was tanning their future.

Lyss tuned her fiddle, her voice bright, quick, her eyes sparkling, her smile wide. "Dance, Dren? Only if you move—scar's no excuse. Kids, I'm playing for the winner!" Her laugh was loud, her hands quick, like she was stringing the Hollow's heart.

Ysmeine sorted pelts, her voice warm, her braids swinging, her smile wide. "Winner, Lyss? My pelts'll warm that dance—Brant, forge faster, we're moving!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was weaving their place.

Brant hammered a hinge, his voice rough, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Faster, Ysmeine? I'm forging a lock—Calla, your turnips better grow!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was forging their home.

Torv carved his staff, his voice low, warm, his cloak shed, his eyes on Elira. "Grow, Brant? Elira's shawls'll bloom. Tonight, you sharing, love?" His laugh was soft, his hands steady, like he was carving their future.

Elira wove her shawl, her voice bright, quick, her eyes sparkling, her smile wide. "Sharing, Torv? Only if you dance—staff or not, you're moving. Kids, my tale's for the champ!" Her laugh was loud, her hands quick, like she was weaving the Hollow's heart.

Myra sorted herbs, her voice warm, her gray hair tied back, her smile wide. "Champ, Elira? My herbs'll spice that stew—Joren, aim sharper, we're eating!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was planting their place.

Joren sharpened his bow, his voice rough, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Sharper, Myra? I'm hunting for stew—Finn, your drum better sing!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was aiming for their home.

Sigrid sorted seeds, her voice warm, her staff propped, her smile wide. "Sing, Joren? My seeds'll bloom—Hal, mend faster, we're planting!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was sowing their place.

Hal mended his net, his voice rough, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Faster, Sigrid? I'm netting fish—Wren, your songs better shine!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was netting their home.

Drenvar sorted hides, his voice low, warm, his scarred face calm, his eyes on Liora. "Shine, Hal? Liora's lute'll glow. Tonight, you playing, love?" His laugh was soft, his hands steady, like he was tanning their future.

Liora strung her lute, her voice bright, quick, her eyes sparkling, her smile wide. "Playing, Drenvar? Only if you dance—scar or not, you're moving. Kids, my song's for the champ!" Her laugh was loud, her hands quick, like she was strumming the Hollow's heart.

Vira sorted dyes, her voice warm, her cloak shed, her smile wide. "Champ, Liora? My dyes'll color that dance—Toren, carve faster, we're staining!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was painting their place.

Toren carved his spoon, his voice low, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Faster, Vira? I'm carving for stew—Kael, your sling better fly!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was carving their home.

Elara sorted wool, her voice warm, her braids swinging, her smile wide. "Fly, Toren? My wool'll warm—Rorik, aim sharper, we're spinning!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was spinning their place.

Rorik sharpened his bow, his voice rough, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Sharper, Elara? I'm hunting for stew—Nyssa, your flute better sing!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was aiming for their home.

Mira sorted herbs, her voice warm, her cloak shed, her smile wide. "Sing, Rorik? My herbs'll heal—Gavric, carve faster, we're crafting!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was healing their place.

Gavric carved his peg, his voice low, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Faster, Mira? I'm carving for stew—Lir, your drum better beat!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was carving their home.

Eryn sorted apples, her voice low, warm, her hands pausing, her eyes glistening. "This Hollow's a harvest—kids, warmth, love. You've built a miracle, Kaelith, Sylvara." Her smile was steady, her heart woven into the vines, like she'd always been here.

Lora nodded, tossing a core, her voice soft, clear, her eyes on Nia. "Miracle, yes. We'll knit for winter—scarves, mittens. Hollow's forever." Her laugh was light, her hands quick, like she was knitting tomorrow.

Cal carved his peg, his voice creaky, warm, his grin wide, his hands sure. "Forever's right. Cider press's next—big, for juice. This Hollow's eternal." His eyes were soft, his heart rooted, like he was carving eternity.

Veyra pruned a tree, her voice warm, her curls loose, her smile wide. "Eternal, Cal? My apples'll feed it—crisp by winter. Tira, hunt's on?" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was pruning years.

Orin stacked logs, her voice rough, bright, her eyes alive, her grin wide. "Hunt, Veyra? I'm hauling for it—barns, sheds. Nia, weave tighter!" Her laugh was loud, her hands sure, like she was building forever.

Nia wove her basket, her voice soft, bold, her hair braided, her eyes wide. "Tighter, Orin? This'll hold turnips—tons! Sylvara, it's strong, right?" Her smile grew, her hands waving, like she was crafting the Hollow's dreams.

Gavyn tossed a log, her voice loud, teasing, her grin bright, her hands strong. "Strong, Nia? My stack's taller—Tira, your spear's dull!" Her laugh echoed, her eyes sparkling, like the Hollow was her stage.

Tira sharpened her spear, her voice sharp, warm, her hair tucked, her smile quick. "Dull, Gavyn? My spear's lethal—unlike your knots. Rhydian, hunt tomorrow—big game?" Her eyes met his, her hands ready, like she was spearing her place.

As the dusk deepened, a rustle broke the chatter—not a rift, but hooves, slow and heavy, from the path's curve. A wagon rolled in, pulled by mules, driven by a man with a weathered face, his cloak thick, flanked by a woman with a basket and a girl with a spindle, their faces weary but hopeful, eyes catching the fire's glow. The man raised a hand, his voice steady, warm, like a hearth's call. "Heard of a Hollow—green, thriving, open. This it? I'm Coren. This is Selene, our daughter Vyn. We've got grain, thread—room for us?"

Sylvara stepped forward, firelight on her face, her hands open, her voice bright, like dawn's song, her braid gleaming, her eyes meeting Selene's, her hand brushing Torren's, a spark flaring. "This is the Verdant Hollow. I'm Sylvara. That's Kaelith, Torren, Rhydian, Lila, Mara, Thom, Eli, Sana, Eryn, Lora, Cal, Gavyn, Tira, Veyra, Orin, Nia, Soren, Kian, Tarn, Dren, Lyss, Miro, Ysmeine, Brant, Calla, Torv, Elira, Myra, Joren, Finn, Sigrid, Hal, Wren, Drenvar, Liora, Kael, Vira, Toren, Elara, Rorik, Nyssa, Mira, Gavric, Lir. Room's endless—welcome." Her smile was wide, her heart a harvest, wide as the earth.

Vyn clutched her spindle, her voice young, shy, her eyes wide, her hair glinting. "Thread? I'll spin—Lila, Nyssa, wanna weave with me?" Her smile was small, her hands steady, like she was offering a piece of herself.

Kaelith nodded, her hands warm, her voice steady, her eyes bright, catching Rhydian's grin. "Weave, Vyn. Coren, Selene, you're home. Share your grain, stay. We're building forever." Her smile was full, her hand grazing Rhydian's, her heart racing, like the dance was near.

Torren waved them over, his voice gruff, kind, his grin warm, his eyes on Sylvara. "Coren, grab a seat—stew's hot. Selene, Vyn, eat, talk. Plenty here." His laugh was deep, his hand lingering on Sylvara's back, his chest tight, like her warmth was his fire.

Rhydian tossed his hemp, his voice light, teasing, his smirk gentle, his eyes meeting Vyn's. "Spindle, Vyn? Top Lir's drum, and you're in. Welcome to the harvest—jump in." He winked, his nod sure, his gaze flicking to Kaelith, like he was promising a night to burn.

The Hollow flourished, its embers glowing, the stream steady, the saplings thriving. They laughed, worked, forty-eight now, the heart-tree watching, the dusk warm, the earth alive. The Tapestry was whole, and they were too, stoking bonds for tomorrow, one heart at a time.