Frost of Unity

The Verdant Hollow lay serene under the pale light of an early winter dawn, its clearing a quiet mosaic of frost-kissed grass and wilted wildflowers, their petals curled inward, crimson flamehearts faded to soft pink, indigo duskcaps brittle and still, amber glowseeds reduced to empty husks, their remnants crunching underfoot, dusted with the first light snow. Bare earth patches gleamed near the stream, their dark soil hardened by frost, etched with the delicate tracks of voles and the deeper ruts of wagon wheels, glazed with a thin sheen of ice. The air was sharp, heavy with the clean bite of snow, woven with the faint, earthy tang of stored roots and the crisp, resinous scent of pine logs stacked near the forge, their surfaces dusted with frost, their rings dark and tight from years of growth.

The heart-tree's stump stood as an enduring sentinel, its blackened core now cloaked in dormant vines, their leaves fallen, leaving bare tendrils studded with shriveled red berries, their dull surfaces catching the dawn's glow, faintly gleaming like faded garnets. The berries' muted aroma lingered in the air, blending with the smoky warmth of a firepit where logs burned low, their embers casting a soft orange haze across the clearing, and the hearty, savory scent of porridge simmering in a cauldron, its steam thick with oats, dried apples, and cinnamon, stirred by a wooden spoon.

A sturdy table stretched beneath a canopy of woven reed mats, reinforced with hides, its wood weathered to a deep gray, etched with swirling snowflakes carved by Vyn, now laden with winter's stores: clay bowls filled with pickled beets, their deep red slices glistening; baskets of dried plums, their dark skins wrinkled; slabs of smoked venison, their brown surfaces glistening; and loaves of rye bread, their crusts thick, studded with caraway seeds, still warm from Veyra's oven. Wooden tankards held hot cider, its spiced steam rising, warming hands that gripped them, fingers reddened by cold, nails flecked with frost from morning chores.

The stream flowed sluggishly, its water cold and clear, edged with thin ice that cracked under stray pebbles, their surfaces polished, flecked with mica that glinted in the dawn. Reeds stood brittle, their brown tips bowed, tied with fresh ribbons—crimson, violet, indigo—knotted by Nyssa and Vyn, their colors stark against the frost, swaying like flags of a resilient season. Saplings ringed the clearing, their branches bare, their buds dormant, their bark cool under hands that brushed them, a promise of spring to come.

Sparrows huddled in the pines, their wings tucked, their chirps faint, blending with the fire's crackle and the rhythmic clink of a hammer from the forge, where sparks flew, shaping iron into nails for winter's repairs. The air was cold, heavy with the scent of snow, woodsmoke, and the faint musk of wool cloaks draped over benches, their fibers stiff with frost. The Hollow pulsed with life, its heartbeat steady in the murmur of voices, the laughter of children sliding on frozen mud, and the thud of axes splitting wood, a community knit by shared frost and shared dreams.

Kaelith Varn stood by the cauldron, stirring porridge, her wooden spoon swirling through oats and apple chunks, steam rising in fragrant clouds, warming her face, her fingers gripping the handle, calluses brushing smooth wood. Her tunic was a deep charcoal, thick wool laced with leather, its collar lined with fox fur, 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 embers, her smile soft, like she'd found a home in the dawn.

She hummed a winter song, her breath a faint cloud, tasting cinnamon, her heart a steady ember, stirred by Rhydian's voice nearby, his laugh igniting a spark she couldn't ignore.

Torren Ashkarn knelt by the forge, shaping a nail, his hammer striking iron with a clang that echoed, sparks flying like snowflakes, searing the air before fading into the frost. His tunic was a deep russet, patched at the elbows, 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 despite the cold, 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 neck, 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 Vyn tossed a snowball, like he was forging the Hollow's roots.

Sylvara Ren sat on a bench, mending a cloak, her needle threading wool through patches, its earthy scent clinging to her fingers, her hands steady, stained with cider. Her tunic was a vibrant sapphire, embroidered with frost patterns, its hem dusted with frost, swaying as she leaned, her auburn braid swinging, tied with a blue ribbon, strands glinting like copper in the dawn.

Her arms were freckled, smooth, her smile wide, like the Hollow was glowing 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 mending tune, her voice clear, soaring like a sparrow, calling the earth to endure.

The air pulsed, alive with her rhythm, and she brushed frost 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 a sapling, carving a snow shovel, his knife shaping ash wood with precise cuts, shavings curling like frost at his feet, his fingers deft, chilled by the cold. His vest was a deep slate, paired with a shirt loose and bright, sleeves rolled to show forearms lean and scarred, reddened by winter's bite, muscles flexing as he carved.

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 creation, not conflict. 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 Lir slipped on ice, like he was carving 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 emerald, patched with snowflakes, flapping as she chased Vyn, their giggles a bright duet that danced with the fire's crackle, their boots crunching frost. Her brown hair flew, a scarf slipping, her cheeks pink, her eyes wide, like the Hollow was a puzzle she'd never solve.

She clutched a handful of dried plums, their sweetness on her fingers, her grin fearless, like winter was a game she'd win. Her voice was loud, shouting rules for a snowball fight, her laughter sharp, making adults pause, like she was the Hollow's spark.

Mara sat on a blanket, knitting mittens for Sana, the toddler giggling, her tiny hands clutching a shriveled berry, its dull surface soft against her skin. Mara's shawl was a deep crimson, soft, slipping off her shoulders, her dark hair loose, catching the dawn, her face warm, her eyes soft as she watched Thom stack wood, his hands 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 rhythm. 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, a cider press, and a new root cellar, logs glowing in the dawn, a village thriving.

Eryn and Lora sorted beets by the table, their hands quick, tossing scraps to a piglet, their tunics bright—Eryn's violet, Lora's gold—swaying as they worked. Eryn's gray hair was tied back, her face lined but glowing, her voice low, humming a tune, her eyes flicking to Cal, who carved a spoon, 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 root cellar, their shirts damp, their grins wide, tossing wood with a rhythm like a drum. Tira stood nearby, fletching arrows, her tunic olive, her short hair tucked back, her eyes focused, her voice sharp, teasing Orin's stack, her smile quick, like she was aiming for 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, Mira's tent, and Coren's wagon, a home rooted deep.

Veyra knelt by the orchard, mulching 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 mulching for life. Nia wove a blanket, her red hair braided, her voice soft, humming Sylvara's tune, her smile shy, like she was crafting the Hollow's soul.

Soren fired 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 Vyn 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 beets with Nia, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice soft, asking Lila about snowball fights, like she was blooming with the Hollow. Torv carved a staff, his cloak shed, his voice low, joking with Elira, who wove a scarf, 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 Vyn about spindles, 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.

Coren sorted grain, his cloak thick, his voice warm, joking with Selene, who spun thread, her grin wide, like she was spinning their place. Vyn spun her spindle, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice clear, asking Nyssa about flutes, like she was spinning with the Hollow.

They'd kindled this dawn 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 winter's frost. 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, Coren, Selene, Vyn—family forged—were the Hollow's frost, 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 porridge, her eyes catching Rhydian's, her smile teasing, her voice light, like a spark on kindling, her cap slipping. She called out, "Your shovel's rough, Thalor. My porridge is simmering, so the bet is mine. Are you ready to haul my firewood?"

Rhydian paused, his knife still, his smirk wide, his eyes glinting, his voice smooth, like a sailor's charm. He replied, "Haul firewood, Varn? This shovel digs true, and your porridge is 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?" she said. "I'm winning, Rhydian, and you'll be fetching my logs by noon. Dance is 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?" he murmured. "I don't beg, Kaelith. I'll spin you till the stars rise, and the bet is mine. Are you 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?" she replied. "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 slowly, her heart pounding, like she'd lit a blaze she couldn't quench.

Sylvara mended her cloak, catching Torren's gaze, her voice bright, teasing, like a bell's chime, her braid bouncing. She called, "Torren, your nail is bent. Is the forge failing, or are you just lost in my stitches?"

Torren paused, hammer still, his grin wide, his voice deep, warm, like a hearth's glow, his eyes soft. He answered, "Lost, Ren? Your stitches are loose, but my nail is art. I bet I finish this before your cloak is done." He stepped closer, wiping sweat, his laugh low, his chest warm, like her voice was a fire he wanted to tend.

She stood, cloak down, her voice sharp, playful, her smile wide, her cheeks pink. "Art?" she said. "I'd rather the goats mend my cloak. I'll win, Torren, and the 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?" he replied. "If I win, you're cooking my porridge, 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," she said. "But you're scrubbing my cauldron when I win, and I hope you like grease." She pulled back, her laugh bright, her heart pounding, like the Hollow was kindling their flame.

Lila tugged Vyn's sleeve, her voice high, spilling over, like a stream's rush, her scarf gone, her grin huge. She shouted, "Vyn, your snowball is weak! I bet I hit more targets, and the loser sweeps the root cellar!"

Vyn laughed, her voice young, bold, her tunic patched, her smile wide. "Sweep?" she replied. "Lila, I'll bury you! Double chores if I win, deal?" She tossed a snowball, her eyes sparkling, her hands quick, like she was chasing Lila's fire.

Nyssa darted in, her voice loud, bold, her tunic patched, her smile wide. "Targets?" she called. "I'm in, and my throw is farthest! Lila, you're hauling my reeds if I win!" She grabbed a snowball, her grin huge, her hands waving, like she was stealing their game.

Lir shoved Nyssa, his voice loud, bold, his tunic patched, his eyes bright. "Reeds?" he said. "I'll win, Nyssa! Vyn, Lila, you're slow, and my drum is the champ!" He beat his stick, his laugh sharp, his hands frosty, like he was king of the fight.

Kael protested, his voice loud, his tunic patched, his eyes sparkling. "Champ?" he shouted. "Lir, I'm crushing you! Lila, you're done!" He tossed a snowball, his laugh wild, his hands quick, like he was racing the dawn.

Mara looked up, her needle pausing, her voice warm, her shawl slipping, her smile soft. "Crushing, Kael?" she said. "You're all chaos, so throw snowballs, 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," he replied. "Kael, Lir, throw true, and Vyn, help Nyssa. Lila, no tricks." His laugh was deep, his eyes bright, like he was splitting their joy.

Soren fired a pot, her voice warm, her shawl slipping, her smile soft, her eyes on Kian. "Tricks, Lila?" she called. "Keep it fair, or I'm judging. Pots for porridge, 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. "Porridge is fine, Soren," he said. "I'll play for the kids, a tune for their fight. Vyn, throw 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, Vyn?" he said. "Lir's got spark. Lyss, fiddle tonight, make them 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?" she replied. "Only if you move, and 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?" she called. "My pelts will warm that dance, so 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?" he said. "I'm forging a lock, and Calla, your beets better keep!" 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. "Keep, Brant?" he said. "Elira's scarves will bloom. Tonight, you sharing, love?" His laugh was soft, his hands steady, like he was carving their future.

Elira wove her scarf, her voice bright, quick, her eyes sparkling, her smile wide. "Sharing, Torv?" she replied. "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?" she said. "My herbs will spice that porridge, so 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?" he replied. "I'm hunting for stew, and 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?" she called. "My seeds will bloom, so 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?" he said. "I'm netting fish, and 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?" he said. "Liora's lute will 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?" she replied. "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?" she called. "My dyes will color that dance, so 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?" he said. "I'm carving for porridge, and 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?" she said. "My wool will warm, so 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?" he replied. "I'm hunting for porridge, and 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?" she said. "My herbs will heal, so 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?" he replied. "I'm carving for porridge, and Lir, your drum better beat!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was carving their home.

Coren sorted grain, his voice warm, his cloak thick, his smile wide. "Beat, Gavric?" he said. "My grain will fill, so Selene, spin faster, we're baking!" His laugh was deep, his hands steady, like he was filling their place.

Selene spun her thread, her voice bright, quick, her eyes sparkling, her smile wide. "Faster, Coren?" she replied. "I'm spinning for cloaks, and Vyn, your spindle better hum!" Her laugh was loud, her hands quick, like she was spinning the Hollow's heart.

Eryn sorted beets, her voice low, warm, her hands pausing, her eyes glistening. "This Hollow is a frost, kids, warmth, love," she said. "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 scrap, her voice soft, clear, her eyes on Nia. "Miracle, yes," she agreed. "We'll knit for spring, hats, socks. Hollow's forever." Her laugh was light, her hands quick, like she was knitting tomorrow.

Cal carved his spoon, his voice creaky, warm, his grin wide, his hands sure. "Forever's right," he said. "Root cellar's next, big, for stores. This Hollow's eternal." His eyes were soft, his heart rooted, like he was carving eternity.

Veyra mulched a tree, her voice warm, her curls loose, her smile wide. "Eternal, Cal?" she called. "My apples will keep, sweet by spring. Tira, hunt's on?" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was mulching years.

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

Nia wove her blanket, her voice soft, bold, her hair braided, her eyes wide. "Tighter, Orin?" she replied. "This will hold warmth, 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?" she said. "My stack's taller, and Tira, your arrows need work!" Her laugh echoed, her eyes sparkling, like the Hollow was her stage.

Tira fletched an arrow, her voice sharp, warm, her hair tucked, her smile quick. "Work, Gavyn?" she replied. "My arrows fly true, unlike your knots. Rhydian, hunt tomorrow, big game?" Her eyes met his, her hands ready, like she was aiming for home.

As the dawn brightened, a rustle broke the chatter, not a rift, but footsteps, steady and soft, from the path's bend. Two figures emerged, a woman with a satchel, her cloak thick, and a man with a staff, his beard white, their faces weathered but hopeful, eyes catching the fire's glow. The woman raised a hand, her voice steady, warm, like a hearth's call. "Heard of a Hollow, green, thriving, open," she said. "Is this it? I'm Lirien. This is Torvyn. We've got stories, candles, 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 Lirien's, her hand brushing Torren's, a spark flaring. "This is the Verdant Hollow," she replied. "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, Coren, Selene, Vyn. Room's endless, welcome." Her smile was wide, her heart a frost, wide as the earth.

Lirien clutched her satchel, her voice warm, bold, her eyes wide, her hair glinting. "Stories?" she said. "I'll share, Lila, Vyn, want to hear a tale?" Her smile was quick, 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. "Tell, Lirien," she said. "Torvyn, you're home. Share your candles, 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. "Lirien, grab a seat, porridge is hot," he called. "Torvyn, 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 shavings, his voice light, teasing, his smirk gentle, his eyes meeting Lirien's. "Candles, Lirien?" he said. "Top Vyn's spindle, and you're in. Welcome to the frost, 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 enduring. They laughed, worked, fifty now, the heart-tree watching, the dawn bright, the earth alive. The Tapestry was whole, and they were too, stoking unity for tomorrow, one heart at a time.