The Verdant Hollow woke under the soft glow of an early spring morning, its clearing a patchwork of fresh grass and budding wildflowers, their petals just opening, crimson flamehearts peeking through soil, indigo duskcaps trembling with dew, amber glowseeds sprouting tiny green tips, their fragile shoots glistening in the dawn.
Muddy patches lingered near the stream, their dark soil soft and fragrant, marked with the tracks of rabbits and the deeper ruts of wagon wheels, slick from last night's rain. The air was cool, alive with the sweet scent of new blossoms, mixed with the earthy tang of wet soil and the sharp, resinous bite of birch logs stacked near the forge, their pale surfaces damp, their rings faint from young growth.
The heart-tree's stump stood as a quiet cornerstone, its blackened core now draped in fresh vines, their leaves tender and green, studded with tiny red buds, their glossy surfaces catching the morning light, glowing like soft rubies.
The buds' faint aroma drifted through the air, blending with the smoky warmth of a firepit where logs burned low, their embers casting a gentle haze across the clearing, and the comforting scent of broth simmering in a cauldron, its steam heavy with barley, leeks, and sage, stirred by a wooden spoon.
A wide table sat beneath a canopy of woven willow branches, its wood worn to a warm brown, etched with swirling vines carved by Lirien, now holding spring's first offerings: clay bowls filled with young greens, their leaves crisp; baskets of early radishes, their red skins bright; slabs of smoked trout, their pink flesh glistening; and loaves of wheat bread, their crusts golden, studded with poppy seeds, still warm from Veyra's oven.
Wooden tankards held nettle tea, its earthy steam rising, warming hands that held them, fingers smudged with soil, nails flecked with mud from morning planting.
The stream gurgled brightly, its water clear and cold, rushing over pebbles polished smooth, their surfaces flecked with quartz that sparkled in the dawn. Reeds stood young, their green tips swaying, tied with fresh ribbons—crimson, violet, indigo—knotted by Lila and Vyn, their colors vivid, dancing like banners of a new season.
Saplings ringed the clearing, their branches sprouting soft leaves, their buds swelling, their bark warm under hands that brushed them, a promise of growth to come.
Sparrows flitted through the pines, their wings flashing brown and white, their chirps a lively chorus, mixing with the fire's crackle and the rhythmic thud of a hoe from the garden, where soil turned for spring's crops.
The air was fresh, heavy with the scent of rain, woodsmoke, and the faint musk of linen tunics draped over benches, their fibers damp with morning mist. The Hollow buzzed with life, its pulse steady in the chatter of voices, the laughter of kids chasing each other through grass, and the clink of tools from the forge, a community bound by shared roots and shared hopes.
Kaelith Varn stood by the cauldron, stirring broth, her wooden spoon swirling through barley and leeks, steam rising in fragrant clouds, warming her face. Her fingers gripped the handle, calluses brushing smooth wood.
She wore a light green tunic, thin linen tied with cord, its collar embroidered with ferns, fitting her lean, strong frame, scars on her hands faded to silver threads, like veins in a petal.
The shard at her belt was a quiet keepsake, its crystal catching the fire's glow, throwing prisms of blue and gold across her hip, a mark of bravery, not burden. Her dark hair was loose, tied back with a leather strip, a few strands sticking to her cheek, flushed from the heat.
Her gray eyes shone, warm like the embers, her smile easy, like she'd found her place in the morning. She hummed a planting song, her breath carrying the scent of sage, her heart steady, quickening when Rhydian's laugh rang out nearby, his grin sparking something she couldn't shake.
Torren Ashkarn knelt by the forge, shaping a hoe, his hammer striking iron with a clang that carried, sparks flying like fireflies, fading into the grass. He wore a deep brown tunic, patched at the shoulders, rolled up to show muscular arms, scars crisscrossing like rivers, faded but proud. His hands were steady, gripping the hammer with a smith's skill, sweat beading on his brow, his face flushed, lit by the forge's glow.
His dark eyes softened, catching Sylvara's hum, his grin easing his jaw, like her voice was a fire he couldn't douse. His hair was short, curling at the neck, his beard faint, making him look younger, free of the Waste's shadow. He sang a forge ballad, low and rough, his voice a rumble, his laugh deep when Vyn tossed a twig, like he was forging the Hollow's heart.
Sylvara Ren sat on a bench, weaving a basket, her fingers threading reeds into tight patterns, their green scent clinging to her skin, her hands steady, smudged with mud. Her tunic was a bright teal, embroidered with leaves, its hem dusted with soil, swaying as she leaned, her auburn braid swinging, tied with a green ribbon, strands glinting like copper in the dawn.
Her freckled arms were smooth, her smile wide, like the Hollow was alive in her chest. Her green eyes sparkled, old grief long gone, her laugh sharp, cutting through the chatter, blending with the stream's song.
She sang a weaving tune, her voice clear, rising like a lark, urging the earth to grow. The air hummed with her rhythm, and she brushed mud from her nose, her heart racing, her gaze flicking to Torren, her cheeks pink, like his hammer was pounding for her.
Rhydian Thalor leaned against a sapling, carving a wooden spoon, his knife shaping birch with careful cuts, shavings curling like petals at his feet, his fingers deft, stained with sap. He wore a deep blue vest over a loose, bright shirt, sleeves rolled to show lean, scarred forearms, tanned by spring's light, muscles flexing as he worked.
His blue eyes glinted, catching Kaelith's hum, his smirk curling, like he could see her heart. His dagger was sheathed, his hands busy with crafting, not fighting. His face was full, stubble light, his grin wide, whistling a sea shanty, his voice bright, like a sailor calling home, his laugh sharp when
Lila tripped in mud, 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 pulling him in.
Lila ran through the grass, her tunic a vivid yellow, patched with flowers, flapping as she chased Vyn, their giggles a bright duet, ringing with the fire's crackle, their boots splashing mud. Her brown hair flew, a ribbon slipping, her cheeks pink, her eyes wide, like the Hollow was a game she'd never tire of.
She clutched a handful of radishes, their sharp scent on her fingers, her grin bold, like spring was hers to win. Her voice was loud, shouting rules for a tag game, her laughter sharp, making folks look up, like she was the Hollow's spark.
Mara sat on a blanket, sewing a tunic for Sana, the toddler giggling, her tiny hands clutching a glowseed sprout, its green tip soft against her skin. Mara's shawl was a deep purple, soft, slipping off her shoulders, her dark hair loose, catching the dawn, her face warm, her eyes soft as she watched Thom plane a plank, 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 craft. 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, a root cellar, and a new seed shed, logs glowing in the dawn, a village thriving.
Eryn and Lora sorted greens by the table, their hands quick, tossing stems to a goat kid, their tunics bright—Eryn's red, Lora's blue—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 seed shed, their shirts damp, their grins wide, tossing wood with a rhythm like a drum. Tira stood nearby, sharpening a knife, her tunic green, 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, Mira's tent, Coren's wagon, and Lirien's tent, a home rooted deep.
Veyra knelt by the orchard, planting cherry saplings, 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 planting for life. Nia wove a mat, 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 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 greens with Nia, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice soft, asking Lila about tag games, 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 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. Lirien told a story, her cloak shed, her voice warm, joking with Torvyn, who poured wax for candles, his grin wide, like he was lighting their place.
They'd kindled this morning 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 spring's dawn. 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, Lirien, Torvyn—family forged—were the Hollow's roots, 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 broth, catching Rhydian's eye, her smile playful, her voice warm, like a spark catching tinder, her hair slipping from its tie. "Hey, Thalor, that spoon's looking rough," she called. "My broth's simmering, so I'm winning our bet. Ready to fetch my kindling?"
Rhydian paused, his knife still, his grin wide, his eyes glinting, his voice smooth, like a sailor's charm. "Kindling, Varn?" he shot back. "This spoon's a masterpiece, and your broth's got nothing on it. Dance tonight, or you're baking my bread." He leaned in, his hand brushing her arm, his grin bold, his heart thumping, like her laugh was reeling him in.
She laughed, her voice sharp, teasing, her eyes dancing, her fingers grazing his, lingering. "Baking?" she said. "I'm winning, Rhydian, and you'll be hauling my logs by noon. Dance is only if you beg." Her smile grew, her cheeks flushing, her pulse racing, like their banter was a fire she couldn't put out.
He stepped closer, his voice low, playful, his eyes locked on hers, his breath warm. "Beg?" he murmured. "I don't beg, Kaelith. I'll spin you till the stars come out, and I'm taking this bet. Ready to cave?" His hand caught hers, squeezing lightly, his heart pounding, like he was betting everything.
Kaelith's breath hitched, her voice softer, bold, like a flame flaring. "Cave?" she replied. "You're dreaming, sailor. I'll have you stirring my pot before you get that dance." She squeezed back, her smile fierce, her eyes bright, pulling away slowly, her heart thumping, like she'd started a blaze she wanted to keep burning.
Sylvara wove her basket, catching Torren's gaze, her voice bright, teasing, like a bell's chime, her braid bouncing. "Torren, that hoe's looking dull," she called. "Forge giving up, or are you just distracted by my reeds?"
Torren paused, hammer still, his grin wide, his voice deep, warm, like a hearth's glow, his eyes soft. "Distracted, Ren?" he answered. "Your basket's a mess, but my hoe's a work of art. Bet I finish this before you're done weaving." He stepped closer, wiping sweat, his laugh low, his chest warm, like her voice was a fire he wanted to stoke.
She stood, basket down, her voice sharp, playful, her smile wide, her cheeks pink. "Art?" she said. "I'd rather let the goats weave my reeds. I'm winning, Torren, and the loser sings tonight, just us." She leaned in, her hand brushing his chest, her laugh loud, her heart racing, 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 broth, just us, Ren. If you win, I'm your smith for a season. Deal?" His hand lingered, warm, his heart thumping, 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 fanning their flame.
Lila tugged Vyn's sleeve, her voice high, bursting out, like a stream's rush, her ribbon gone, her grin huge. "Vyn, you're too slow at tag!" she shouted. "Bet I catch you first, and the loser sweeps the seed shed!"
Vyn laughed, her voice young, bold, her tunic patched, her smile wide. "Sweep?" she replied. "Lila, I'll outrun you! Double chores if I win, deal?" She darted off, her eyes sparkling, her hands waving, like she was chasing Lila's energy.
Nyssa jumped in, her voice loud, bold, her tunic patched, her smile wide. "Tag?" she called. "I'm in, and I'm fastest! Lila, you're fetching my reeds if I win!" She sprinted, her grin huge, her hands flailing, 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's the champ!" He beat his stick, his laugh sharp, his hands muddy, like he was king of the chase.
Kael protested, his voice loud, his tunic patched, his eyes sparkling. "Champ?" he shouted. "Lir, I'm beating you! Lila, you're done!" He lunged forward, 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. "Beating, Kael?" she said. "You're all a mess, so play tag, not fights. Sana's watching!" Her eyes teased, her laugh clear, her heart full, like she was holding their chaos together.
Thom set his plane down, his voice rough, kind, his grin wide, his hands steady. "Mess is fine, Mara," he replied. "Kael, Lir, run true, and Vyn, help Nyssa. Lila, no tricks." His laugh was deep, his eyes bright, like he was shaping their joy.
Soren glazed 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 broth, ready?" Her laugh was clear, her hands steady, like she was molding the Hollow's feast.
Tarn played a note, his voice creaky, warm, his grin wide, his eyes soft. "Broth's good, Soren," he said. "I'll play for the kids, a tune for their chase. Vyn, run fast." 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. "Fast, 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 step up, scar or 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 greens 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 shawls will shine. 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?" she replied. "Only if you dance, staff or no, 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 broth, 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 broth, 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 no, 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 broth, 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 broth, 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 broth, 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.
Lirien told a story, her voice warm, her cloak shed, her smile wide. "Hum, Selene?" she said. "My stories will spark, so Torvyn, pour faster, we're lighting!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was lighting their place.
Torvyn poured wax, his voice low, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Faster, Lirien?" he replied. "I'm crafting for light, and Lila, your tag better win!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was lighting their home.
Eryn sorted greens, her voice low, warm, her hands pausing, her eyes glistening. "This Hollow's a new start, kids, warmth, love," she said. "You've built something real, Kaelith, Sylvara." Her smile was steady, her heart tied to the vines, like she'd always belonged.
Lora nodded, tossing a stem, her voice soft, clear, her eyes on Nia. "Real, yeah," she agreed. "We'll weave for summer, tunics, mats. Hollow's here to stay." Her laugh was light, her hands quick, like she was weaving tomorrow.
Cal carved his peg, his voice creaky, warm, his grin wide, his hands sure. "Here to stay, right," he said. "Seed shed's next, big, for planting. This Hollow's forever." His eyes were soft, his heart rooted, like he was carving eternity.
Veyra planted a sapling, her voice warm, her curls loose, her smile wide. "Forever, Cal?" she called. "My cherries will feed us, ripe by summer. Tira, hunt's on?" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was planting 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 mat, her voice soft, bold, her hair braided, her eyes wide. "Tighter, Orin?" she replied. "This will hold radishes, tons! Sylvara, it's solid, 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. "Solid, Nia?" she said. "My stack's bigger, and Tira, your knife's dull!" Her laugh echoed, her eyes sparkling, like the Hollow was her playground.
Tira sharpened her knife, her voice sharp, warm, her hair tucked, her smile quick. "Dull, Gavyn?" she replied. "My knife's lethal, unlike your knots. Rhydian, hunt tomorrow, big game?" Her eyes met his, her hands ready, like she was cutting her place.
As the morning brightened, a rustle broke the chatter, not a rift, but hooves, steady and slow, from the path's curve. A cart rolled in, pulled by oxen, driven by a woman with short hair, her cloak patched, flanked by a man with a bow and a boy with a whistle, their faces tired 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 the place? I'm Aryn. This is Drenn, our son Kaelor. We've got hides, tunes, room for us?"
Sylvara stepped forward, firelight on her face, her hands open, her voice bright, like the dawn's song, her braid gleaming, her eyes meeting Aryn'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, Lirien, Torvyn. There's always room, welcome." Her smile was wide, her heart a new shoot, wide as the earth.
Kaelor clutched his whistle, his voice young, shy, his eyes wide, his hair glinting. "Tunes?" he said. "I'll play, Lila, Vyn, want to try a whistle?" His smile was small, his hands steady, like he was offering a piece of himself.
Kaelith nodded, her hands warm, her voice steady, her eyes bright, catching Rhydian's grin. "Play, Kaelor," she said. "Aryn, Drenn, you're home. Share your hides, stay. We're building forever." Her smile was full, her hand grazing Rhydian's, her heart racing, like the dance was coming.
Torren waved them over, his voice gruff, kind, his grin warm, his eyes on Sylvara. "Aryn, grab a seat, broth's hot," he called. "Drenn, Kaelor, eat, talk. We've got plenty." His laugh was deep, his hand lingering on Sylvara's shoulder, his chest tight, like her warmth was his fire.
Rhydian tossed his shavings, his voice light, teasing, his smirk gentle, his eyes meeting Kaelor's. "Whistle, Kaelor?" he said. "Beat Lir's drum, and you're in. Welcome to the embers, jump in." He winked, his nod sure, his gaze flicking to Kaelith, like he was promising a night to blaze.
The Hollow thrived, its embers glowing, the stream singing, the saplings growing. They laughed, worked, fifty-three now, the heart-tree watching, the morning bright, the earth alive. The Tapestry was whole, and they were too, stoking spring for tomorrow, one heart at a time.