(Brothers' POV)
Both boys froze.
Luke's hands hovered mid-motion, eyes locked on the fire—then slowly shifted toward the old man.
Damien didn't move at all.
Magic itself wasn't unfamiliar to them.
Back in Creedle, they had seen simple displays meant more for show than function.
But this—This was different.
There had been no chant. No gesture. No visible effort.
Just a breath.
And what struck them most wasn't the fire itself—it was the control.
The flame hadn't roared or scattered. It hadn't scorched the ground or burst wildly. It had travelled in a thin, precise stream, no wider than a needle at its finest point, and ignited the wood as gently as if it had been lit by hand.
Luke swallowed slightly. "…Did you see that?"
"Yeah," Damien murmured, eyes still fixed on the man.
Their gaze drifted briefly to the side—to the sword resting near the tree, to the worn armour carefully placed beside it.
A quiet confirmation of what they expected
He was a knight, a gentle one in fact.
And not the kind you heard about in passing stories.
The real kind, with values and care for commoners.
Still, neither of them spoke further.
They weren't the type to ask questions—especially not to someone like him. The fire alone felt like it conveyed enough grace, as if asking us all to rest and not chatter into the night.
So they stayed quiet.
The flames crackled between them, casting a warm glow that pushed back the darkness creeping in from the forest. Overhead, the sky had deepened into night, clouds drifting slowly across what little light remained.
One by one, the sounds of the forest softened.
Luke lay back first, pulling his arms close to his body for warmth. Damien followed soon after, eyes lingering on the fire just a moment longer before closing.
Neither of them said it aloud.
But they both felt it.
Tomorrow would be harder.
So they slept—hoping to gather what little strength they could for the journey ahead.