Time passed differently now.

  There was no calendar in Samuel’s head, no phone to mark days or weeks. But he felt it—in the air, in his body, in the changing light through the window. The newborn fog had lifted. His limbs, still awkward, moved with a little more purpose. His mind sharpened like a blade pulled from water.

  He guessed he was around four months old now. Maybe five. Hard to say.

  But something else had changed, too.

  The fear that had clung to him since waking in this world… had loosened its grip.

  It hadn’t disappeared—he still remembered the system’s warnings, still felt the unease under his skin when the Codex flickered to life in the dark—but the panic had dulled.

  Mostly because of them.

  Eliara’s love was the kind that didn’t ask for anything.

  She sang when she thought no one was listening. She danced while folding laundry. She whispered to Samuel about nothing at all—just gentle, looping nonsense that filled the room with a strange comfort.

  She smelled like warm bread, herbs, and faint woodsmoke. Her voice was soft even when she was scolding Dorian for leaving his boots by the door again.

  When she held Samuel, the world felt like it wasn’t ending.

  And maybe that was enough, even for now.

  One morning, the hearth was cold and the house was quiet. Dorian had already gone out to work. Eliara sat with Samuel in her lap, brushing his hair with her fingers.

  “You know,” she said in a low, thoughtful voice, “I used to think I couldn’t have children.”

  Samuel blinked up at her.

  “I prayed for years. Every month came and went, and nothing. And when I finally stopped asking... when I finally gave up—”

  She looked down at him, eyes glassy.

  “There you were.”

  Samuel reached out with one uncoordinated hand and grabbed the edge of her sleeve. It wasn’t on purpose. But she laughed like it meant the world.

  “You always look so serious,” she murmured. “Like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t.”

  More than you know, he wanted to say.

  But all he could do was stare, wide-eyed, heart aching with something he couldn’t name.

  She kissed his forehead, just once, then held him tighter.

  Dorian was different. Quieter, harder to read. His love didn’t show in words or softness. It showed in how he worked, how he watched, how he never missed a detail.

  He always made sure the door was shut just right. That the woodpile never ran low. That Eliara never lifted anything heavier than a broom.

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  And he always—always—picked Samuel up before leaving for work.

  Didn’t matter if it was raining, or if he was late. He’d crouch down, scoop him up, and mutter some half-joke or nickname like “little anchor” or “runt warrior” before heading out the door.

  Samuel never smiled.

  But something inside him did.

  One evening, Dorian returned home earlier than usual, his hands stained with sap and earth. Eliara was asleep in the chair, Samuel curled against her chest.

  Dorian moved like he didn’t want to wake the floorboards. He crouched beside them, rough fingers brushing Samuel’s hair aside.

  “You keeping her safe while I’m gone?” he whispered.

  Samuel stirred.

  Dorian leaned closer, brow furrowed. “You’re too quiet for a baby, you know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’re always thinking. Watching.”

  He let out a breath. Not annoyed—more… awed.

  “You’re not just smart, are you?” he said softly. “You’re old. Somewhere in there, you’ve been through hell, haven’t you?”

  Samuel blinked, slow and still.

  Dorian stared a second longer, then smiled without teeth.

  “That’s alright,” he said. “You’re ours now. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

  He stood, kissed Eliara on the head, and went to light the hearth.

  And Samuel lay still in her arms, the fire flickering gently behind his eyes, the ache in his chest growing warm and unbearable.

  It started with a shiver.

  A twitch of his tiny fingers. A heat crawling beneath his skin that didn’t belong. By evening, the warmth had turned into fire.

  Samuel couldn’t cry. Not properly. His throat was dry. His body ached. His head felt full of smoke.

  He wasn’t afraid of fevers. Not really. He’d had plenty of them in his past life—worse ones. But this body was still fragile, still small. Still unfinished. And there was a different kind of fear rising in him now:

  What if I die… and rewind?

  What if I lose this?

  He didn’t want to start over. Not again. Not when things were just beginning to feel real.

  Eliara noticed first.

  She was feeding him warm milk from a carved wooden spoon when her smile vanished. Her hand hovered near his forehead, then pressed gently to it.

  “Dorian,” she called, voice tight. “He’s warm. Too warm.”

  Footsteps. Panic without shouting. Dorian moved like a soldier under pressure—efficient, silent. He brought cool cloths, dampened towels, whispered something about getting the healer.

  Samuel wanted to tell them he’d be fine. That he just needed rest. That this wasn’t the kind of thing that killed him.

  But his body betrayed him. He whimpered. Weak. Breath hitching.

  And the look on Eliara’s face cracked something in him.

  She wasn’t just worried.

  She was terrified.

  “Stay with me, love,” she whispered, voice shaking as she pressed the cloth to his forehead. “You’re strong, I know it. Just stay with me, alright?”

  He saw her lips quiver as she blinked away tears.

  And in that moment, Samuel hated how helpless he was. How much he wanted to speak. How much he needed to protect her from the pain of loss he’d once thought was normal.

  Not here.

  Not in this life.

  The night dragged on in slow, fevered pulses.

  The healer arrived, an older woman with cloud-white hair and a staff carved from bonewood. She checked Samuel over, muttering in the local tongue, then handed Eliara a small vial of glowing blue liquid.

  “Crushed duskroot and bloodmoss,” she said. “It will ease the fever. He’s strong. He’ll fight it off.”

  Eliara held him tighter, pressing her lips to his hair.

  “He has to.”

  ---

  Hours passed. The fire dimmed. The shadows crept in.

  Samuel drifted in and out of sleep, his mind floating between the world and the place beneath it.

  At one point, he thought he saw a flicker—system text, hovering faintly over the ceiling.

  > [Vital Signs: Critical]

  [No Rewind Triggered]

  [Monitoring: Stabilizing...]

  And below that, something new.

  > [Emotional Anchor Detected]

  [Soul Thread Strengthened]

  The text faded. The heat receded.

  And Samuel breathed.

  When morning finally came, it found Eliara asleep beside him, her hand curled protectively over his chest.

  Dorian sat in the corner, silent, unmoving, watching like a sentinel.

  Samuel opened his eyes fully for the first time in a day.

  He blinked. Exhaled.

  And then… he smiled.

  Just a little.

  Eliara stirred, saw it, and let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

  “You scared the stars out of me,” she whispered, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Don’t do that again.”

  She picked him up and held him like a prayer.

  And for the first time since waking in this world, Samuel felt like someone worth mourning.

  That night, as they slept in a quiet house warmed by flickering firelight, the system stirred again.

  > [Emotion Enhance: HOPE unlocked.]

  [Bond strength increased.]

  [Shadow Affinity stabilizing...]

  But deeper in the Codex, beneath the glowing lines of text…

  A locked file pulsed once.

  Faint. Red. Waiting.