Michael lingered at the edge of the village a little longer than necessary while staring at the two boys laughing near the fire pit.
Still unable to believe what he was seeing and the moment he was currently living in right now and in this instance. He looked at the one that appeared too restless—Niklaus.
And the other one, the one that looked composed beyond his years—Elijah.
And then at their mother.
Esther's gaze brushed over him only briefly, it looked sharp and weighing like a hand testing the edge of a blade. Michael offered her a polite, unremarkable smile before finally looking away not to look suspicious.
'Note to self, he thought dryly. Avoid that woman like a damn plague.'
She was the kind of witch who rearranged the world when she didn't like the way it looked.
Still, he followed the sound of drums and laughter into the village. Curiosity won out in the end, as it often did. The air was warm with smoke and roasting meat, heavy with celebration. People glanced at him being a newcomer, stranger but no one reached for a weapon. He carried none. His hands were open and his entire posture was easy… if only they knew he didn't need anything for him to completely reduce them all to ashes in the wind.
Festivals did that to people, it make them lower their guards. Made them human.
Michael moved through the crowd until he found food, something skewered and dripping fat over open flame. He traded a small coin for it and took a bite, nodding appreciatively.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Still overcooked."
Nearby, two broad-shouldered men with foreign accents well foreign was what most in the mordan would have called it but it is the native here, braided hair, unmistakably Viking as they spoke in low tones.
"…third attack this season," one muttered.
"Every moon it's worse," the other replied. "Livestock torn apart along with men who are too slow to move up and too slow to run."
Michael tilted his head slightly. "Attacks?" he asked casually.
One of them looked at him before finally shrugged. "Beasts in the forest. Not the bears but wolves." His voice dropped. "Men that turn when the moon is full."
Michael swallowed his food slowly
'Werewolves,' he thought. 'So it's begun.'
And then, inevitably, 'Ansel's somewhere nearby, isn't he?'
That explained more than he liked.
A sharp shout cut through the celebration.
Michael's head snapped up.
A man stood near the center of the village, tall, armored, radiating authority and anger. His voice carried like iron striking stone.
"What did I tell you about wandering off?" the man barked.
Niklaus stiffened.
Before anyone could react, the slap landed—hard, echoing. The boy stumbled, shock flashing across his face.
Michael didn't move.
He felt the fire stir, a low, dangerous curl beneath his ribs. His jaw tightened.
'Ah,' he thought grimly. 'Mikael.'
History books would call that discipline.
Michael called it cowardice wrapped in armor.
He stayed seated. Forced his hands to remain still.
'Not your fight. Not yet.'
He stood only when the shouting faded, eyes sweeping the village, memorizing exits. Old habits.
Night fell slowly, celebration thinning to embers and murmurs. Michael wandered the outskirts, letting the noise fade. That was when he noticed her.
A young woman stood near the treeline, skin dark as polished wood, hair braided close to her scalp. In her hands was a shallow bowl filled with herbs, carefully arranged.
Michael paused.
Cinnamon bark. Dried vervain leaf. Lavender. A sprig of rosemary.
He stepped closer. "You're wasting the cinnamon," he said mildly. "Too volatile for what you're trying to do."
She startled, spinning toward him. "What?"
He pointed casually. "If it's protection you want, you'd be better off with bay laurel. Grounds the charm. Keeps it from bleeding outward."
Her eyes widened.
"And if you're aiming for longevity," he added, "a drop of ash from last winter's fire helps."
She recoiled, clutching the bowl. "Who are you?"
Michael raised a brow. "Not the reaction I was expecting."
"You should leave," she said sharply. "Stay away from me."
He tilted his head. "Or?"
She didn't answer him but acted instead.
Her lips moved fast, words spilling out sharp and practiced:
"Phasmatos… Morsinus… Pyrox… Allum!"
Pain slammed into Michael's skull like a hammer. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me," he thought as pressure spiked behind his eyes, a blood vessel threatening to burst and then the fire surged underneath his skin
The pain vanished immediately, burned away like paper.
Michael was moving before she could blink.
One moment she stood casting—
The next, his hand closed around her throat, lifting her just enough that her feet barely touched the ground.
His eyes glowed a molten red.
"That," he said calmly, voice layered with something inhuman, "wasn't polite."
A thin crack appeared along his cheek, glowing from beneath like fire beneath stone, light pulsing like a living vein.
Her breath hitched. Terror flooded her face before transforming into something else entirely.
"F–Fire Watcher?" she whispered.
Michael heard the word and frowned.
"What?" he said, genuinely confused.
His grip loosened and he let her go. She dropped immediately to her knees, head bowed, hands pressed to the dirt like she was afraid the ground itself might reject her.
Michael stared.
"…uhhh," he thought. 'Okay. What the fuck is going on now.'
"Fire Watcher," she whispered again. Then, softer. Reverent. "Ash Walker."
That one landed.
Michael exhaled sharply and rubbed the back of his neck. "You know of me?"
She nodded without looking up. Slowly. Carefully. Like the answer mattered.
He crouched in front of her, lowering himself to her level. "Alright," he said calmly, "then you'll have to explain how. I've been very careful."
She finally looked up with bright eyes, one not with fear now, but recognition.
"How could I not know," she said gently, "the guardian of my great-grandmother's coven?"
Michael froze
"…Your what?"
She smiled, small and proud. "The coven you watched over. The one that sailed west."
His voice came quieter. "You're from that coven."
She nodded.
For a long moment, Michael just looked at her, searching for echoes, something familiar in the curve of her face, the steadiness of her magic and he found it. 'She's the great-granddaughter's great-granddaughter of one of this witches huh.'
"Then how are you here?" he asked. "They left."
"They did," she said. "But a century after the crossing, we split."
He straightened slowly. "A split?"
"Disagreements. Fear. Different visions of survival." Her tone held no bitterness, only history. "Some scattered. Some founded new covens. Some… changed."
Michael let out a low breath. "Didn't expect that."
"No one ever does," she replied.
She rose shakily to her feet, and he gestured immediately. "Up. Up. I hate that kneeling nonsense."
He took her arm and helped her properly upright, ignoring her startled look.
"I'm not royalty," he added dryly. "And if I were, I'd still hate it."
They began walking back toward the village together.
As they moved, she spoke of the others.
"One splinter became obsessed with strength," she said. "They performed a ritual to amplify their power, to share it, cycle it. It worked… until it didn't."
Michael's steps slowed.
"They lost the ability to generate magic on their own," she continued. "Now they can only take what already exists. From each other. From outsiders."
Michael closed his eyes briefly.
'Gemini?'
"…wow," he muttered. "That's… unfortunate."
She described another witches who bound themselves to ancestral spirits so tightly they could no longer function without them. A third that fled into the swamps, practicing magic that felt alive, hungry, and old.
Michael listened, saying little, cataloguing everything.
'They didn't fracture,' he realized. 'They adapted.'
By the time they reached her dwelling, the night had grown quieter.
She turned to him. "What brings you here, Fire Watcher?"
Michael smiled faintly. "Drifting," he said. "I do that a lot now."
She studied him, then nodded decisively. "Then you'll stay here."
He blinked. "I—"
"No," she said firmly. "You will."
Michael raised a brow.
"You were our guardian," she continued. "The least a descendant can do is offer you shelter. Temporary or otherwise."
He sighed. "You're very bad at asking."
"Yes," she agreed cheerfully.
"…fine," he said. "Temporary."
He stepped inside, then paused. "I never asked your name, little one."
She smiled, proud and unafraid now.
"Ayana," she said. "Ayana Bennett."
Michael stopped.
His breath caught just slightly.
"…beautiful name," he said sincerely. Then, gently, "And don't call me lord."
She tilted her head.
"Call me Kánen'to," he said. "Kan, for short."
Later, when she'd gone to prepare a place for him, Michael stood alone beneath the open sky.
'It would seem your descendants are doing well,' he thought quietly. 'Old friend.'
'Blood never truly diluted,' he realized. 'It adapted.'
Like a flower growing in harsher soil with thorns sharper, roots deeper and bloom stronger for the struggle.
He looked up at the stars, fire humming contentedly beneath his skin.
'I'm here,' he thought. 'Now.'
And that could only mean one thing.
Fate's wheel was turning again.
As he stepped inside, a final thought brushed his mind, fond and distant.
'Don't you think so too… Maelis Bennett?'
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