The next morning, Eamon's eyes blinked open to the soft glow of dawn filtering through the window, his mind still heavy with sleep.
As he stretched and rose from his bed, a sense of anticipation lingered in the air, spurred by the weighty conversation with Morvan the night before.
Shuffling across the room, Eamon paused at the threshold of Morv's chamber, intending to rouse him from his slumber. But to his surprise, Morvan was already awake, sitting at the edge of his bed with a determined expression etched upon his features.
"Good morning, Father," Morv greeted, his voice steady despite the early hour.
Eamon's brow furrowed in surprise. "Morvan, you're up early. Couldn't sleep?"
Morv shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "No, Father. I couldn't rest, not with so much on my mind. I'm eager to begin our work on the gauntlets."
Eamon's lips curled into a fond smile, touched by his son's eagerness. "Very well, Morvan. Let's not waste any time. The forge awaits, and together, we'll craft something truly remarkable."
The workshop was filled with the heat of lava. Eamon motioned for Morv to take a seat as he gathered the necessary materials for forging the gauntlets.
Before Eamon prepared to melt the iron for crafting Morv's gauntlets, he called his son over to discuss the next steps in the process.
"Morvan, before we begin forging the gauntlets, we need to ensure they're tailored precisely to your arms," Eamon explained, his voice steady with authority.
Morv nodded, eager to participate in the process. "How do we do that, Father?"
"We'll need to measure the size of your arms," Eamon replied, gesturing towards the tools laid out nearby. "The gauntlets must fit snugly but comfortably, providing both protection and mobility."
"Good point." Morv nodded
He handed Morv a measuring tape and indicated where to start.
"Wrap this around your wrist, then your forearm. We'll record the measurements to guide us in crafting the perfect pair of gauntlets for you."
Morv followed his father's instructions, holding his arm out steadily as Eamon took note of each measurement. With precision and care, they recorded the dimensions, ensuring no detail was overlooked.
"These measurements will serve as our instructions," Eamon explained, setting aside the measuring tape. "Now, with these dimensions, we'll shape the iron to fit you like a second skin, but before that, do you have any specific customization in mind for your gauntlets?"
Morv nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, Father. I would like the knuckles to be a little bit pointy, just enough to give me an edge in combat."
Eamon smiled at his son's request. "Pointy knuckles it is then. I'll make sure they're sharp enough to make a difference."
"Not too sharp, I don't want to kill my opponents, if I had any, just a weapon to defend myself." Morv explained.
"Very well."
Eamon carefully selected a sturdy piece of wood from his workshop, his weathered hands running over its surface as he inspected it for imperfections. Satisfied, he placed it on his workbench and reached for his carving tools.
However, Eamon knew that wood alone wouldn't suffice for creating the molds. With expertise born of years at the forge, he also gathered a box of fine sand, a crucial component in the casting process.
With the wooden base prepared, Eamon meticulously layered the sand over it, patting it down firmly to ensure a solid foundation.
Then, with practiced precision, he carved out the shape of the gauntlet molds within the sand, mirroring the design he had crafted in the wood.
As he worked, fine curls of wood shavings mixed with grains of sand fell to the floor, accumulating in small piles around his feet.
Eamon's brow furrowed in concentration, his mind focused solely on the task at hand as he brought the molds to life with each careful cut and carve.
Hours passed in the workshop, the only sounds the steady rhythm of Eamon's tools against the wood. But eventually, the molds began to take shape, their contours matching the specifications laid out by Morv with remarkable accuracy.
With a satisfied nod, Eamon set down his tools and examined his handiwork. The molds were complete, their surfaces smooth, and their shapes true to Morv's vision.
With the preparations complete, Eamon turned his attention to the forge.
"We'll start by melting the iron," Eamon explained, placing chunks of iron ore into the furnace. "Once it's molten, we'll pour it into the molds we just created to shape the gauntlets."
Morv watched in fascination as Eamon worked, his movements precise and practiced. The heat from the forge washed over him, filling him with a sense of anticipation.
As the iron began to melt, Eamon poured it into the molds, carefully shaping the gauntlets with expert precision. The heat of the metal was intense, but Morv remained focused, his eyes fixed on the glowing metal before him.
Once the gauntlets were formed, Eamon set to work tempering them, strengthening their structure and ensuring their durability.
The process was painstaking, but Morv knew it was necessary to create a weapon worthy of his aspirations.
Finally, after hours of labor, the gauntlets were complete, they were gray iron gauntlets with pointy knuckles. Eamon held them out to Morv, a proud smile on his face.
"Here you go, Morv. Your very own pair of gauntlets," Eamon said, his voice filled with pride.
Morv took the gauntlets and wore them in his hands, feeling their weight and solidity. They were a testament to his father's skill and craftsmanship, and he couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards Eamon.
"Thank you father. These are incredible, they fit perfectly! No one can withstand me now!" Morv said, his voice filled with awe.
Eamon nodded, his chest swelling with pride at his son's appreciation. Yet, beneath the surface, a pang of sadness tugged at his heart. He couldn't shake the feeling that Morv's departure would leave a void in his life, one that could not easily be filled.
As Morv admired his new gauntlets, Eamon cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence. "Morvan, I know you're determined to explore the world, and I won't stand in your way. But before you go, perhaps there's one more thing we could do together."
Morv raised an eyebrow, curious about his father's suggestion. "What do you have in mind, Father?"
Eamon hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I could train you. Teach you some of the skills I've learned over the years. It would be beneficial for your journey."
Morv's eyes lit up at the offer, his initial disappointment about leaving momentarily forgotten. "That sounds amazing, Father! I would love to learn from you."
"Splendid, we start tomorrow at sunrise where I will teach you defensive techniques to defend yourself if you encounter something. However today we will spend the day in my shop due to the heavy equipment I need help with."
Deep down inside Eamon didn't really need help with carrying the equipment, but in reality, he wanted to spend time with his son, Morv headed off to sell the equipment his father gave him in the heart of the village where the big market lies.
As Morv trudged wearily along the dusty path leading to his small dwelling, the burden of the day's work weighed heavily on his shoulders. The rough hessian sack slung over his back was packed with the clinking remnants of unsold iron bars, a reminder of the challenges he faced in trying to sell his wares at the village market.
As he approached his humble home, Morv let out a tired sigh, eager to finally rest his tired bones. Pushing open the creaking wooden door, he was greeted by the comforting embrace of his father, Eamon.
"Welcome home, Morvan," Eamon said warmly, his voice filled with genuine affection as he enveloped his son in a tight hug.
"Thanks, Father," Morv replied, leaning into the embrace. "It was a long day at the market, but I managed to sell some of the equipment you crafted."
Eamon nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I'm proud of you Morvan. You're becoming quite the craftsman."
With the sun now setting below the horizon, casting a warm golden tint over the mountainous countryside, Morv felt a sense of contentment wash over him. The familiar sights and noises of his village surrounded him—neighbors' distant chatter, the comforting aroma of home cooked dinners drifting through the air.
As Morv and Eamon settled into their home after a long day's work, Morv couldn't contain his excitement for the training session planned for the next day.
"Father, tomorrow is the awaited day! I can't wait to begin our training," Morv exclaimed, his eyes shining with anticipation.
Eamon's expression softened as he watched his son's enthusiasm. Yet, beneath the surface, a pang of guilt tugged at his heart. He had promised Morv training, but he knew deep down that he had another plan in mind.
"Indeed, Morvan. Tomorrow will be a day to remember," Eamon replied, his voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. "Now get the dinner and go to sleep this time, not like yesterday," Eamon added with a playful glint in his eye, hoping to mask his deeper thoughts.
He said it to lighten the mood, not wanting to burden Morv with the weight of his own emotions. But beneath the jest, Eamon couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension about their their eventual separation.
The next day, as the first light of dawn painted the sky in soft hues of pink and gold, Eamon stirred from his slumber, his mind already heavy with thoughts of the impending separation from his son. Despite the early hour, he rose from his bed with a sense of purpose, determined to make the most of the time they had left together.
Quietly, he made his way to the kitchen, the familiar routine of preparing breakfast a comforting distraction from the weight of his emotions. With practiced hands, he cracked eggs into a pan, the sizzle of them hitting the hot surface a soothing sound in the stillness of the morning.
As the aroma of cooking food filled the air, Eamon's thoughts drifted to Morv, sleeping peacefully in his room down the hall. A pang of sadness tugged at his heart, knowing that soon his son would be venturing out into the world on his own.
But he pushed aside his feelings for now, focusing instead on the task at hand. With breakfast ready, he made his way to Morv's room, hesitating for a moment before gently rousing him from his sleep.
"Morvan, it's time to wake up," he murmured, his voice gentle yet firm.
Morv stirred from his slumber, blinking sleepily as he opened his eyes. The sunlight caught the glint in his eyes, making them sparkle with purple glow. "Good morning, Father," he said with a yawn, a sleepy smile gracing his lips.
"Good morning, my boy," Eamon replied, returning the smile. "Did you sleep well?"
Morv nodded, stretching his arms above his head. "Like a log. I'm ready for whatever today brings."
Eamon's heart swelled with pride at his son's resilience. "That's the spirit. But first, let's fuel up with some breakfast."
Together, they made their way to the small kitchen, where Eamon served up a hearty meal of eggs, bread, and fresh fruit. As they ate, they chatted about the day ahead, excitement bubbling between them.
As they sat down to breakfast, the atmosphere was warm and relaxed, a brief respite from the weight of the impending separation. Eamon watched Morv with a mixture of pride and sadness, knowing that their time together was drawing to a close.
"So, Morvan, did you have any interesting dreams last night?" Eamon asked, trying to keep the conversation light.
Morv chuckled, a twinkle in his eye. "Actually, I did. I dreamt I was back in the forest where I found that strange obsidian. It was glowing glowing in orange, and when i touched it, my eyes turned orange and my hair stayed black, i don't know what that means, but eh, who cares."
Eamon's interest piqued at the mention of the obsidian. "Ah yes, that peculiar stone. You know, I did some research after you found it. Turns out, it's a Gala Absorbing Obsidian."
Morv's eyes widened with curiosity. "A Gala Absorbing Obsidian? What does that mean?"
"It means that it has the ability to absorb Gala from other beings and transfer it to whoever possesses it," Eamon explained, his excitement growing as he delved into the details. "In other words, Morv, the purple Gala you possess may have originally belonged to someone or something else, although the purple gala is rare, so you are really lucky."
Morv's mind whirled with the implications of Eamon's words. "So, you're saying that my Gala isn't entirely my own?"
Eamon nodded solemnly. "That's one way to look at it. But remember, Morvan, it's not the source of your power that defines you, but how you choose to wield it."
Morv mulled over Eamon's words, the weight of them settling in his mind. But before he could respond, Eamon's expression shifted, his excitement dampened by a sudden realization.
"Ah, but enough about that for now," Eamon said, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice. "We have training to attend to."
Morv sensed his father's melancholy and reached out a hand to touch his arm. "Father, what's wrong? You seem... distracted."
Eamon shook his head, rousing himself from his thoughts. "It's nothing, Morvan. Just lost in thought for a moment. But you're right, it's time to focus on the task at hand. Training awaits us."
As Eamon and Morv ventured into the depths of the southern north forest, the air grew thick with anticipation. The towering trees cast long shadows over the forest floor, dappling the ground with patches of sunlight. Morv looked to his father, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
"Father, where are we going?" Morv asked, his voice filled with intrigue.
Eamon's gaze remained fixed ahead as he replied, "We're heading to a special place, Morvan. A training area that I built myself many years ago. It's where I honed my skills, where I became the warrior you see before you."
As they traversed deeper into the forest, the sounds of nature surrounded them—the gentle rustle of leaves, the distant call of birds. Finally, they arrived at the clearing that served as Eamon's training ground. The area was spacious, scattered with training dummies and wooden targets. Swords and axes hung from racks along the perimeter, gleaming in the dappled sunlight.
"Now, Morvan, it's time to begin your training," Eamon said, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
Morv's eyes lit up with excitement. "I can't wait to learn from you, Father. I'm ready to become stronger, to become the warrior I was meant to be."
Eamon's expression hardened, his demeanor shifting in an instant. Without warning, he unsheathed his war axe and hurled it toward Morv with deadly accuracy. Morv reacted instinctively, dodging the weapon by a hair's breadth, the rush of air from its passing ruffling his hair.
"What was that for, Father?" Morv exclaimed, his heart racing from the close call.
Eamon's eyes gleamed with intensity as he retrieved his axe. "To learn others' techniques, you, Solaire, must forge your own. The path to greatness is not paved with borrowed skills, but with the strength and ingenuity of your own creations."
Morv swallowed hard, the weight of his father's words settling heavily on his shoulders. But he nodded resolutely, a fire igniting in his eyes.
Eamon's eyes blazed with an intense red glow as he summoned forth a flaming copy of his war axe, its fiery aura casting an ominous light over the training ground. Morvan watched in awe and trepidation as his father's display of power unfolded before him.
"Did you know, my gala clone technique doesn't specifically apply only for weapons?" Eamon's voice rumbled with a mixture of pride and challenge.
Morvan's heart raced with apprehension as he stammered, "What do you mean?"
A red glow emanated from Eamon's chest, gradually enveloping his form until it took shape as a perfect replica of himself, wielding an identical flaming axe. Morvan's eyes widened in disbelief as he realized the gravity of the situation.
"You're telling me that I must fight two of you? That is literally the opposite of fair!" Morvan protested, his voice laced with a hint of panic.
Eamon's duplicate grinned wickedly as it advanced, mirroring his every movement. "Will your enemies care about fairness in battle? I don't think so," Eamon replied, his voice echoing with an eerie resonance.
With a sudden burst of motion, Eamon and his fiery clone vanished from the battleground, leaving Morvan momentarily disoriented. But before he could react, the original Eamon materialized behind him, his axe poised to strike at Morvan's neck.
Instinct kicked in, and Morvan sensed the shift in the air behind him. With lightning reflexes, he spun around, deflecting the attack with both of his gauntlets just in time to avoid a fatal blow.
"Lesson one, never lose focus, or death awaits you," Eamon's voice rang out, stern and unwavering.
Confused, Morvan furrowed his brow. "Huh? What do you mean?"
Eamon's expression remained stoic as he questioned, "Did you even notice my copy behind you?"
Morvan's eyes widened in realization as he turned to see the flaming clone of his father standing menacingly behind him. Before he could react, the clone's fist connected with his side, sending him staggering backward.
As Morvan grappled with the implications of Eamon's lessons, he couldn't help but question the circumstances of their past encounter with the alpha.
"You're telling me that you were able to do all of that when the alpha attacked the village?" Morvan asked incredulously.
The copy of Eamon, his expression mirroring the original's stoicism, replied, "Indeed, Morvan. The villagers were unaware of my full capabilities. Lesson two: never underestimate your opponent's ignorance."
Just as Morvan absorbed this revelation, the original Eamon reappeared, his axe poised for another strike. Reacting on instinct, Morvan swiftly countered, delivering a powerful blow to his father's stomach that sent him colliding with a nearby tree.
Horror washed over Morvan as he watched his father crumple to the ground. "What have I done?" he whispered, rushing to Eamon's side and attempting to rouse him from unconsciousness.
"I-I'm sorry, Father," Morvan pleaded, his voice filled with regret. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Please, wake up."
Slowly, Eamon stirred, his voice strained as he uttered, "Morvan, lesson three, never show mercy."
Confusion clouded Morvan's thoughts as he tried to comprehend his father's words. Before he could react, a sudden, deadly kick struck him in the waist, sending him flying backward. It was Eamon's fiery clone.
Eamon stirred, as he said.
"Morvan, with these lessons in mind, you shall be stronger."
The air crackled with anticipation as Morvan stood, his expression hardened with determination. "Alright, Father," Morvan said, his voice carrying a newfound gravity. "Let's get serious." he declared, his voice tinged with newfound resolve. With a sharp inhale, he focused his gaze on his father, ready to put the lessons into action.
The ensuing battle was a spectacle of skill and determination. Morvan's punches came with the force of thunder, each blow fueled by the lessons ingrained in his mind. His left gauntlet shattered under the intensity of his strikes, but he pressed on undeterred.
Axes clashed with fists as Morvan faced both Eamon and his fiery clone head-on. Their movements were a blur of motion and sound, the clang of metal mixing with the roar of flames and the grunts of exertion.
Morvan's strategy became apparent as he teleported behind the fiery copy, delivering a devastating blow with his right gauntlet that caused it to vanish into thin air. With relentless determination, he focused his attacks on Eamon, his punches raining down like a tempest.
The air crackled with tension as father and son faced each other, the forest holding its breath in anticipation of the clash to come.
Without a word, Morvan launched himself forward, his movements swift and precise. His punches were a blur of motion, each one aimed with deadly accuracy.
Eamon met his son's onslaught with skill and determination, his axe flashing through the air in a whirlwind of steel. But Morvan was relentless, his attacks coming faster and harder with each passing moment.
Their battle raged on, the sounds of their blows echoing through the silent forest. Morvan's fists struck with the force of a hurricane, each punch driving Eamon back a step.
But Eamon refused to yield, his axe swinging in a deadly dance of death. Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel, the forest floor trembling beneath their feet.
As the fight reached its climax, Morvan's movements took on an otherworldly intensity. Suddenly, his punches blazed with purple flames, the air crackling with raw power.
With a primal roar, Morvan unleashed a devastating punch, his fist connecting with Eamon's face with bone-crushing force, sending him flying in the sky, Morv teleported above him, and delivered a final blow, sending the father to the ground, defeated.
Then, slowly, Eamon stirred, his eyes fluttering open as he gazed up at Morvan with a mixture of pride and disbelief. "I... I didn't expect that," he admitted, his voice filled with awe.
Morvan's chest heaved with exertion as he offered his hand to his father, a triumphant grin on his face. "I win," he declared, his voice ringing with victory.
Eamon chuckled, accepting Morvan's hand as he rose to his feet. "Yes, you certainly did. You've surpassed even my expectations, Morvan."
As they made their way back to their humble abode, Morvan and Eamon were both covered in sweat and dirt from their intense training session. The journey home was quiet, the only sounds the rustle of leaves underfoot and the distant chirping of birds.
Upon reaching their house, Morvan turned to his father with a determined expression. "Father, you should go and take a shower. I'll take care of dinner tonight."
Eamon blinked in surprise at his son's offer, his heart swelling with pride. "Are you sure, Morvan? You've had a long day."
Morvan nodded, a reassuring smile on his face. "I've got this, Father. You've done enough for today. Go and freshen up. Dinner will be ready when you return."
With a grateful smile, Eamon nodded and headed inside to the small washroom. As the warm water cascaded over him, washing away the grime of the day, his mind wandered to tomorrow—the day Morvan would leave the village to explore the world.
Despite his pride in his son's independence, Eamon couldn't shake the feeling of sadness that lingered in his heart. He had spent countless hours teaching Morvan, preparing him for this moment, but now that it was here, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret.
After his shower, Eamon dried himself off and dressed in fresh clothes, the weight of the impending farewell hanging heavy in the air, but for now, Eamon pushed aside his worries and focused on the present moment. He would savor this last evening together with his son, cherishing the simple joy of sharing a meal and the warmth of their bond. With a heavy sigh, he made his way to the kitchen, where the delicious aroma of cooking filled the air.
Eamon found Morvan setting the table with care. The stew that was in the pod bubbled invitingly on the stove, filling the room with its savory aroma.
"Everything smells wonderful, Morvan," Eamon said, his voice filled with appreciation.
Morvan smiled warmly at his father. "Thank you, Father. I wanted to make something special for our last night together."
Eamon's heart swelled with emotion at his son's words. "It's perfect, Morvan. Thank you, for now, take a shower, i will wait, i won't eat until you come."
With a nod of understanding, Morvan headed to the washroom, eager to freshen up before dinner. The warm water was a welcome relief, washing away the fatigue of the day and leaving him feeling invigorated.
As he dried himself off and dressed in fresh clothes, Morvan couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at the thought of leaving his father behind. They had shared so many memories together, and the prospect of venturing out into the world alone was both exhilarating and terrifying.
But Morvan pushed aside his doubts, focusing instead on the present moment. He had dinner to enjoy with his father, and he was determined to make the most of their time together.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Morvan made his way to the kitchen, where Eamon was waiting patiently at the table. The aroma of the stew filled the air, tantalizing his senses and stirring his appetite.
"Sorry for the wait, Father," Morvan said, taking his seat at the table. "Thank you for waiting for me."
Eamon smiled warmly at his son. "Of course, Morvan. I wouldn't dream of starting without you."
Together, they shared a meal filled with laughter and conversation, savoring each bite of the delicious stew. As they ate, Morvan couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the time they had spent together, and a sense of excitement for the adventures that lay ahead.
As the evening drew to a close, Morvan and Eamon sat together in companionable silence, watching the flickering flames of the fire as they danced in the darkness. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of a new chapter in Morvan's life, but for now, he was content to simply be in the presence of his father, cherishing the memories they had created together.
After a long and eventful day, Morvan finally succumbed to sleep, his white hair splayed out messily on the pillow beside him. His father, Eamon, watched him with a mixture of pride and apprehension, his heart heavy with the knowledge that tomorrow would mark the beginning of Morvan's journey into the unknown.
As Morvan slept peacefully, his father's thoughts turned to the challenges that lay ahead. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at his insides, the fear that something might happen to his son out there in the world beyond their village.
With a heavy sigh, Eamon rose from his chair and quietly left the house, seeking solace in the familiar surroundings of the village's bar. It had been years since he had set foot in this place, but tonight, he needed a place to clear his mind, to find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos of his thoughts.
As he entered the dimly lit interior of the bar, Eamon was greeted by the comforting scent of wood smoke and ale. The bartender looked up from his work, surprise evident in his eyes at the sight of Eamon after so many years.
"Eamon! Well, I'll be damned. What brings you back to my humble establishment?" the bartender exclaimed, a warm smile spreading across his weathered face.
Eamon returned the smile, though it was tinged with weariness. "Just needed a change of scenery, my friend. It's been a long day."
The bartender nodded understandingly, pouring Eamon a glass of water. "On the house," he said with a wink. "You always were one of my best customers."
Eamon chuckled softly, taking a sip of the cool water. "Not anymore, I'm afraid. I've sworn off the drink for good."
The bartender raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Is that so? Well, good for you, Eamon. What can I do for you then? Another glass of water, perhaps?"
Eamon shook his head, his gaze distant. "No, thank you. Just some peace and quiet, if you don't mind."
The bartender nodded understandingly, returning to his work behind the bar. Eamon sat alone at a nearby table, his thoughts consumed by worry for his son.
Lost in his own thoughts, Eamon didn't notice when Jolnhere approached him from behind.
"Hey there, Eamon." Jolnhere greeted him with a friendly smile.
Eamon started at the sound of Jolnhere's voice, surprised to see him "Jolnhere? What are you doing here?"
Jolnhere chuckled, taking a seat across from Eamon. "Just thought I'd stop by for a drink, same as you. But something tells me there's more to it than that. You look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders."
Eamon sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "It's Morvan," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's leaving tomorrow, and I can't shake this feeling that something bad is going to happen to him."
Jolnhere's expression softened with sympathy. "I understand, Eamon. It's never easy to see our children venture out into the world on their own. But you've raised Morvan to be strong and capable. I have no doubt that he'll find his way."
"But what if he doesn't? What if something happens to him out there, all alone?" Eamon's voice trembled with fear, his heart aching at the thought of losing his son.
Jolnhere placed a comforting hand on Eamon's shoulder, his gaze filled with empathy. "Hey, hey, hey, easy there, Eamon. Take a deep breath. Your son is strong and capable. He's not a child anymore, and he's made his decision. You have to trust that he'll be alright."
"But what if he's not?" Eamon's voice trembled with fear.
Jolnhere leaned in closer, his voice gentle yet firm. "Eamon, worrying won't change anything. All you can do is have faith in Morvan and his abilities. Trust that he'll find his way, no matter what challenges he may face."
Eamon nodded slowly, the weight of Jolnhere's words sinking in. "You're right, Jolnhere. I need to have faith in Morvan and his journey. Thank you for reminding me of that."
Jolnhere smiled warmly at his friend. "Anytime, Eamon. That's what friends are for. Now, how about we toast to Morvan's future? To new beginnings and endless possibilities."
Eamon's lips twitched into a small smile as he raised his glass of water. "To Morvan," he echoed, the warmth of Jolnhere's friendship easing the ache in his heart.
After finishing his water, Eamon bid farewell to Jolnhere and made his way back home. As he entered the house, he found Morvan still peacefully sleeping in his bed, his white hair a tousled mess on the pillow.
Eamon's heart swelled with love and pride as he watched his son sleep. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to Morvan's cheek, whispering softly, "Good night, my son. Sleep well, and dream of the adventures that await you."
With a heavy but hopeful heart, Eamon retired to his own bed, the weight of his worries easing slightly as he drifted off to sleep. For now, he would cherish these moments with Morvan, knowing that their time together was precious and fleeting.
-End Of The Start-