The afternoon sun streamed through the open windows of Yves' modest home, casting a soft golden glow across the floor.
A gentle breeze carried the aroma of freshly baked bread from the village below, mingling with the faint scent of lavender that always seemed to linger in the air.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Yves felt his body relax, the tension from his earlier confrontation with Alterain temporarily slipping away.
He was astonished at what the man declared, but he didn't believe him. He didn't believe that Alterain could do what he said. So, without hesitation, he went back home.
On the other side of the room, his two-year-old son, Reinhart, played with a wooden horse, his small hands guiding it across imaginary fields.
The child's infectious giggles echoed through the house, bringing warmth to the space. Yves sat beside him on the floor, a gentle smile forming as he watched his son's pure, untainted joy.
