The dawn broke gently, spreading soft hues of gold and amber across the forest. Kah'el crouched at the stream's edge, his silver hair dampened by the mist rising from the water. The fishing rod in his hands was steady, but his thoughts were far from the present moment.
The rhythmic babble of the stream melded with the memories he couldn't shake. Ashar's laughter—deep, rich, and warm—floated to him as though the man were just behind him. "Jorik," Ashar's voice rang out in his mind, "hold it steady, son. You don't need to fight the rod, just guide it."
Kah'el's grip tightened on the pole, the subtle creak of the wood grounding him against the ache in his chest. His eyes closed briefly, and the forest dissolved into a sunlit lake. The boy's soft giggles filled his ears. Jorik's golden curls bounced as he leaned too far over the edge of their small boat, nearly tipping them over in his excitement.
