Chapter Text
“Just one more bite, Captain, and then I’ll walk you back to the inn for the night for some rest. You deserve it.”
Kabru nudged Mithrun gently with his elbow and gestured to Mithrun’s half-finished bowl of creamy potato leek soup with his own spoon, patiently encouraging the exhausted elf to finish his dinner. When Mithrun continued to stare at his cooling bowl without so much as a twitch of his hand, Kabru let out a quiet sigh and dipped a piece of his toasted bread into the bowl of beef bourguignon in front of him, then offered it to Mithrun.
“Give mine a try. Maybe something different will be more appetizing.”
Mithrun tilted his head slightly to his right to fix Kabru with a faintly put-out look. He didn’t bother reminding him that food preferences didn’t matter to someone who didn’t have desires.
Falin had been successfully resurrected two weeks ago, and Laios’s former party and the Golden Country’s residents had begun the hard work of cleaning and repairing the castle that had risen from the depths of the sea. To their chagrin, Kabru had volunteered his party to help with the renovations, eager to begin cultivating a new relationship with Laios and Yaad as the leaders of a new country. However, only Rin and Daya stuck around after the first few days of hard labor. Now that adventuring was no longer a viable source of income, Holm decided to visit his sister to see if she would be willing to work with him again on their research in spirit magic, and Mickbell hadn’t even stayed until the end of the first day before dragging Kuro away with him, saying that half-foots weren’t built for this kind of labor—and certainly not for free.
So when Kabru learned that the Canaries had been ordered to stay on the Island a little longer to gather more information about the changes in this country before returning home, he approached Mithrun to ask if he’d be willing to help. He had done so in Pattadol's presence—an intentional move, Mithrun had no doubt—and she had been all too eager to volunteer their teleportation specialist’s services to build rapport with a new Melini on the elven nation’s behalf.
Kabru had framed it as an opportunity for Mithrun to spend some time with new people to see if it would inspire a new desire, though Mithrun wasn’t sure what new desires he was expected to develop by using his magic for large-scale cleanup duty. Teleporting away the seawater collecting in the bowels of the castle and clearing the debris and stonework that had collapsed into the hallways during the castle’s ascent to the surface seemed less about finding new desires and more about Kabru’s desire to ingratiate himself to Laios.
Regardless, he had nothing better to do while waiting for the Queen to summon them back to the Northern Central Continent, so he agreed. With the Demon gone, he was running out of ways to be useful to anyone. At least he could do this for Kabru before going back home to… well, he’d have to figure that out. If nothing else, he had time to figure out what he wanted out of the rest of his life. Perhaps too much time.
But even after the long days of restoration work, Kabru insisted on treating Mithrun to dinner every night. He said it was the least he could do to repay him for his hard work, though Mithrun suspected it was his way of making sure he ate properly to replenish the mana he burned through each day. Despite no longer having any reason to take care of him after their brief but oddly close partnership in the dungeon, Kabru still seemed to be around quite often, sitting with him until he finished his meals and arguing with Cithis and the others about how to best help him to sleep at night. If he didn’t know better, Mithrun might've suspected that Cithis was using her compulsion magic to push Kabru into taking over her role of looking after her captain for as long as she could get away with.
Earlier today at the castle, Kabru had become distracted from his job of watching over Mithrun's mana levels when he ran into Yaad. Once he learned of Yaad’s true identity and the story behind the Golden Kingdom, he spent the afternoon begging him to take him on as an apprentice. Mithrun had ended up working without stopping for several hours straight, and Kabru eventually found him nearly collapsed by the main stairwell near the end of the day. After profuse apologies and practically carrying the elf to town to get something to eat, he decided they would take the day off tomorrow to show Mithrun the rest of the Island instead.
Tonight, Kabru had taken him to the tavern he lived above, admitting that it was the closest thing he could call home on the Island. They sat in a far corner of the room, and as they ate, they listened to the rowdy patrons complain about what they would do now for a living after the disappearance of treasure-laden dungeons.
So short-sighted, Mithrun thought to himself as he obediently accepted the bread Kabru handed to him. He had no shortage of experience dealing with the short-lived races throughout his Canary career, but soldiers like him were only ever deployed to dungeons that were already in advanced stages of their development. Greed, a foolish hunger for fame and adventure, and the desire to exploit dungeon magic for personal gain were all typical of the people he met on his missions. But the young tallman sharing his meal with him had been curiously different. He hadn't been able to predict Kabru's actions when they first met because his motives were unlike any he'd met in the years he'd served as captain.
Bits of beef gravy and mushrooms dribbled messily from the slice of buttered toast as he carelessly took a bite, and before he could finish swallowing, he caught Kabru staring at him with a fond look on his face.
Kabru grinned at Mithrun’s stuffed cheeks and pointed at his own mouth, saying, “You’ve got a little something on your face there, Captain.”
Mithrun shrugged, swallowed, and took another big bite of bread. Kabru had been right. Despite initially being so tired he could barely muster the energy to chew, the food was starting to help. Kabru’s company was nice, too. The longer he spent eating, the longer he’d stay. Kabru quietly pushed his own bowl toward Mithrun to see if he would continue to be more motivated to eat the fragrant, rich beef stew instead of his own vegetable soup.
Before Mithrun could call Kabru out on the fact that he had barely touched his own dinner, a prickle crept up the back of his neck as he caught sight of someone watching them out of the corner of his eye. He glanced to the tables at his left and met the dark, narrowed eyes of a burly man with scars on his face and a scowl on his lips. Clearly, this man knew at least one of them, but Mithrun didn’t recognize him.
He jumped slightly when he felt a napkin dab at the edge of his mouth, and he turned back to face Kabru, who had quickly withdrawn his hand with a sheepish look on his face as if he had only just realized what he’d done. “Ah—sorry, I forgot, you couldn't see me—”
Mithrun waved away his stilted apology and asked in a low voice, “Kabru, do you know that man over there? Two tables over to our left. Short dark hair, broad shoulders. He’s been staring at us.”
Kabru sat up straight and subtly shifted his gaze to look over Mithrun’s head. Mithrun knew he recognized the man when his companion’s lips pressed tight before releasing a tense, startled huff.
“I do. All of the men at that table are corpse retrievers. Well, I guess former corpse retrievers now. I killed them in the dungeon a couple weeks ago… someone must’ve found them and resurrected them.”
Mithrun raised his brow. He hadn’t known Kabru for long, but what he did know of him was that he deeply cared for humans, and that he chose to leave the safety of his life with Milsiril to protect the people of the Island from the dangers of an evolving dungeon. He also knew Kabru was willing to do what was necessary to prevent the dungeon from gaining power, but killing a group of people meant to help adventurers like himself?
“Why?”
“Why did I kill them?” Kabru’s brows furrowed as he shifted his eyes back to the leek soup in front of him. “They were corrupted by their greed, taking advantage of others for their own selfish interests. They tried to trick my party into killing each other so they could revive us for money, then tried to bribe me into killing some of their own members just to make a profit. People like that only feed a dungeon’s growth. They deserved what they got.”
“Hm. They seem to remember that well. That shouldn't concern you as long as I'm around. But now that resurrection is no longer possible, are you worried that they'll seek you out for trouble after I've gone back to the west?”
Kabru shot him a confident smile as he rose to his feet. “Don't worry about me. They should also remember how quickly I singlehandedly took them down the last time. They wouldn't value their lives so little to try their luck a second time.” He slid several copper coins onto the table before helping the still-tired elf out of his seat. Then his smile faltered for a brief moment as Mithrun's question really sank in, and he added, “But let's not invite trouble by sticking around. They look like they've had a good amount to drink, and I don't want you to get involved.”
Thankfully, they didn’t have far to walk to get back to Mithrun’s room. The Canaries had set up temporary residence at an inn next door to the tavern, close enough for Kabru to keep an eye on their elven visitors. As they made their way down the dirt path toward the inn, Kabru asked, “So, when exactly are you leaving?”
Mithrun looked up at the town around them. The streets were quieter now that night had settled in, and the windows of the homes that lined the main road glowed with the warm light of families gathered for dinner. This country was young, but it was adaptable. Resilient. A bit charming, actually, despite how different it was from everything he’d grown up knowing. Much like Kabru himself.
“Likely in another week or so. Pattadol will be back before year’s end. The Queen wants her to begin her role as diplomat as early as possible in Melini’s establishment.”
Kabru’s voice was quiet. “And you? Have you thought about the Queen’s offer to serve as her ambassador here?”
Mithrun scoffed lightly. “The offer was only truly intended for Pattadol. Both the Queen and I know that I wouldn’t be a capable ambassador when I have no desire to engage in the formalities of politics now. And with Laios’s curse in place, we haven’t seen so much as a single walking mushroom since the feast ended. This land has no further use for me.”
Kabru frowned. “What will you do back home then? Now that you’ll finally be free of the Canaries?”
“... I’m not sure yet.”
“Then why don’t you stay here a bit longer? I’m sure we could use your help, and I could help you establish a new routine on the surface—”
Mithrun shook his head. “You don’t need to pity me, Kabru.”
They had arrived at the inn by now, and Mithrun’s hand reached for the metal handle of the front door. He didn’t move to pull it open.
“A new country needs people with something to give. People who want to build something for themselves, and for others, in hopes of a better future. People like you. I don’t belong in a place like this.”
Kabru stepped closer, reaching past the shorter man to brace a hand against the door to keep it from swinging into Mithrun’s face, in case someone pushed it open from the other side while they were talking.
“And with the elves—did you ever feel you belonged? During your rehabilitation? After?”
Mithrun didn’t look up, but he could feel Kabru’s bright blue eyes boring into the side of his head. “It doesn’t matter. The elves may find me uncomfortable to be around, but our country has information. The Queen will be able to provide access to records documenting where the Demon’s presence has been strongest throughout history. Once I return home, I could spend my life researching ways to make sure the Demon never returns.”
Kabru’s fingers tensed in their splayed position against the door, and Mithrun noticed the tendons rising just beneath his skin. “And what of your happiness, Mithrun? You still have a long life to live. Chasing the ghost of the Demon can’t be your only reason to keep going.”
A pale hand rose to ease Kabru’s arm away from the inn’s entrance. As Mithrun pulled open the door, soft lantern light spilled onto the porch, revealing the weary expression on his face as he turned to look at Kabru.
“I suppose time will tell if that’s still within my reach. But I am not owed happiness after the choices I’ve made.”
Mithrun brushed past Kabru and headed for the stairs toward his room on the second floor. He heard Kabru move to follow him in, but no retort or protest came with it. Instead, Kabru trailed after him closely with brows creased as they climbed up the stairs, as if he were afraid his friend’s legs might finally give out, and simply asked, “Will you need help getting to sleep tonight?”
“I’ll be fine.”
When they reached the landing, they saw Pattadol emerging from the room next to Mithrun’s, her face flushed an irritated pink. She must’ve just told the Canaries off for whatever mischief they were getting up to in their much too free time, but her face cleared when she caught sight of her captain.
“Captain, you’re back! Have you eaten?”
“Yes, we had dinner at the tavern next door,” Mithrun intoned as he opened the door to his room. He glanced over his shoulder at Kabru, whose strangely intense look earlier had been smoothed into a reassuring smile for Pattadol. “Good night, Kabru.”
“Rest well, Captain. I'll see you tomorrow.”
Mithrun’s door clicked closed, and Kabru’s voice faded outside as he and Pattadol moved further down the hall to talk. Falling asleep on his own had been easier than usual this last week or so. Perhaps the restoration job was doing him more good than he thought.
The room was relatively bare, and the only indication that someone was spending their nights here was a single, small chest of belongings pushed up against the wall under the window. A wooden basin of cold water sat on a table in the bathroom with a magic circle drawn below it, ready to be activated with a quick spell, but Mithrun had no preference for physical comforts like warm water. He threw a hand towel into the basin, stripped out of his uniform and began wiping the sweat and grime from his body with the wet cloth, something Kabru had insisted on adding to his daily routine after he noticed Mithrun smelling especially ripe on his second day at the restoration site. Once he dried off, he walked over to the chest to pull out a clean sleeping tunic. Despite his prior inclination toward long sleeves, the only sleepwear he carried on his missions now were the standard issue ones from headquarters. Absently, he grabbed the topmost garment in the chest and pulled the traditional white tunic over his head, a sleeveless halter top that cinched at his slender waist.
After he pulled the tunic down to his scarred thighs, he glanced out the window and saw Kabru emerging from the entrance of the inn. He watched as the tallman took several steps away from the main road, heading in the direction of the back entrance of the tavern next door. Then he paused, standing alone in the dark, and gazed up at the star-filled sky above him with a faraway look on his face.
Mithrun felt a strange, aching longing in his chest as he looked down at the man he’d met only several weeks ago. A powerful sense of grief suddenly washed over him, threaded with quiet contentment and a soul-deep desire to close the distance between them. It felt as though he were saying goodbye to someone he had known for a lifetime. Confused and breathless, he leaned forward, fingers digging into the windowsill and eyes fixed on Kabru as he probed his foggy mind for the source of these emotions that didn't feel like his own. He wasn't sure how long he stood there staring before Kabru finally looked up, caught his eye, and smiled with a small wave.
Mithrun blinked. Just like that, the foreign emotions dissipated, slipping out of reach like a receding tide and leaving him feeling emptier than before.
He took a quick step back from the window and gave his head a rough shake to clear his mind. He must've been more tired than he thought. Mithrun reached out to close the lid of the chest, ready to dismiss the unsettling experience as nothing more than a brief bout of mana sickness, when something small inside caught his eye, glinting in the moonlight streaming through the window. A subtle pull of magic thrummed through him, and he stilled, eye narrowing in suspicion. Carefully, he pushed the lid fully open again to take a closer look inside the chest.
A small hourglass lay neatly on its side, resting under the tunic he had just put on.
This wasn't something of his.
Slender fingers carefully plucked the glass object from its bed of clothing, and the chest closed with a thunk as Mithrun straightened up with the artifact held between this thumb and forefinger. The sand inside the hourglass was an unnaturally bright silver and glittered like crushed diamonds in the moonlight, and the hourglass itself was encased in a delicate brass frame with a matching chain attached to the top.
Mithrun was no stranger to magical artifacts. It wasn’t a rare occurrence for Canary units to come across items like these on their dungeon expeditions, though none had ever shown up unannounced in his personal belongings. He ought to question his squad about that later. He was well aware that unknown artifacts could contain curses or arcane magic best not trifled with unless proper safety measures were in place.
But something felt different about the magic flowing through this artifact. It felt familiar, even safe—and at the same time, it seemed to reach beyond him, as if it drew its power from a source far greater than his own. Against his better judgement, he curiously turned the hourglass over in his hand, waiting to see what would happen when the silver particles began to trickle down. But nothing happened. The sand of the hourglass moved freely within the top glass bulb, but it wouldn't funnel down into the bottom half.
Otta and Fleki used to sell ancient magical artifacts before it landed them in prison. Maybe one of them would know something about this. Closing his fingers around the small hourglass in his palm, he began to turn toward the bedroom door, but he paused when movement outside drew his attention back to the window.
He looked down to find that Kabru was no longer alone. A group of men had appeared from the direction of the tavern’s entrance, and their posture and expressions turned hostile when they caught sight of Kabru. One of the larger men shouted something to the others, and in response, the group began to spread out and move toward the back of the tavern. Slowly, they closed in on Kabru, forming a tight semicircle that forced him back against the tavern’s rear wall. Mithrun’s teeth gritted when he recognized the man at the forefront of the confrontation as the corpse retriever they’d seen earlier.
The drunken fools. Kabru might not have his sword on him now, but he always carried a dagger—and what they didn’t realize was that he had a far more dangerous weapon within yelling distance just next door.
A fierce protectiveness welled up in Mithrun, but this time, he could identify the feeling as at least partially his own. Magic sparked in the air around him, and without thinking, he let the teleportation magic surge through his body as he aimed himself at the ground floor below.
Mithrun’s usual teleportation magic involved the spread of mana from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes, and through anything in direct contact with him, as long as the connection point was small enough to allow focused mana channeling. Once the magic activated, everything his mana enveloped would undergo spatial displacement in the blink of an eye.
The moment the mana flowing outward from Mithrun’s chest made contact with the hourglass still clutched in his hand, a pulse of magical energy emanated from the strange object. It rushed through him like a warm drink on a frigid day, but it seemed to push against and warp the flow of Mithrun’s mana. He had just enough time to realize, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that the spell had gone wrong, before the familiar feeling of instantaneous sensory deprivation associated with teleportation took over.
When his vision returned, Mithrun immediately noticed he wasn’t outside the inn where he had intended to be. He found himself on his back, staring up at a stark white ceiling, and the sound of pouring rain could be heard striking against the glass of a large window at the far end of the room.
Where was he…?
Mithrun bent his elbows and tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but his movement faltered as his arms shook and burned under him. Long, disheveled hair swung across his limited vision, and a slight swell of panic rose in him as his body remembered where he was before it fully clicked in his mind.
Or rather, when this was.
He struggled up in bed, pushed the hair out of his face, and slowly let the hand drift down his face, fingertips brushing over the bandages wrapped across the top of his head and over his missing eye. When the hand dropped back to his lap, he turned both of them over, the hourglass still in his other palm, and saw the rows of angry red fingernail marks along his thin forearms. Trails of dried blood streaked the sickly-pale skin, a too-familiar sight he hadn’t seen in over a decade.
He was in the past, in the later years of his rehabilitation. He remembered this day clearly—he had been making progress in his recovery, after the news of Utaya rekindled a desire in him to go after the Demon, and his parents had agreed to let him stay at Milsiril’s estate to dedicate himself to working towards rejoining the Canary forces. But the nightmares still crept in on nights the sleeping spells wore off, followed by days where he would relapse and claw at himself like he was trying to tear away the parts of himself that the Demon had once touched. This had been one of those days, and the caretakers had dosed him with strong sedating potions at regular intervals for the better part of a week to keep him calm.
Trying to ignore the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he swung his still weak legs over the bed and let his bare feet rest on the cold floor. Somehow, his teleportation magic had been distorted, and instead of moving through space, he had unwittingly moved through time itself.
The details of how this type of teleportation worked was out of his realm of knowledge. Mastery of teleportation magic was a rare skill, and fewer and fewer mages presented with the ability over time. When he first showed signs of an affinity to teleportation magic, his mentors had taught him that there were two types of teleportation: spatial and temporal. However, they had made it clear early on that teleporting through time was considered ancient magic and was strictly forbidden. It was said that mages in the time of the ancients suspected to use time travel to alter the course of history were executed or imprisoned, and thus that branch of magic faded out of existence many centuries ago.
He was now learning that temporal teleportation, if he wasn’t hallucinating all of this, didn’t involve displacing his physical body the way his usual spatial teleportation did. Instead, only his mind had been sent back in time, taking over the body of the version of himself that existed in that moment. Which meant there was no accessing centuries past or future—only the years of his own lifetime.
This artifact he held in his hand now must've been created by the ancients. How it ended up in his room tucked in with his belongings was another matter, but for now, he had more pressing questions.
The silver particles in the hourglass glimmered faintly in the dim candlelight as Mithrun carefully turned the artifact over again in his hand. This time, the sand-like substance at the top started to dimple, slowly sinking inward at the center, and a steady thread of silver began to fall to the bottom of the glass.
Reflexively, Mithrun got to his feet, though he had no idea what to do next as he watched the sand scatter across the bottom with bated breath. What would happen when the silver above ran out? What was the hourglass counting down toward, if its magic involved time itself?
After several seconds, the flow of silver abruptly stopped. When nothing followed, the stale air in Mithrun's lungs slipped out through his cracked, pursed lips in a sigh. He wasn't sure whether he should feel relieved or disappointed. Was the silver an indicator of how much time he had left to spend in this portion of his timeline? Would he have to figure out how to get back to his own time before all the sand fell, or would the artifact send him home once the hourglass emptied?
A cold, prickly feeling crawled across his skin. He wanted to be away from here. Nearly half a year still remained between this moment and the day he would be deemed fit to rejoin the Canaries, and his heart raced at the thought of having to relive a time when he barely thought of himself as human.
His body began to move even before a plan had formulated in his mind, striding across the room toward the door. Only when his fingers curled around the cool metal of the doorknob did the thought cross his mind: the ancients had forbidden time travel for a reason. Time was like a stream. Interfering with established events of the past could send ripples outward, leading to consequences further downstream that no one would be able to foresee.
If he spoke to Milsiril now, she would think he was ready to rejoin the Canaries as he was. But before his current self had taken over, he hadn't been ready to lead a squad at this point in his recovery. If he ever managed to return to his own time, he didn’t know how many soldiers’ lives would be lost if this version of him were allowed to assume command too soon.
Before he could make up his mind on what to do, a small rustling sound at his feet interrupted the silence in the room. Mithrun looked down and saw a small slip of paper appear from under the door, along with two pieces of elven sweets wrapped in parchment paper. Bubbly, clumsy script was scrawled across the white surface in Elvish, and Mithrun instantly recognized the handwriting even if he had never learned who the sender was.
Throughout Mithrun’s entire stay at Milsiril’s estate, he had received sporadic letters—if such short, messy notes could be called letters—slipped under the door from someone outside. He had never cared to question whom they were from, nor had he ever bothered to respond. Thinking about it now, he hadn’t even read most of them. Most of the time, the caretakers would spot the papers lying untouched on the ground after being pushed under the door, shake their heads, and throw them away without a word. Milsiril never brought up the letters on her visits, either.
He knelt down and picked up today's letter, and this time, he read it.
Mom says you’re hurt again and not to bother you while you’re sleeping. Feel better soon, okay? I hope you like dried fruit candy. I saved the peach ones for you. They’re my favorite.
A couple words were oddly misspelled, and the letters lacked the confident elegance of elven penmanship. Clearly a child's handwriting.
He shouldn't reply. He never had before, and he didn’t even know who the child was. Forming new connections while jumping through time—no matter how small or fleeting—was too risky; it could tangle their futures in ways he couldn’t predict.
He took a step back from the door, ready to return to bed and think through his options for getting home. Then he heard a barely audible sniffle on the other side of the door, and, despite his reservations, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. The child was still there. No one willingly spent time with him back then.
Mithrun knelt, sitting back on his heels, and leaned his shoulder against the door. His voice came out low and scratchy, as if he hadn’t spoken in a day or two.
“Are you one of Milsiril's children?”
His question was met with a muffled squeak and a shuffling noise, and Mithrun could hear a small body scooting closer to the door. Then, a timid voice spoke in halting Elvish. “Yes.”
Must be one of the short-lived children Milsiril took in, then. “Do you speak Common?”
The excitement in the child’s voice was almost palpable as he switched to a more familiar tongue. “Uh-huh! Mil—um, mom is teaching me Elvish, but I’m not very good at it yet. I wrote you letters in Common, but you never answered. So I thought you didn’t know how to read it.”
Little brat, Mithrun thought with an amused smirk. I learned Common decades before you were even conceived.
Instead, he said, “I don’t have anything to write back with.” Which was also true. Despite his progress, his caretakers were still cautious about what they left him alone with.
“Oh. I’ll give you one of mine next time, then! But I like talking with you.”
“Didn’t your mom tell you not to come here?”
A guilty silence followed. “Are you gonna tell her?”
A small smile ghosted across Mithrun’s face. “No. But why have you been visiting me?”
“Mom said you were hurt by a dungeon too.”
Mithrun's breath caught. Too?
The child continued on, not noticing his unseen companion’s sudden silence. “I live here now because monsters killed my real mom. They killed everyone. Is that why you’re here, too? When I become stronger, I’m going to make sure no one gets hurt by dungeons ever again. I want to be a Canary one day, just like mom.”
The dungeon in Utaya was the only one the Canaries knew of that had broken the surface in this child’s lifetime.
Something stirred in Mithrun’s chest as he finally realized who he was talking to. He had never stopped to think about it before now, but he should’ve realized. The destruction of Utaya had been the catalyst that brought both him and Kabru under Milsiril’s care. Kabru had only been a couple hallways away while he worked toward his goal of rejoining the Canaries with a disregard for anything that didn’t serve that goal. If he had been just a little less single-minded, their paths might have crossed fifteen years ago.
His head dropped against the door, his mind itching with questions he knew he shouldn't seek answers to. If someone who cared about people the way Kabru did had been allowed to join the Canaries to look after him, would that have affected the course of his recovery? Would it have changed anything at all, or would he have remained the same person regardless, trapped in his obsessive listlessness until the Demon was gone?
No. Dwelling on the what-ifs was dangerous. He needed to avoid altering the events of the past. Everything that led up to him meeting Kabru for the first time on the Island had to happen exactly as it did, so that the Demon could be defeated by Laios. He would ensure that when Kabru interrupted the Island Governor’s meeting with Mithrun’s squad many years later, Kabru would believe he was meeting the captain of the Canaries for the first time.
“If you’re not an elf, it won’t be possible to join the Canaries. But you could become an adventurer. If you have a strong heart and proper training, you can kill monsters and protect people from dungeons without joining a squad.”
Kabru’s voice was small and sad, the words barely carrying through the wood between them. “Mom won’t let me. She says it’s too dangerous.”
“Ask her to train you, then. She's the most capable swordfighter in the Canaries. You'll find that you’re stronger than you think,” Mithrun replied firmly. “You remind me of someone I know, and he helped save more people from dungeons than any Canary ever has in history.”
“Is he your friend?”
Mithrun paused. The last time he had thought of anyone as a friend was back in his own dungeon. And even then, he had only ever surrounded himself with the illusion of friendship. But his connection with Kabru—the one he knew—felt like the beginning of something more real. And if the little flicker of warmth in his chest meant anything, maybe he could finally let himself want the real thing.
“... Yes, I hope so.”
Little Kabru's response was drowned out by a familiar angry voice echoing down the hallway.
“Kabru! What do you think you’re doing here, I told you the West Wing is forbidden!”
“But—”
“Go to your room,” Milsiril snapped, her voice drawing closer. “You are not to set foot in these halls again, do you understand?”
Something in Milsiril's face must have frightened Kabru, and a faint peep of an apology could be heard as he scrambled to his feet. The light patter of hurried footsteps followed as the little boy quickly scurried away, and Mithrun could imagine the animated dolls at his feet tailing him closely to make sure he didn’t attempt giving Milsiril the slip once out of eyesight.
Mithrun’s lip twitched in a frown of disappointment as Kabru ran off without so much as a goodbye. He knew it was safer for the integrity of the timeline that their conversation had been cut short. Still, to Mithrun's surprise, he found himself wishing they had been given more time to talk. Despite the years between now and the Kabru he would later meet, the same genuine kindness was easily recognizable in the child, even at such a young age and after enduring so much trauma.
Milsiril’s footsteps stopped outside Mithrun’s door, and he could hear the worry in her voice as she muttered to herself, “A warding spell on the annex door should keep him out… I’ll have to ask Helki to set that up. After everything that child’s been through, the last thing he needs is that obsession with the Demon rubbing off on him, too.”
The doorknob began to turn; she was coming in. Mithrun sprang to his feet. She knew him fairly well now, and while her interest in social interaction was non-existent, she was surprisingly sharp when it came to reading people when she paid attention. She would notice something was off.
He closed his eyes, and his fist tightened around the cold metal frame of the hourglass. Focus. He blocked out the rush of adrenaline as the door creaked open, instead keeping his mind fixed on the mental image of Kabru as he had seen him from his second-story window. He willed the magic in every muscle, every cell of his body to bring him back to the spot he had last been when he cast his last spell. The now-familiar pulse of magic from his palm sent a shudder through his body, and then he was gone.