Euryale's POV
I used to drift in silence.
Not the kind you hear at night in a quiet home, but the deeper kind. The kind found at the bottom of oceans. A silence too wide to measure, too ancient to name. It wrapped around me like the skin of the world, heavy and eternal.
And then—light.Hands pulling me from the dark.Voices I did not recognize, but somehow trusted.
I never forgot who I was.I only buried it.
Now I wake in a little room made of wood and sunlight. The walls creak gently when the wind pushes against them. There's always something warm cooking in the kitchen, something that smells of herbs and salt. And laughter. Always laughter.
Salah rises early to prepare the fishing nets. He whistles sometimes—loud and off-key. He says I'm the quietest child he's ever known. I don't tell him that I've had entire centuries of quiet. I just smile and help him roll the ropes.
Xena moves more slowly now. Her belly is round, full of life. I watch her closely—every step she takes, every breath. Not because I'm worried, but because I'm curious. This world builds life in such strange, beautiful ways.
Sometimes she winces when she stands. I'm always nearby to offer a hand.
"You're growing faster than I expected," she teases, patting my head. "Soon you'll be taller than Salah."
I don't answer. She knows I don't talk much.
She doesn't mind.
I've learned the rhythm of this home. Morning chores. Midday rest. Evening stories. Sometimes I sit outside and listen to the birds. Other times I help Xena in the garden, or watch Salah fix things with too much effort. He doesn't like to admit he's not good with tools, but I see his hands fumble with the wood. I could do it for him in seconds.
But I don't.Because he likes to be useful.And I… I like to watch people try.
One afternoon, Xena let me rest my hand on her stomach. The baby moved beneath it—twice. She laughed, surprised.
"He knows you," she said.
I tilted my head. I didn't answer, but I felt it too. Not in my skin, but somewhere deeper. A thread, maybe. Something binding me to what's coming. To who's coming.
The child doesn't speak yet, of course. But there's something strong there. Like a spark waiting for fire.
I wonder, sometimes, if this was the reason I returned. Not to fight. Not to rule.But to witness.
At night, I lie in the grass behind the house. I watch the stars and try to remember the names of the constellations from long ago. I used to know them all. Now they feel like shadows in my memory, flickering just beyond reach.
I hear Xena's laughter through the window. Salah is telling her another one of his impossible fishing stories. I think he adds an extra meter to the fish every time.
I close my eyes and try to imagine what it would have been like to grow up like this. To be born in a small village. To chase chickens and fall in the mud and cry over scraped knees. I never had that. I was born in a war.
But now—here—I am someone else. Not a protector. Not a weapon.
Just a boy.
One morning, after a long night of rain, Salah took me down to the beach. The sea was angry, crashing hard against the rocks. He stood there with his hands on his hips, sighing at the broken dock.
"I swear this thing hates me."
I offered to help. Quietly, without words. He just shook his head and ruffled my hair.
"Nah. You just keep me company."
So I did.
We spent the morning pulling driftwood and tying new planks. I didn't use my strength, even though it buzzed under my skin. Instead, I copied Salah's movements. Clumsy. Careful. Imperfect.
It felt… honest.
Later, while Xena napped, I sat beside her and listened to her breathing. It was slower now. Heavier. She stirred and reached out, thinking I was Salah.
Her hand found mine.
Her fingers curled around it gently.
"You're always there," she whispered, still half asleep.
I didn't answer. But I stayed until she drifted off again.
Sometimes I dream.
In the dream, I'm standing on a battlefield made of black stone and glass. The sky is torn open. There are voices—millions of them—crying out at once. And I… I am not a child in that place. I am light and fury, bones made of power, hair made of flame. I raise my hand and the sea splits in two.
I always wake up before the end.
And every time, I'm back in this little room. Safe. Small. Human.
I don't know how long this peace will last. I can feel something pulling at the edges of it. A whisper on the wind. A flicker in the sky. But here, I have Xena's hand. Salah's laughter. A tiny life growing slowly in the next room.
So I will wait.
I will stay.
I will protect this peace for as long as it lets me.
Because even if I was made to destroy, I've learned something they never taught me in the old world:
You can be strong and gentle.
You can be ancient and still grow.
You can be born again… and choose love over power.
And maybe, just maybe, that's what I was always meant to do.