The Early Years

Two years passed over Embervale

like a slow tide—
patient, steady.

Seasons folded themselves gently over the Emberline home,
and with each spring and winter,
Mikhail grew a little more into the world.

 

The cottage felt different now.
Larger, somehow.
Not because the walls had changed,
but because a child’s laughter
fills more space than timber ever could.

 

Mikhail learned to run
before he learned to speak clearly,
and Daisy often joked that his feet carried more courage
than his words could keep up with.

 

His curls—dark and soft—
bounced wildly when he moved,
and his deep brown eyes held a spark
that made her chest ache with tenderness.

 

One morning he played behind the cottage,
gripping the little wooden wolf in his hand—
the toy Taric had carved for him,
now worn smooth by tiny fingers
and carried everywhere like a guardian at his side.

 

He dragged it through the grass
as if leading it on a brave patrol
only a two-year-old could imagine.

 

When Daisy called his name,
he looked up immediately
and ran toward her,
the wolf clutched tight like treasure.

 

She steadied him, brushing leaves from his hair.

 

“You’re getting faster every day,” she said.
“You’ll outrun your father soon.”

 

Mikhail frowned, thinking hard.
“Papa slow.”

 

Behind them, Darin snorted.
“I heard that.”

 

He stepped outside, wiping sawdust from his hands—
he’d been repairing a neighbor’s stool.

 

Mikhail toddled toward him at once,
arms lifted in the daily request
Darin never refused.

 

He scooped the boy up easily,
lifting him just long enough for a giggle,
then settled him on his shoulder.
Small hands grabbed his forehead,
legs swinging proudly around his neck.

 

“And what does that make me?” Darin asked,
taking a few dramatic marching steps.

 

Mikhail beamed.
“Horsey!”

 

Darin burst into laughter
and broke into a trot—
bouncing, swaying,
spinning in wide circles across the yard
while Mikhail shrieked with delighted joy.

 

Daisy covered her mouth, laughing softly
at the sight she loved more than any other:
a father galloping like an oversized steed,
a son riding him as if commanding wind and sunlight.

 

When Darin finally slowed, breathless, he said,
“You’re getting heavy.”

 

Mikhail patted his head with great authority.
“No. Papa weak.”

 

Darin gasped in mock outrage.
“Is that so? I’ll show you weak—!”

 

And off he went again, even faster,
Mikhail’s laughter ringing across the grass.

 

When he set him down at last,
the boy staggered back to Daisy,
cheeks flushed, joy spilling over him
like a sunrise.

 

“He’s growing so fast,” she murmured.

 

“Too fast,” Darin said quietly,

though he smiled.

 

Mikhail waved a little stick at the air—
a crooked swing that missed everything
except a very unimpressed chicken.

 

Daisy leaned into Darin.
“He copies you,” she whispered.
“When you chop wood.
When you carry tools.
He watches every little thing.”

 

Darin smiled, watching the boy
declare victory against an invisible foe.

“Then I should be careful what he sees,”

he said softly.

 

“You already are,” Daisy replied,
threading her fingers through his.

 

Across the yard,

Mikhail lifted his stick high—
a single toddler conquering the whole morning sky.

 

Daisy laughed.
“He thinks he’s strong.”

 

“He is,” Darin said.

 

The breeze carried the boy’s laughter—
bright, whole, unbroken.

 

Daisy rested her head on Darin’s shoulder.
“He’s the best parts of both of us.”

 

Darin squeezed her hand.
“And the rest… we’ll teach him.”

 

As their son ran across the grass,
his curls wild

his little wolf bobbing at his side,
Daisy whispered under her breath:

“My little knight…”