15.

Maybe Periculum had been right, and his youth made him terribly naive—but that same innocence had also saved him from Sicutis’s wrath. After all, he was just a boy trying to make sense of the world. Even so, one thing he was sure of now was that he needed to start reading the signs. Signs like the fact that his mother hadn't helped him—she could have, but chose not to. She had sent him up a mountain with no purpose other than to mock him and his blind faith in her.

The greatest danger for the naive is to glorify figures who never deserved it—like Mother Earth. She had never truly helped him; she had only played with his mind and scolded him for having an instinct as natural as survival.

"Do you like it?" asked Aurora.

Virindia felt intimidated every time the girl looked at him. Her eyes were enormous and so black, so pure and deep, they tempted him not to look away—as if they held the whole universe inside them. Her long, straight black hair fell messily over her face, which was marked with silver lines that seemed to emit their own light, as if her heart were a battery fueling the celestial aura that surrounded her—so delicate, so defenseless, and yet so magical.

"Of course I like you..."

"What?" the girl asked, startled.

"The view, I mean..." Virindia had to swallow hard to avoid choking on his clumsiness. "It's beautiful. I love it."

"Oh... yes. I thought so. This is definitely my favorite place."

"Still, I think we should find somewhere lower to settle."

"Yes, life up here can be a bit harsh," Aurora agreed—the cold on the mountain was cruel.

And so they did. The young pair descended the mountain, and by the light of dawn, they explored the surrounding land until they found a clearing without any tree too large to cut down. It was nestled deep in the forest, near a small stream full of fish.

Together, they built a little cabin, which at first flooded with even the gentlest rain. But as the years passed and their skills improved, they made it sturdier, larger, and more beautiful—until it became a home. Their home.

That afternoon was like most others: Virindia was fishing in the stream beside their home, hoping to catch dinner. He was no longer a child—not so small, not so weak, not so naive. It had been three years since the catastrophic night when his family died, and since the day he met Aurora, who had grown as well. They were still young—but they were no longer children.