The Extra's Transcension

The next morning arrived shrouded in mist and fine rain, a hush that soaked into the bones of the village. Birds sang low and slow, as if cautious not to break the stillness. Smoke curled from chimneys, heavier than usual, clinging to the eaves and tangling in the pines.

Ash stepped out of Elira's cottage into the quiet, the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke grounding him. His clothes, borrowed and a little too loose, clung to his skin in the damp. A woolen shawl lay draped over one shoulder, offered wordlessly by Elira that morning as he passed her by the hearth.

"Chop wood before you go wandering," she'd said. "The stove won't feed itself."

He hadn't argued. Chores were easy currency here, proof of presence without needing explanations.

Ash spent an hour splitting logs behind the house, the rhythm soothing. His arms remembered battle, but now they remembered balance too, a quiet control. The axe bit into pine, clean and honest. No glyphs sparked, no runes bled light. Just sweat, breath, and bark.

Later, he joined Arya at the village square. Risa had assigned them to scaffold duty for the harvest gathering, a rough wood stage needed assembling on the green. The boards were warped and the nails old, but Arya tackled it with energy.

"You ever built anything that didn't explode afterward?" Arya asked, squinting at him under his curls.

Ash looked at the support beam he'd just raised. "A mistake or two. But no. This is new."

"Good. I don't wanna get impaled by a support plank possessed by your trauma."

Ash smirked. "It'd be a dramatic way to go."

"Yeah, but no one would come to my funeral if they got hexed by accident."

They worked in companionable silence after that. Ash had found he liked that, silence that wasn't laced with suspicion. The village was wary of him still, yes, but in a practical way. Not hostile. Not superstitious. Just cautious.

By midday, the rain eased. Children appeared again like deer from the trees, chasing each other through puddles.

A group gathered near the creek, catching fish with nets and shrieking when the water splashed too high.

Ash watched from a distance as the boy, the one who followed him, tried to skip stones, copying older kids but never quite getting it.

Risa found Ash near the old well, checking the support posts.

"You're quiet," she said, leaning on a half-full bucket. "Quieter than most ex-mages I've met."

"You've met many?"

"Two. One set fire to a tavern by sneezing. The other tried to resurrect a cow."

Ash arched a brow. "Success?"

"Only half. It mooed. But didn't stand."

He chuckled, low. It felt alien.

She tilted her head. "What about you? What did you do, before?"

He considered lying. But lies were heavy. And this place felt too clean for them.

"I destroyed things," he said finally. "In the name of balance. Power. Whatever excuse fit the day."

Risa nodded slowly. "And now?"

"I split logs. Fix scaffolding. Try not to fall apart."

"Could do worse."

They parted with no further ceremony.

That night, the village square hosted a small gathering, nothing formal, just people and food and rain-warmed wine. Someone strummed a lute near the fire pit.

Laughter danced between the lanterns strung across the trees. Ash lingered at the edge, watching more than joining.

The boy sat beside him again. Still silent. Still unnamed. But closer now. Less wary.

Ash handed him a roasted chestnut wrapped in paper. The boy stared, then took it. A small victory.

"You don't have to speak," Ash said. "But if you ever want to, I'll listen."

The boy looked up, wide-eyed. Then nodded. Once.

Arya joined them, tossing a pebble at Ash's shoulder. "Come dance."

"I don't dance."

"Neither do half these people, but that hasn't stopped them."

Ash shook his head, amused. Arya pulled the boy up instead, spinning him awkwardly toward the lanterns. The boy squeaked once, an almost-laugh, and then he ran back to Ash, red-faced.

"I'll take that as progress," Arya said, plopping down beside them.

They stayed like that for a while. Lantern light flickering over their faces. Crickets singing. The sound of a place trying to heal itself every night through ordinary joy.

Eventually, Elira sat beside Ash, offering him a mug of something mulled and sharp.

"You know," she said, sipping hers, "you're starting to look like someone who belongs here."

"I'm not sure I do."

"No one is, at first. Belonging isn't something you find. It's something you build."

Ash looked at the firelight dancing in her eyes, then at the boy asleep against his arm.

He didn't answer. But he didn't disagree either.

Later, when the village quieted and stars reappeared through the thinning clouds, Ash sat alone by the stream, the boy curled beside him, breathing slow.

He took out the parchment again. Wrote another name.

Not a curse.

Not a tally.

Just a memory.

And this time, he didn't cry. Didn't shake. He simply folded the parchment and placed it in the hollow knot of a tree beside him.

He whispered, "Rest."

And for the first time, he believed it was possible.

*****

It was 20th Day of Lyrium AKA Ash on the Village.

He woke to the sound of roosters crowing and the soft murmur of early risers. Mist still clung to the trees, and the chill made him pull his shawl tighter around his shoulders.

The village was stirring, smoke rising from chimneys, the clatter of wooden carts on dirt paths, and the distant lowing of cattle.

He stepped outside, breathing in the cool morning air. The forest seemed to watch quietly, as if curious about this man who had arrived like a fallen star and refused to break.

Near the communal well, Arya was already loading buckets onto a wooden yoke, his movements practiced and sure.

"Morning," Ash called softly.

Arya glanced up, offering a grin. "Early bird, huh? Come to fetch water or just want to witness me making a mess?"

Ash smiled, stepping closer. "Maybe both."

They worked side by side, the water heavy but steady, their shoulders brushing occasionally. Words felt unnecessary at first, but gradually, they emerged in quiet cadence.

"You never told me how you ended up here," Arya said, eyes fixed on the ripples in the bucket.

Ash hesitated, the weight of his past brushing against the calm here like a cold wind. "Fell through a mirror."

Arya laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "Seriously? That's the best you've got?"

Ash shrugged. "It's true."

"Then I guess 'lost in the woods' is an upgrade," Arya teased, setting down his load.

As they moved towards the bakery, the scent of fresh bread wrapped around them like a warm cloak. Villagers greeted them with nods, some lingering glances, curious, cautious, but less wary than before.

Inside, Elira was kneading dough, her hands dusted with flour and worn from years of labor. She smiled softly at Ash.

"You've got a visitor," she said, nodding towards the door.

A woman stood there, tall and sturdy, her eyes sharp as flint beneath a mess of curly hair. Her apron was stained, her hands rough.

"Lira," Elira introduced. "She's the healer."

Lira's gaze was steady as she approached Ash. "I hear you're the one who's been carrying ghosts."

Ash met her eyes, nodding slowly. "Trying to let some go."

Lira studied him for a moment before pulling a small bundle from her satchel. "Maybe this will help." She handed him a satchel of dried herbs and a small carved charm. "For dreams and restless nights."

Grateful, Ash accepted it. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me yet," Lira said with a smirk. "We all have our shadows here."

Later, Ash found himself wandering the village outskirts with Arya.

They passed gardens bursting with late spring blooms, children playing tag around stacks of firewood, and elders sitting on porches sharing stories.

"You ever think about staying?" Arya asked quietly as they paused by a stream.

Ash looked at the flowing water, clear and unjudging. "I'm not sure what staying means anymore."

Arya smiled, a slow understanding in his eyes. "Sometimes it just means showing up every day."

Ash's breath caught in his throat.

He'd spent so long running, from himself, from fate, from the shards of what he could've been.

But here, maybe, was a place not of endings, but of beginnings.

As twilight fell, the village gathered once more around the fire.

Songs rose and fell, and laughter threaded through the night air like silk. Ash sat beside Arya and the boy who was slowly learning to speak, their faces glowing in the flickering light.

When the fire died down, Ash stood, feeling the quiet stirrings of hope and weight of memory mingling within him.

He whispered to the night,

"Not a god. Not a king. Just a man."

And for once, that was enough.

*****

This Arc really feels like a force to me.. like really...