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4th of Solis, 971 A.D.

Nestled in the foothills of the northern Stormwatch Duchy, where frost still lingered on the morning grass well into spring, the town of Velmere thrived in its quiet way. It was a small place - humble, familiar - set just west of the city of Winterguard.

Velmere had no walls. It didn’t need them.

There were maybe nine hundred souls in the town, maybe a few more during the harvest season. They lived in stone cottages with moss growing up the sides, raised goats and pigs, traded wool and smoked fish, and gathered in the square every seventh day for news, bread, and music.

The heart of it all was the manor on the ridge, overlooking the town and its winding river to the lake. Not the kind of manor built for court or coin - but for home. It was a gift, given in gratitude by the Stormwatch Duchy for services rendered during the War of False Emperors.

The lords of that house were not born noble.

They were Taman and Esme, once captains, now stewards. Their names were known from the golden-banners of Setmerun to the moonlit groves of the Feywild. But in Velmere, they simply were the Ashivars.

They rarely spoke of what came before.

Of how they helped Aurelius ascend to the throne of Setmerun. Of how they helped Alistair cross the feywild to free it from Sovereign Jachins grip. Of how they fought and fell to the shadowy stalkers of Hoondarrh while trying to save a friend consumed by darkness.

Of how Esme returned, spear in hand, and stood at the Planar Tree, bloodied and radiant against the tides of demons and the chaos of elemental ruin. Of how Taman was brought back - only days after the war’s end - by the hand of Thalia. They spoke little of it because, here, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the life they built afterward.

Taman spent his mornings in the town square, often at the bench outside the grain mill, sipping tea and answering questions from passing farmers, merchants, and council members. He had become a quiet anchor in the town’s rhythm - always calm, always measured. He taught swordsmanship now and then, mostly to teenagers who fancied themselves knights or adventurers. He never raised his voice. He corrected their footwork. And he made them run drills until their legs burned.

Esme ran the Velmere infirmary, a whitewashed stone building just beside the town’s shrine to Eldath. She treated colds, set broken bones, and whispered healing words into wounds when no one else was looking. The children of the town adored her - some out of awe, some out of fear. She helped deliver most of them into the world, after all. Her responsibilities there didn’t stop her from entering the training yard and showing off by beating Taman in a duel every once in a while.

They also presided over the Blooming Flame, Velmere’s own spring holiday - something they invented with the help of a few of the older townsfolk. There were no gods behind it, no politics. Just firelight, music, and the promise of healing after hard years.

And in the space between their duties, they raised a boy.

Lucairn had been born just months after the world was saved.

He never knew battlefields. He never heard the howl of abyssal beings or saw the dead rise in the fields of Kamos. He was born within the sacred stone halls of the Order of the Lost, where Esme brought him into the world beneath a ceiling of painted stars.

Now he was nearly twelve, and all energy, noise and imagination. He drew maps of fake continents. Declared himself King of the Orchard. Had a wooden sword he called Ashfang and used it to terrorize laundry lines, goat pens, and the occasional chicken.

He was Taman’s reason to slow down. Esme’s reason to laugh again. He was the proof that the world had changed - not just survived what had happened, but truly moved forward.

In the evenings, they sat beneath the old pear tree at the edge of their manor’s garden. Esme would read aloud from Lucairn’s latest “expedition log,” full of wild creatures and magical treasure. Taman would listen with a faint smile, not correcting the parts where he and Esme were reimagined as sky pirates or dragon-wranglers.

Sometimes, after Lucairn went to bed, they would sit beneath the stars in silence.

And sometimes - although not often - one of them would whisper a name. Of someone they’d lost. A friend buried in fire or memory. A moment that would never quite leave them. And then the other would take their hand, and they would hold on - not to the pain, but to each other.

Velmere was safe. 

It wasn’t grand. It didn’t need to be.

It was a place where peace had taken root. Where a new generation could grow without the weight of dying gods and endless wars. A place where heroes could become parents. Where warriors could become gardeners. Where the echo of the old world could fade softly, without being forgotten.

And if one day Lucairn asked them for the truth of who they had been, they would tell him. Not to glorify the battle - but to remind him of its cost. And why he would never need to carry that burden.

For now, though, they let him dream.

And far from thrones and ruins and broken legends, a town called Velmere slept easy beneath the stars. A family shared supper by candlelight. A wooden sword leaned against the hearth. And the world turned - quiet, whole, and finally free.