Ruby did not become the quiet child everyone praised right away.

  First she had to survive being a baby.

  Which in Ryan Anderson’s opinion was deeply humiliating.

  His mind worked perfectly.

  His body did not.

  He understood words but couldn’t speak them. His hands barely obeyed him. His neck wobbled like it had been assembled incorrectly. When he tried to move with any kind of intention his limbs filed like a puppet being controlled by a drunk puppeteer.

  And worst of all.

  Crying.

  His body cried constantly.

  Not because he wanted to.

  Because babies did that whether they approved of it or not.

  If he was hungry, he cried.

  If he was cold, he cried.

  If someone picked him up the wrong way, he cried.

  Sometimes he cried simply because his tiny body decided that was the correct response.

  Ryan hated it.

  But the true low point of his dignity came during feeding.

  The first time Mira lifted him gently and held him against her chest, Ryan’s brain froze in horror.

  Because he knew exactly what was about to happen.

  And he was a thirty-two-year-old man.

  A married man.

  A man who had once made a very sincere promise that Emma Kell would be the only woman whose chest he would ever have that kind of retionship with for the rest of eternity.

  Then his newborn instincts took over.

  He tched on.

  Ryan Anderson died a second death that day.

  His tiny baby body suckled happily while his mind screamed.

  This is wrong.

  This is unbelievably wrong.

  Emma would never let him live this down.

  Not that she could.

  The thought hit him like a hammer every time.

  Emma was gone.

  The babies cried for milk.

  And Ryan swallowed his pride.

  Because starvation would have been even more embarrassing.

  Eventually he stopped fighting it.

  There were bigger problems than wounded pride.

  Like the fact that his body was tiny.

  Weak.

  And completely helpless.

  So Ryan did the only thing he could do.

  He adapted.

  And apparently his brain had a few advantages.

  Because Ruby developed fast.

  Very fast.

  She rolled over weeks earlier than Mira expected.

  Crawled months earlier than the vilge midwife insisted was normal.

  The first time Ruby pushed herself across the wooden floor with determined little hands and knees, Mira gasped.

  “Oh my stars, Darius!”

  Darius looked up from sharpening a knife.

  “What?”

  “She’s crawling!”

  Darius blinked.

  “…already?”

  Ruby continued crawling across the floor with the focused determination of a man who had once paid taxes and managed car insurance.

  She reached the table leg and grabbed it.

  Pulled herself upright.

  Stood there wobbling like a tiny drunk sailor.

  Darius stared.

  “Well I’ll be damned.”

  “Language,” Mira scolded automatically.

  Ruby promptly fell over.

  Still worth it.

  Walking came not long after.

  Ryan remembered the exact moment.

  He had pulled himself upright against the couch and suddenly realized something important.

  Bance felt familiar.

  Not perfect.

  But familiar.

  So he took a step.

  Then another.

  Across the room.

  Three wobbly little steps before gravity reminded him that toddlers were built like unstable furniture.

  He crashed into the floor.

  Mira screamed in delight.

  “She’s walking!”

  Darius burst out ughing.

  Ruby y there staring at the ceiling.

  Great.

  Now they were encouraging it.

  Growing older didn’t fix the awkwardness either.

  If anything, it made things worse.

  For example.

  Bathrooms.

  Ryan Anderson had spent thirty-two years peeing one way.

  Standing.

  Quick.

  Simple.

  Efficient.

  Ruby had discovered very quickly that those days were over.

  The first time Mira guided her toward the little chamber pot, Ryan had stared down in utter confusion.

  Where was the angle?

  Where was the aiming?

  How did any of this even work?

  He sat there in miserable silence while Mira waited patiently nearby.

  Eventually nature won.

  Ryan decided it was the most awkward experience of his entire existence.

  Which was saying something considering the breastfeeding incident.

  After that he learned quickly.

  Sit.

  Rex.

  Don’t think about it too much.

  But every single time it still felt strange.

  A quiet reminder that his body was no longer the one he remembered.

  The early development had another side effect.

  Adults started watching her.

  Closely.

  Because Ruby did not act like other children.

  Other toddlers grabbed things randomly.

  Ruby studied objects first.

  Other toddlers babbled nonsense.

  Ruby stayed quiet, listening to conversations she absolutely should not have understood.

  Other toddlers stumbled through the world with reckless curiosity.

  Ruby moved carefully.

  Deliberately.

  Like someone who already knew how the world worked.

  Which she did.

  Mostly.

  Except this world wasn’t the same one she had left behind.

  And every time she looked at the red-haired woman who rocked her to sleep or the dark-haired man who ughed while carrying firewood into the cabin, Ryan felt the same complicated knot tighten in his chest.

  They were good people.

  Kind people.

  They loved Ruby.

  But they weren’t Emma.

  They weren’t Jacob.

  They weren’t Tyler.

  They weren’t Lucy.

  Ruby learned quickly that people expected children to behave like children.

  They expected noise.

  They expected running.

  They expected questions that didn’t make sense.

  Ruby did none of those things.

  She watched.

  From the outside she looked like the perfect child. Quiet. Polite. Calm. Adults always smiled when they spoke about her.

  “What good manners,” the baker would say.

  “Such a thoughtful girl,” the seamstress would add.

  Mira always smiled proudly when she heard it.

  Darius usually just scratched his beard and said, “She’s always been quiet. Very observant.”

  Neither of them knew the truth.

  The cabin smelled like herbs and wood smoke.

  Ruby watched steam rise from the pot on the stove.

  Darius ruffled her hair as he passed.

  His hand was rge and rough, the skin thick from years of calluses. Even now, living a quiet life, his hands still looked like a man who had spent years gripping sword hilts and rope lines.

  He smelled faintly of smoke and leather.

  Always leather.

  Ruby had noticed that smell early in life. It clung to his boots, his belt, even the dark wool coat he wore most mornings.

  Darius himself was hard to miss.

  Tall. Broad shoulders. Thick arms that filled his shirts in a way farmers and woodsmen tended to have. His hair was bck with a hint of gray at the temples, usually tied back loosely at the nape of his neck when he worked.

  And his beard.

  Short, dark, kept trimmed but never perfectly neat.

  His eyes were the most striking part.

  Deep green.

  Sharp.

  The kind of eyes that scanned a room automatically, measuring doors, windows, shadows.

  A habit that never quite left people who had lived dangerous lives.

  Ruby had seen that look before.

  Soldiers.

  Police officers.

  Men who survived things.

  He sat across from her and stretched his arms with a soft grunt.

  “You’ve been quiet today.”

  “Sorry, Dad. Just didn’t have much to say.”

  “That’s alright,” he said with a small shrug, his voice low and warm.

  “Just let me know if you need help.”

  Darius had a calm voice.

  Steady.

  The kind of voice that never sounded rushed, even when he ughed.

  Which he did often.

  Mira was the opposite.

  Ruby gnced toward the stove.

  Her mother stood there stirring the pot with one hand while pushing a loose strand of bright red hair behind her ear.

  Mira’s hair was impossible to ignore.

  Thick.

  Brilliant copper-red that caught the firelight like fme. Ruby had inherited the same color, though Mira always insisted Ruby’s was brighter.

  Her eyes were a soft golden brown.

  Kind eyes.

  Eyes that smiled even before her mouth did.

  She wore a simple linen dress with the sleeves rolled slightly up her forearms while she cooked. The fabric was worn but clean, tied at the waist with a faded cloth sash.

  And she hummed.

  She hummed constantly.

  Little melodies while she cooked.

  Little half-songs while she cleaned.

  Ruby froze for a moment when she noticed it.

  Because Emma used to do the same thing.

  Emma never hummed real songs either.

  Just pieces of them.

  Sometimes she forgot the words halfway through and made up new ones.

  Once she had repced half the lyrics of a church hymn with compints about grocery prices.

  Ryan had ughed so hard he nearly dropped a pte.

  Ruby’s fingers tightened around the wooden cup.

  Mira gnced over immediately.

  “Ruby?”

  Ruby blinked.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Mira studied her with quiet concern.

  “You drifted away again.”

  Ruby forced a small smile.

  “I was thinking.”

  “That much I believe,” Mira said softly.

  Thinking had become dangerous.

  Because thinking led to remembering.

  And remembering led to questions.

  Questions Ruby did not know how to answer anymore.

  Later that afternoon Ruby sat beside Darius on the wooden steps outside the cabin.

  The hills rolled in soft green waves beyond the vilge.

  Ruby kicked her legs slowly.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “What kingdom do we live in?”

  Darius raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re awfully curious for a child.”

  Ruby shrugged.

  “I heard the baker talking about the new baby prince yesterday.”

  Darius chuckled.

  “Ah. That expins it.”

  He pointed toward the distant fields.

  “This nd belongs to the Kingdom of Ilgard.”

  Ruby repeated it softly.

  “Ilgard.”

  “One of the rger human kingdoms on this continent. Good farmnd. Strong army.”

  Ruby pointed toward the mountains.

  “What’s over there?”

  “The Ashen Range.”

  “And beyond that?”

  “The Kingdom of Tharos.”

  Ruby tilted her head.

  “Are they enemies?”

  Darius shrugged.

  “Sometimes.”

  Ruby nodded slowly.

  Then she asked the question that mattered most.

  “Is there magic here?”

  Darius ughed.

  “Of course there is.”

  Ruby’s heart beat faster.

  “What kind?”

  “Well… there’s elemental magic.”

  “Fire, wind, water.”

  “Some mages use lightning or stone.”

  “There’s nature magic used by druids.”

  “And the church practices light magic.”

  Ruby hesitated.

  Then she asked quietly,

  “Is there magic that talks to the dead?”

  Darius went still.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  Ruby shrugged.

  “Just curious.”

  He studied her for a moment.

  Then said slowly,

  “Yes.”

  Ruby’s chest tightened.

  “But that kind of magic is dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is generally used by demons or humans who don't know what they are messing with.”

  Ruby stared out across the hills.

  “That sounds annoying.”

  Darius’s voice hardened slightly.

  “It’s also forbidden in most kingdoms.”

  Ruby said nothing.

  Forbidden.

  Of course it was.

  Exactly the kind of magic she needed.

  That night Ruby y awake staring at the wooden ceiling.

  The cabin creaked softly in the wind.

  She folded her hands.

  An old habit.

  Prayer.

  But the words wouldn’t come.

  Because now the question lingered.

  Was God even real?

  If He was…

  Why had Emma died?

  Why the children?

  Why the truck?

  Why send Ryan here?

  Ruby stared out the window at the stars.

  Maybe God existed.

  Maybe He didn’t.

  Right now Ruby wasn’t sure of anything.

  Except one thing.

  If magic existed in this world…

  Then death might not be permanent.

  And if there was even the smallest chance Emma and the children still existed somewhere beyond that veil…

  Ruby would find them.

  Even if the path meant walking through darkness.