The village square glowed with lantern light. Tables had been dragged into the open air, piled high with food and drink. Children ran barefoot, laughing, while their parents clapped the knights on the back and pressed mugs of ale into their hands.
Kofi sat at the edge of it all, still holding his sword across his knees. His body ached from the fight, but it was a good ache — proof that he had survived.
A little girl with pigtails ran up to him, clutching a flower crown. "Mister Hero! Mister Hero! You were so brave!"
Kofi blinked. "Me?"
She nodded fiercely and placed the crown on his head. The villagers around them cheered, and Kofi's cheeks flushed red.
Darius barked a laugh from across the table. "Careful, boy. They'll start expecting you to actually be a hero now."
"Guess I'll just have to keep trying," Kofi muttered, but he couldn't stop the small smile tugging at his lips.
—
Later, when the laughter quieted and most of the villagers drifted home, Kofi found Lyra sitting alone near the well, her staff resting against her shoulder. She was staring up at the stars.
"You don't join in?" Kofi asked, approaching carefully.
Lyra glanced at him, then back at the sky. "Elves don't… usually take part in human celebrations."
He sat down beside her anyway. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and roasted meat. "You healed me back there. If you hadn't, I'd probably be dead."
"You fought despite your fear," Lyra said simply. "That was surprising."
Kofi chuckled. "I was terrified the whole time."
She tilted her head, studying him. For the first time, her expression softened, just slightly. "That's what makes it brave."
They sat in silence for a while, the stars bright above them.
Kofi finally whispered, "Do you… think I can really do it? Defeat the Demon King?"
Lyra didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was quiet. "I don't know. But I saw your light tonight. And maybe… that's enough to start with."
Kofi looked at his hands. Faint sparks of holy energy flickered there, dancing between his fingers like fireflies. For the first time, the warmth didn't feel foreign.
It felt like his own.
—
High above, on the roof of the old church at the edge of the village, the black-feathered bird perched once more. Its red eyes narrowed, and its feathers rippled unnaturally, as though something inside it wanted to crawl free.
The time was not yet right.
But soon.