The silence that follows Del’s words is thick, suffocating.

Elara and Paolo stare at him, their faces frozen in a mix of shock and disbelief, but it’s Naomi’s reaction that twists something deep in his chest—her wide-eyed fear, the way her small fingers clutch at Elara’s sleeve.

"Taken?" Paolo finally manages, his voice rasping over the word. "What makes you say that? She often goes into the woods to gather plants for her medicines."

Del shakes his head sharply, still catching his breath.

"No." The single word is firm, final. "Her bedroom was a mess, and the smell of Listwort was overpowering. She’s been taken, just like the others."

Paolo lets out a harsh, shuddering breath, his fingers digging into his temples as he rubs at his face before dragging his hands down to his chin. For a moment, it looks as though he might say something, but instead, his fists clench against the desk, his knuckles whitening.

Then, with a sudden burst of movement, he slams his palm against the wood, the sharp sound cracking through the heavy silence.

"Damn it!" The word is half-growled, half-choked, his voice thick with frustration. "How? How is this still happening?"

He pushes back his chair, rising abruptly, his fingers gripping the desk edge as though trying to ground himself. His shoulders are tense, his breath uneven, and when he lifts his gaze, the exhaustion from earlier is gone—replaced with something raw, something dangerously close to helpless rage.

Elara, still staring, draws in a slow breath, her expression tight. Unlike Paolo, she doesn’t lash out physically, but the tension in her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes; the way her fingers curl and grip the arm of the seat, all speak volumes.

"We should be doing more." Her voice is quieter than Paolo’s, but there’s a cutting edge beneath it, a quiet fury held back only by the presence of a small child clinging to her sleeve.

Naomi.

She had gone completely still, her small hand clutching Elara’s tunic so tightly that her knuckles had turned pale. Her wide green eyes flickered between them, absorbing the anger, the fear, the tension in the air.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper—

"I like Vita."

The words are simple, soft, but there’s something fragile underneath them, something small and scared trying to make sense of a world that suddenly doesn’t feel safe.

The voice is small.

Del turns, his focus snapping to Naomi for the first time, suddenly realising that in his rush, he hadn’t even noticed her before.

She fidgets slightly; her expression clouded with worry. "She made my brother’s bad leg better."

Del softens. "She’s a nice lady." He looks at Elara in question.

"Naomi," Elara supplies gently.

He nods. "Well, Naomi, I agree."

Before Del can say more, Elara’s voice shifts, taking on a new, measured quality—careful, deliberate, weighted with meaning.

"I believe Naomi to be a Dreamwalker."

Del blinks.

‘Dreamwalker? What the hell is a Dreamwalker?’

The word means nothing to him. He’d seen magic, sure—seen glimpses of it in Elara’s hands, felt its strange hum in the air when she worked with plants—but what was this?

"A dreamwalker can see things, view events happening and sometimes even glimpse future possibilities, a bit like a seers ability" Elara explained on seeing his confused look.

His instincts bristle, that same unease creeping in when things start veering into the unknown.

Because this wasn’t magic.

This was placing faith in a child’s dreams.

His eyes flicker toward Naomi. A kid. Small. Uncertain. Fragile. And Elara was saying she could—what? See things that hadn’t happened yet? Glimpse people who were lost?

Del’s jaw tightens.

‘You don’t just bet on dreams. You don’t risk lives on maybe.’

And yet—

Paolo looks up sharply, the tiredness in his face momentarily replaced by something else. Suspicion? Uncertainty? Hope?

He stares at Naomi, his fingers tapping absently against the desk. Then he lets out a slow breath, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple, as if trying to physically sort through the information.

"You’re serious," he says, though the words hold no question—just a quiet, weary acceptance.

Elara gives a small, solemn nod.

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Paolo rubs at his temples again, sighing deeply. “And this is… safe?” His tone is hesitant, but not entirely dismissive.

Elara doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she looks down at Naomi.

At the little girl who had fallen completely still, her small hands gripping the fabric of her tunic, her green eyes wide with something far heavier than simple hesitation.

The flicker of anxiety, the way her shoulders shrunk inward just slightly.

She was afraid.

Not of magic. Not of what Elara was saying.

But of failing.

"Me?" Naomi’s voice is small, barely a whisper. "But… but I’m just a girl."

She glances at Del, at Paolo, at Elara. Searching. Waiting. Expecting the doubt she always got.

"Grown-ups never listen to me."

The words are raw. Matter-of-fact.

Something twists in Del’s chest.

For a moment, he sees a different child, a different time—someone smaller, scrappier, standing in the shadow of men who never listened, never saw anything but a boy too weak, too small, too unimportant to be heard.

Elara smiles gently, taking Naomi’s hand. "I’m listening."

"But I’m not allowed outside the village gates."

Elara doesn’t hesitate.

Stroking Naomi’s hand, her fingers gentle, her expression steady and warm. Her whole demeanour shifts, softens—like she’s speaking to something delicate, something that needs careful tending.

"It’s okay, Naomi," she soothes. "You won’t have to go anywhere." She gestures around the room. "You can look for them from right here. Shall I show you how?"

Naomi’s eyes dart to Del, to Paolo, before settling back on Elara.

She nods. Slowly.

Elara keeps hold of Naomi’s hand for a moment longer before letting go, settling into a careful, measured tone.

"Some of us elves can do magic," she explains. "I can do some small magics. Want to see?"

Naomi nods again, this time far more enthusiastically, curiosity overtaking her fear.

Elara glances around the room, scanning for something suitable. Her gaze lands on a rather sorry-looking potted plant in the corner, its leaves drooping, its soil dry and cracked.

"My magic involves plants," she tells Naomi, pointing towards it.

Then, she quirks a brow at Paolo. "You need to look after your plants better."

Del watches as Paolo lets out an incredulous scoff, but the protest dies on his lips.

Because Elara lifts her hand, and the air shifts.

A familiar, almost electric warmth washes over Del’s skin, like the first touch of sunlight on a winter morning. He recognises it—the same tingling sensation in his gut he felt back in the woods.

Magic.

Across the room, the plant stirs.

The wilting leaves quiver, then straighten, their dull, lifeless green deepening to something rich and vibrant. The whole plant seems to drink in the air itself, swelling with new vigour. Then, as if awakening from a deep sleep, a thin stem unfurls from the centre, twisting upwards, curling, until—

A bud forms.

And in the space of a breath, it blooms.

The petals blush with a blue-tinged glow, delicate and perfect.

Del stares, absorbed. He barely registers the reactions around him—until Naomi lets out a soft, shaky gasp.

He glances at her, then at Paolo.

Naomi’s mouth hangs open, her small hands clutching at the fabric of her tunic, eyes round with wonder.

Paolo looks the same—stunned, blinking slowly, his earlier exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

‘Now there’s something you don’t see every day, Del.’

Then, a breathless whisper—

"Magic."

Naomi’s voice is filled with awe, a near-reverent hush.

Elara turns to her, smiling. "Yes, Naomi. Magic. And you can do magic too. Would you like me to teach you?"

For a moment, Naomi just stares at her, her expression cycling through awe, disbelief, amazement—

Then, all at once—

She squeals with uncontainable delight, launching herself into Elara’s lap and wrapping her arms around her neck in a sudden, exuberant hug.

"You can teach me magic? Really? Can you, can you? Yes! Oh yes! Can I make flowers? Can I zap people? How do I do it? Tell me, tell me, pleeeease!"

The words tumble out of her too fast to follow, a breathless flood of enthusiasm.

Del watches, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

It took some effort, but eventually, she managed to peel the ecstatic child back just enough to meet her gaze. Naomi’s face was flushed, her little chest rising and falling rapidly, but as soon as she saw Elara’s serious expression, she began to calm.

Elara held her gently by the shoulders. "All right, Naomi, I can teach you some magic."

Naomi stood, eyes wide.

"Not like mine, though," Elara continued. "Yours is different from mine."

She patted the seat beside her, and Naomi obediently settled beside her, her earlier giddiness giving way to fierce concentration.

The shift was almost instantaneous—one moment, she was a bundle of unrestrained enthusiasm, the next, a student, her brow furrowed, hands clasped, gaze locked on Elara with utter seriousness.

Del arched a brow, watching her transformation with mild envy.

‘Wish I could get into learning mode as fast as a kid.’

He leaned back slightly, settling in to watch. ‘Maybe I might learn a few new tricks myself.’

He wasn’t the only one paying close attention.

Paolo, who had previously been staring at his miraculously revived plant, finally tore his gaze away, shifting his chair slightly closer. His earlier exhaustion was still there, but something new flickered in his eyes now—interest. Hope.

Elara let the silence stretch a moment, then began her lesson.

"Magic," she said, her voice low and deliberate, "is a rare thing, and not everyone has it."

Naomi nodded quickly, drinking in every word.

"Some races have more, some less," Elara continued. "Elves, like me, tend to have a lot of magic—ours is tied to nature, to energy, to things that grow and live. Gnomes have a lot of magic too, but theirs is different—it’s tied to things they make, things they build. Their magic makes things work better, faster, stronger."

Naomi’s eyes widened in fascination.

"Dwarves," Elara went on, "very rarely have magic. But when they do—oh, Naomi, it is powerful. Unpredictable. Wild, like a storm that cannot be tamed."

Naomi wrinkled her nose at the thought, as though trying to imagine a wild, unpredictable storm of magic inside a stout, grumbling dwarf.

Elara chuckled at the look on Naomi’s face.

Then she sobered slightly.

"But you," she said gently, "you are human. And the humans with magic? They can have all sorts of gifts."

She paused, letting the words sink in.

Naomi’s fingers twitched in her lap.

"I have magic?" she whispered.

Elara gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Yes, I think you do."

Naomi let out a soft, shaky breath, as if she’d been holding onto the hope of those words but had never truly dared to believe them.

"Do you remember when I said I thought you were a Dreamwalker?" Elara asked.

Naomi nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around Elara’s.

"Well," Elara said, "Dreamwalking is a very special kind of magic."

Del found himself leaning forward slightly, more absorbed in this conversation than he’d expected.

Even Paolo looked entirely engrossed now, his earlier mood momentarily forgotten.

Naomi hesitated, biting her lip. "Am I really a Dreamwalker?"

Elara smiled reassuringly.

"I think you are."

She let that truth settle, then continued gently.

"Those times you remembered your dreams—the fox, the things that happened, the Night Man? That sounds very much like Dreamwalking."

Naomi’s face transformed, shifting through awe, disbelief, then wonder.

Her mouth formed another soft, breathless ‘oh’, her mind working furiously to take it all in.

"So," Elara said, a small smile playing at her lips, "I’m going to try and help you with it."

She squeezed Naomi’s hand.

"Would you like that?"

For a moment, Naomi didn’t move.

Then, all at once, she nodded furiously, eyes bright with possibility.