The night was calm, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth as Ingrid led Ochrea and Theodas along the winding path to her home. The couple walked in quiet reverence, the forest around them alive with the remnants of the day's lingering magic. Theodas felt the gentle tug of the earth underfoot, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to synchronize with his own heartbeat. As they approached the modest stone dwelling nestled against the mountain's edge, the world seemed to hold its breath, a stillness that echoed the silence of loss.

Ingrid pushed open the heavy wooden door, the hinges creaking softly. A single flickering candle cast long, shifting shadows across the room, clinging to the corners as if reluctant to let go. The house was small but sturdy, built with the same enduring strength as the dwarven people, yet it now bore the fragile weight of sadness, woven into its very walls.

Ochrea’s eyes traced the lines of the stonework, noticing how the rugged edges seemed softened by time, like an old wound that had healed but left its mark. The main room was sparsely furnished—a well-worn table with two chairs, one slightly askew, and a hearth where the fire had long since died out. A shelf lined with trinkets stood as silent witnesses to a life once whole, now marked by the absence of its most cherished parts.

This had been a space for three—a couple and the child they had cherished. But fate had been cruel. First, it became a space for two, as Ingrid carried on alone after her husband’s passing, holding fast to the light their child brought into her darkest days. Then, it became a space for one, the emptiness settling over the room like a shroud. A pair of boots by the door, their leather softened by years of use, now sat stiff and unworn. A small chair, too tiny for an adult but once needed for a child, had been moved to the corner, as if putting it away would sever the last thread of connection.

The room waited for a sound—a cry, a laugh—that would never come again.

Ingrid gestured for them to follow, her steps quiet on the stone floor. She led them to the main bedroom, a room that told the story of love, loss, and the weight of memories. The bed, large and neatly made, sat against the far wall, its quilt carefully folded at the foot. On one side, the pillow was slightly indented, the impression of a head that had rested there not long ago. To the side, almost hidden in the shadows, was a crib carved from oak, its craftsmanship detailed and precise. Unlike the rest of the room, the crib seemed untouched by time, as if it had been used only a week ago.

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The scent of lavender lingered faintly in the air, a ghostly reminder of the baby who had once filled this space with life. The bedding inside the crib was still tucked with care, the small blanket slightly askew, as if waiting for the child who would never return. The room was filled with a hollow silence, the kind that settles in the wake of a loss too recent and too profound to fully comprehend.

Ochrea felt a pang of sorrow as she gazed at the crib, the loneliness of the room echoing in her heart. Theodas placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle, offering silent support. The weight of the room’s grief pressed down on them both, palpable and unyielding.

Ingrid stood by the doorway, her back straight, her expression composed, but her eyes carried a depth of pain that only time and loss can carve. "This was our child’s room," she said softly, her voice steady but tinged with grief. "He was all I had left after my husband passed. But..." She paused, the words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken sorrow. "Now I guess I've truly lost him too."

The silence that followed was thick with shared grief. Ochrea finally broke the quiet, her voice soft and gentle. "How did your husband die, Ingrid?"

Ingrid lifted her chin, meeting their gaze with a steady resolve. "He died a few months back, saving a mining party from a Frost Troll. It was a terrible beast, bigger than any we’d seen before. But he stood his ground and bought time for the others to escape." She took a deep breath, her voice unwavering. "Thirty dwarves walked away that day because of him. He did what any warrior would—what we’re meant to do."

There was no sadness in her voice, only pride. Ochrea and Theodas offered their condolences, but Ingrid shook her head slightly, a faint smile touching her lips. "A warrior’s job is to protect," she said firmly. "And he did just that."

They stood in respectful silence, allowing the moment to pass before Ingrid straightened, her demeanor shifting as she prepared to leave. "Now, I’ll leave you to rest. You’ve had a long journey, and you’ll need your strength for what’s to come. I’ll see you in the morning."

As she turned to go, she added with a small, knowing smile, "I need to get back to the long house. The guards might kill themselves trying to cook, or worse—burn the place down or drink up all the ale."

With that, she left them, her footsteps fading into the night. Ochrea and Theodas were left alone in the quiet room, the warmth of the moment slowly seeping into their bones. They exchanged a look, understanding passing between them without the need for words. The journey had been long, but it was far from over.