My breath lingered in the frosty air, forming a soft mist that wove into the morning’s chill. The fresh snow had settled over the old, creating a quiet, pristine blanket. The morning flakes had ceased, but they would return with the setting sun, gently layering the earth anew. By dawn, they would vanish again, leaving behind the mark of winter, the process repeating until the brink of spring.

The path we followed was different from the one I took earlier this morning. Here, the trees stood thinner, but they gathered in greater numbers.

As I took a breath of the crisp winter air, my thoughts drifted to memories of summers past, when the days were longer, and worries seemed to melt away under the sun’s warmth. One such memory came forward, and I began the tale.

“There once was a father with two sons. Through years of hard work, the father amassed great riches, but by the time he did so, he was too old to enjoy them fully. So, he decided to divide his wealth evenly between his sons.

“The younger son, filled with dreams and ambitions, grew weary of the life he knew. Eager to explore the world, he took his share of the inheritance and set off on a journey. He traveled far and wide, meeting all kinds of people and experiencing many things, but his naivety led him to squander his fortune recklessly.

“Despite his dwindling resources, pride and guilt kept him from returning home. He feared his father’s reaction—how could he face the man who had worked so hard for the riches he had foolishly wasted? Determined to restore what he had lost before returning, he resolved to earn it all back. After all, he was still young and strong.

"However, reality proved to be too cruel.

“Though young, he had never known the demands of hard work, having always relied on his father’s provisions. No one wanted to hire him, and eventually, what little he had left vanished as well. Desperate, he found himself at the lowest point, taking a job feeding animals. His wages were meager—a simple plate of food, no better than what the animals received, and a bed amongst them.

“From great wealth, he had fallen into utter destitution. Stripped of his pride and burdened by guilt, he decided to return home, not as a son, but as a servant. He no longer believed himself worthy of his father’s love.

“To his surprise, when his father saw him returning, he did not reprimand him. Instead, the father ran to embrace him and threw a grand feast to celebrate his return.

“The older son, who had remained loyal and worked diligently by his father’s side, could not share in the joy. He felt betrayed—despite his unwavering loyalty, his father had never celebrated him in such a way. How could his brother, who had wasted everything, be rewarded?

“But the elder son was not reckless, like his younger brother. His ambition was simple: to make his father proud and to be acknowledged for his efforts. So, he confronted his father.

“The father, however, was more saddened by the elder son’s reaction than by the younger son’s earlier mistakes. Despite all the years they had spent together, the elder son hadn’t grasped the lesson the youngest had to learn the hard way. With a heavy heart, the father explained:

“Your brother made a choice, and it cost him dearly. He was lost and now he is found; he was dead and now is alive again. Riches come and go. Life? There is only one, and my son has returned. What’s a greater gift in life than this?”

I breathed out, the sweet, warming memory of the first time hearing the story returning with the rest, letting the winter breeze gently touch my skin.

This story was special to me. I was still a child when I first heard it and didn’t like it very much. It was much later in life when I heard of it again that I realized how important it was. I could have easily told Lyon another, much simpler one where there weren’t any meanings behind it, but for some reason, I felt like it was just the right one to tell.

Lyon had remained silent throughout its entirety. His eyes were cast down, looking at the ground beneath, afraid of slipping… or maybe there was another reason.

We were getting close, but I felt the need to ask. “What do you think Lyon? Did you like the story?”

A low, questioning moan escaped him. Then his eyebrows knit.

“Why did the father let his youngest son go? If he hadn’t, then nothing bad would have happened to him.”

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My lips parted lightly. What was the chance of him asking the same question I had asked my mother back then?

“Let me answer you with another question. Would the youngest son have learned the importance of family if he hadn’t left?”

He was quick to answer, a bit too quick.

“No, but did he have to learn it? What if he returned too late and his father wasn’t there anymore, and what if his actions were the reason for that?”

It was easy enough to understand where he was going with this.

He might have opened up to me, but he hadn’t forgiven himself.

I offered him a small chuckle.

“Perhaps you’re going to learn this answer for yourself one day. We’re here.”

Amidst the slender trees, a Scarlet Sentinel stood out. In this part of the forest, they were few and far between, their towering forms contrasting sharply with the delicate foliage around them. With their reddish trunks and enormous height, they stood like guardians, their broad branches sheltering the smaller trees beneath them—earning them their name.

Beneath this particular Scarlet Sentinel, was where the ritual would take place.

“What are we going to do here?”

I reached and touched the tree trunk. Despite the surrounding coldness, it was warm to the touch, winter yet to conquer it.

“This, my dear, is what we call a Scarlet Sentinel. I’ll tell you all about it later if you want to learn more, but the reason I brought you here is that this is the biggest tree in the forest.”

He looked at me incredulously.

I sighed and continued, “in Elven tradition, we have to find the largest tree and bury the dead beneath it in their honor.”

He flinched back, and I revealed to him the reason, “This is a memorial Lyon. For 'Papa', Theodore, and Cain, for you to remember them.

He gasped, and tears gathered in his eyes. After a moment of silence, he asked: “Why? Why are you doing this for me?”

“Do I need a reason to help a child in need?”

He gasped again. I waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t.

Imbuing quint into the dimensional ring, I took out three ashbloom seeds and approached cautiously.

“Now, the next part is the most important one.” I said, giving him the seeds. “I need you to plant them yourself. Can you do that for me? Don’t worry, I’ll do the rest.”

He simply nodded and started digging.

Imbuing quint into the dimensional ring, I turned towards the tree and took out the carving tools. Then, I proceeded with the carefully carving the epitaph:

Farewell, sorrowful world,

farewell, sweet life,

Farewell, you spring

And you, unfortunate souls.

By the time I finished the carving, Lyon had planted the seeds and was waiting for me patiently.

There was only one last thing left.

Wait for the Ashblooms to blossom.

This was a special type of flower. The Ashbloom, also known as Scarlet Dusk lived and died within a single day. Once its seed was planted, the flower would fully bloom before the day’s end. Instead of withering, it would burst into a blaze of color, burning as bright as the setting sun and leaving only ashes in its wake.

From the three holes Lyon had dug, the first leaves were already breaking through the soil, their white hue blending with the snow.

I sat down beside him, draping my coat over both of us for warmth.

We stayed like that, silent. It had been a long morning.

Time passed slowly. An hour. Then another. Soon, the day began to fade.

The first ember ignited, and the flowers began to burn.

“F-f-fire!” Lyon screamed, clinging to me, trembling with terror. “Get away! Get away!”

“Lyon, calm down,” I urged, trying to soothe him, but his trauma had taken hold.

“Fire! Fire! Run! It will burn you!”

I pulled him into a full embrace, positioning myself between him and the flowers, my hand gently stroking his hair. “Hush, Lyon, hush. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m here, remember?”

His breathing, heavy and ragged, gradually began to ease, and his grip on me weakened. When I let him go, even the faint light behind me made him avert his gaze.

I carefully uprooted a flower, ensuring the fire remained alive, and walked around to face him, keeping a respectful distance.

“Lyon, my dear, please open your eyes. There’s nothing to fear.”

Hesitantly, he obeyed, his eyes widening in shock as the fire reflected his fear.

“Listen to me, Lyon,” I said, raising my voice just enough to hold his attention.

“Do you see me burning? Do you see me hurt? The fire isn’t hot enough to feel, especially with the cold.”

I moved my hand through the flame and showed him, unharmed, to prove my point.

“Fire is dangerous, yes, but that’s only one side of it. Look around, and tell me, what do you see?”

He glanced around, except behind him, where the other two flowers rested. “I-I don’t see anything. It’s dark,” he said shakily.

The sun had set, and there were no artificial lights, no fireflies to illuminate the surroundings. Only the three Ashblooms cast their gentle glow.

I nodded and took a step closer. “Fire isn’t just destruction. It’s also light—it’s life. Please, don’t be afraid.”

I stopped there, extending a hand toward him. It was his choice to make: to trust in me, or to succumb to fear. Only one could prevail.

Lyon remained still, the fire in his eyes flickering. One side was blue, fragile, on the brink of extinguishing; the other, red, wild, raging with fury, shadows of past horrors flickering within.

As the blue began to fade and the red threatened to consume him, both flames suddenly ceased.

He rushed forward, gripping my leg so tightly that I nearly lost my balance.

“Thank you for choosing me,” I whispered with a sigh of relief.

I bent down and offered him the flower. His lips trembled, but he trusted me more than his fear.

Quickly, I took out the lanterns, helping him place the flowers inside. When every lantern was filled, we let them go.

Lyon held my hand tightly, and for the first time since I found him, he smiled.

“T-thank you,” he said softly.

In the quiet of the night, against the falling snow, three small lanterns drifted into the sky.