After finally letting go of his doubts, Izikel found it much easier to converse with Lyzah. She was, after all, just a little child, a very active little child.
If she wasn't scaling trees like a wildling, she was gathering flowers with the enthusiasm of a carefree spirit. Her attention flitted from one thing to the next with dizzying speed, drawn in by the smallest wonders. A butterfly fluttering past, a smooth stone catching the sunlight, even the way the wind tousled her hair, all of it fascinated her.
And her smile—always glowing, never fading. It was as if she was incapable of anything but boundless energy and relentless joy. Even for a child, Lyzah was simply… too much.
For five exhausting days, Izikel had done his best to avoid her. Yet every morning, without fail, she was the first thing he saw when he woke, and the last voice he heard before drifting into uneasy sleep. She stayed in the village, but somehow, she was always waiting outside his door at dawn, her endless enthusiasm an inescapable force.
Her shrill voice, her need to do something—whether it was chasing butterflies, playing games, or simply talking—had begun to feel like a slow, unrelenting form of torture.
Still, it hadn't been all bad.
In their time together, Izikel had learned much, about the village, about its people, and about Lyzah herself.
But today would be different.
Today, he would step beyond the confines of his hilltop refuge.
The village, Moon Hill, lay sprawled beneath him. For days, he had hesitated to venture down, preferring solitude over the uncertainty of new interactions. In his past he was practically a shut-in, so a lifetime of isolation had left him with little skill in conversation, and the thought of mingling with more strangers unsettled him.
Yet he knew he couldn't remain hidden forever.
The Legion Commander had summoned him to the Saint Quarters, and ignoring such a request was out of the question.
For a village to house an entire Legion, one of the seventeen that formed the backbone of the Lunar Kingdom's military—was no small matter. That alone spoke volumes about Moon Hill's and the Vau-Leotard significance.
And so, accompanied by Sophia and the ever-present Lyzah, Izikel descended the hill.
Yet when he reached the base, the sight that greeted him shattered his expectations.
From above, he had seen rooftops clustered together, suggesting a sizable village, perhaps even a town. But standing in its midst, he realized it was something far greater.
This was no mere village. This was a city.
The streets teemed with life. Wooden and brick houses lined the roads, their doors and windows flung open to let in the fresh morning air. The villagers bustled about with a purpose, their faces reflecting a peaceful prosperity rarely seen in remote settlements.
It made sense. The abundance of natural resources and the coexistence of both Druids and Lunar believers had cultivated an environment unlike any other.
As Izikel walked through the streets, the villagers greeted him with warm smiles, their gazes filled with quiet admiration. He returned their greetings with polite nods, wary of drawing too much attention.
Thankfully, it seemed his noble status spared him from unnecessary conversations.
'If I don't speak first, they won't approach me,' he realized with relief.
Sophia, however, was another matter entirely.
Children clustered around her, their eyes wide with awe. Some whispered excitedly, while others boldly proclaimed their dreams of becoming just like Saint Sophia.
If only they knew the truth—that no boy could ever become "like Sophia".
But Izikel's mind was elsewhere.
From the moment he had learned he must come to the village, a single thought had consumed him.
He wanted to see the tree.
A colossal entity at the far edge of Moon Hill, its presence had lingered in the back of his mind like a dream too vivid to forget. From afar, it had seemed almost unreal, its towering form more akin to something out of legend than reality.
He needed to touch it.
He needed to know it was real.
'Because in truth… this could all be a…'
He stopped himself.
Best not to think like that.
As they reached the center of the village, two roads stretched before them.
One, a quiet, desolate path leading through a sparse forest, its trees dwarfed by the massive Old Tree looming in the distance. Even from here, its roots stretched into the heart of the village, coiling around a beautifully crafted water fountain like ancient veins of the earth itself.
The other road was lined with homes and led out of the village—the path to the Saint Quarters.
Izikel's choice was clear.
But just as he was about to slip away toward the Old Tree, an unwelcome voice pulled him back.
"Good morning, young master."
The voice was deep and confident, belonging to an elderly man with a stout frame and a belly that stretched his stained white apron.
Izikel recognized him instantly—Old Man Jon, the butcher. Lyzah had spoken about him during their time together and he had already seen him during his father's burial.
According to Lyzah, Old man Jon was one of the most respected figures in Moon Hill, a pillar of the community, but he never liked the Druids and he was always vocal about it.
Izikel forced a polite smile. "Good morning."
Jon's expression was unreadable at first, but his tone was filled with an odd mixture of concern and authority.
"I hope you're feeling better now?"
Izikel nodded. "Yes, much better, thank you."
There was no escape now. The conversation had already begun.
Jon's sharp gaze flicked toward Lyzah, his voice suddenly carrying a hardened edge.
"I heard what that Druid girl did to you."
Lyzah stiffened beside him.
Jon clicked his tongue, his words loud enough for all to hear.
"This is exactly why we should send those refugees away. They've long overstayed their welcome. Now all they do is take up space and cause trouble."
A heavy silence settled over the street.
The few Druids in the area flinched, their gazes falling to the ground in quiet shame. Guilt weighed on their shoulders—not for anything they had done personally, but for the actions of one among them.
Lyzah trembled.
Her small hands curled into fists, her nails digging deep into her palms. She lowered her head, her hair hiding the pain twisting her delicate features.
Izikel saw it, the way she struggled to hold back her tears, the way she shrank under the weight of words that should have never been hers to bear.
And he hated it.
He hated that she was being blamed for an accident.
He hated that she was being shunned for the very thing that had saved him and gave him a second chance at life.
If not for her, if not for that mistake, who knew what would have happened to his soul?
Jon's words rang in his ears, grating against something deep inside him.
Something that would not allow this injustice to stand.