Kingdom of Verdwryn

Marla moved through her days with a strength that belied her slender frame. Her auburn hair, often tied back with a strip of cloth, carried golden streaks that caught the sunlight like ripened wheat at harvest. Freckles dusted her fair skin, and her sharp green eyes glimmered with an unyielding determination. Life in Dawnfield was demanding, yet Marla rose to its challenges with quiet resilience. Her hands, calloused from years of toil, held a surprising gentleness when cradling her newborn son. To Marla, Michael was nothing short of a miracle—a blessing that made every hardship worthwhile.

Gareth, her husband, was as steady as the earth he tilled. Broad-shouldered and rugged, his rough hands spoke of a lifetime spent coaxing crops from the soil. Dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, framed his sun-weathered face, while his gray eyes held the quiet wisdom of a man who had long observed the cycles of life and land. Gareth was a man of action rather than words, but his love for his family was evident in every careful repair, every crafted tool, and every moment of tireless work. Together, Marla and Gareth were the cornerstone of their household, a team bound by love and an enduring connection to the land.

The cottage they shared was modest but sturdy, a testament to Gareth's craftsmanship. Constructed from hand-hewn timber and reinforced with clay, it stood near the edge of the village, bordered by a garden and fields that stretched toward the horizon. Inside, the single-room structure was divided by necessity rather than design. A crude wooden table and stools occupied one corner, while the hearth dominated another, its warmth and light central to the family's daily life. A simple straw-stuffed mattress and a cradle Gareth had crafted with care completed the space. Despite its simplicity, the cottage exuded warmth—a reflection of the love and effort that filled it.

In the weeks following Michael's birth, Marla carried him everywhere. Swaddled snugly in a cloth tied across her back, he became her constant companion as she planted seeds in the garden, pulled weeds, and fetched water from the village well. His presence brought her comfort, a reminder of the life she had nurtured and the future she worked so tirelessly to secure. Even when exhaustion crept into her bones, she hummed soft melodies under her breath, soothing both her own spirit and the tiny child she carried.

Michael rarely cried. Unlike other infants, he seemed content to observe the world from his perch. The warmth of his mother's body and the steady rhythm of her movements calmed him, leaving him free to absorb the details of his new reality. It was as though he understood the sacrifices she made for him and the strength it took to carry him—both physically and in her heart.

Yet Michael's mind was anything but that of a newborn. The memories of his previous life as First Lieutenant Michael Lockwood remained intact, their clarity undiminished by the strange circumstances of his rebirth. He could not speak, nor could he move with purpose, but his thoughts were sharp, his awareness keen.

From his cradle, he watched the world unfold. Sunlight filtering through cracks in the wooden walls, the melodic cadence of Marla's voice as she worked, Gareth's focused expression as he repaired a broken plow—every detail was noted and cataloged. The currents of air that brushed against him, subtle yet insistent, intrigued him most of all. The villagers spoke of these "Everwinds" as a blessing, but Michael felt there was more to them. They carried a presence, almost sentient, that touched the edges of his consciousness. He could not yet decipher their whispers, but he was certain they held secrets worth uncovering.

Dawnfield itself reminded Michael of Pine Bluffs, the small farming town where he had grown up in another life. Yet there was a purity to this place, an unbroken connection to the land and its magic that his old world had long since forgotten. As he listened to the conversations of the villagers, he began to piece together the customs and traditions that shaped their lives. He noted their vulnerabilities—the absence of walls, the reliance on superstition, and their lack of preparation for external threats. His soldier's mind analyzed these weaknesses with precision, even as his heart softened at their kindness and simplicity.

Days turned to weeks, and Michael's sense of purpose began to crystallize. This new life was more than a second chance; it was an opportunity to build something better. The people of Dawnfield had welcomed him into their world, and he would not take their trust for granted. He would repay Marla and Gareth's love and sacrifices by ensuring that their village not only survived but thrived.

Lying in his cradle at night, listening to the wind rustle through the thatched roof, Michael made a silent vow. He would grow strong again. He would learn the ways of this land, its magic, and its people. The Everwinds, with their elusive whispers, called to him, and he intended to answer.

Though he was bound now by the helplessness of infancy, he would not remain powerless forever. For now, he would wait, observe, and learn. One day, Michael Lockwood—now Michael, son of Gareth—would rise.