novelraw Chapter 135 : The Gentle Season
Chapter 135 : The Gentle Season
(Rooga’s POV)
A few months passed since the elves arrived, and the Borderlands no longer felt like the wild frontier I grew up in.
Stone paths wound between houses that hummed faintly with magic.
Lanterns glowed from living branches.
The smell of fresh bread and blooming mana mixed in the air every morning.
Sometimes, when I walked through the market, I couldn’t tell where the village ended and the forest began.
Lyra called it “a city in the making.”
Father called it “too noisy for his taste.”
Mother just smiled and said it felt like the world was finally healing.
To me, it felt like home — though not quite the same one as before.
I was nine now.
Old enough to be told to work, but still young enough to be shooed away when adults wanted to talk politics.
The people had started calling this place the New Root, since it was no longer just Valemont lands or scattered villages.
Everywhere I went, someone was building, planting, or arguing about where new roads should go.
Even the air buzzed differently.
But none of that mattered as much as her.
Luna had made herself at home faster than anyone else.
She walked through the streets without her blindfold now, smiling faintly at everyone who greeted her.
Most of the elves treated her with reverence, the villagers with curiosity, but she never acted above anyone.
When she looked at me, though… it was different.
Softer.
I didn’t understand it at first — the way her gaze lingered, or how she always found her way to me, no matter where I was in the grove.
She’d say it was because she could feel my mana.
But deep down, I knew there was more to it than that.
Because for the first time, someone had chosen me first.
Not because I was strong.
Not because of the goddess.
Just because I was me.
We spent most afternoons in the same place — under the roots of Maori’s great tree, where the air shimmered with green light.
Luna would sit with her legs tucked beneath her, humming softly while I carved small wooden charms.
Sometimes she’d trace the grooves of my carvings with her fingers, fascinated by how the mana flowed through the grain.
“You’re patient,” she said once.
“I’m bored,” I replied.
She smiled. “That’s what patience looks like when you’re young.”
When she laughed, it wasn’t loud — more like the sound of leaves brushing together in the wind.
And even though I’d never say it out loud, hearing it made me feel calm in a way nothing else did.
I used to think I understood love.
Mother’s love was fierce — warm one moment, terrifying the next.
Lyra’s love was sharp, like a scolding wrapped in care.
Even Maori’s affection felt eternal, though she was something far beyond human.
But Luna’s love was quiet.
It didn’t demand or command — it simply existed.
Sometimes, when she stood beside me, I could feel it through her mana — steady, gentle, as if her entire being whispered: You’re enough.
And that was the strangest part.
Because for someone like me, who’d spent so long trying to prove himself through spells, swords, and numbers, that simple truth was… terrifying.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
One evening, as the sky burned gold and violet, Luna turned to me and said,
“Do you ever wonder why people sing, even when they have nothing to say?”
I shrugged. “Because it feels right?”
She smiled. “That’s what love is. A song you hum, even when no one’s listening.”
I didn’t know how to answer her.
So I just looked at her — really looked — and realized I’d never felt this kind of warmth before.
Maybe it wasn’t the wild passion the bards talked about.
Maybe it was just peace — the kind of peace that comes from knowing someone won’t run away when they see you.
And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of being seen.
As night fell, the lights of the new city shimmered below the hill — elven runes glowing beside human lanterns, streets alive with laughter and music.
The Borderlands had changed, but somehow, so had I.
Luna and I sat beneath the tree, the world humming quietly around us.
She rested her head against my shoulder, eyes half-closed.
“I like it here,” she whispered.
“Me too.”
The grove glowed softly, like it was listening.
And somewhere deep within it, I swore I heard Maori’s voice — amused and tender.
“So it begins again.”
(Lunaria’s POV)
The nights in this new land breathed differently.
The air was thick with mana — not the polished harmony of the Holy Forest, but raw, vibrant, alive.
Every sound, every color, every heartbeat carried traces of him.
When I first arrived, the world was blinding.
Now, when I looked at it through his light, everything felt bearable.
Every leaf had shape.
Every shadow had warmth.
Every silence had meaning.
And it scared me.
I was born from prophecy, shaped by divine residue and duty.
The elves called me Seer, Oracle, Voice of the Heartroot — all names that belonged to something holy.
But holiness was just another word for alone.
For years, I lived surrounded by reverence and silence.
No one touched me.
No one spoke to me without kneeling first.
Even the children of the forest sang my name instead of saying it.
And then I met him — a boy who smiled at me without fear, without expectation, without prayer.
He looked at me as if I were just another person standing beneath the same sky.
And that was enough to unmake me.
The first time Rooga brushed against my hand, I thought my heart would shatter.
Not from pain, but from the shock of feeling.
His mana was different from anyone I had ever met — warm, human, messy.
It wasn’t divine like mine, or perfect like the elves’.
It pulsed.
It lived.
When I was near him, my own mana quieted.
The chaos of colors that once filled my vision faded into calm, and for the first time in my life, I could see the world without pain.
It should have been a blessing.
But instead, it felt fragile.
Like something I could lose.
The songs the elves sang every night — songs meant to honor him — should have made me proud.
Instead, they made me ache.
Because I could see what they could not.
He wasn’t a symbol.
He wasn’t a chosen one.
He was just… Rooga.
He still tripped over roots when he wasn’t paying attention.
He still scratched his head when confused.
He still smiled in that quiet, awkward way when someone praised him.
And maybe that’s why I loved him.
Because he was the only part of this world that didn’t demand to be worshiped.
But I shouldn’t have.
Not as a Seer.
Not as something born from divine mana.
Prophecy said I was meant to guide the world, not love it.
Yet when I looked at him, I stopped seeing the future altogether.
I used to be afraid of the end of the world.
Now I’m afraid of a world without him.
Every time he laughs, I wonder what would happen if that sound disappeared.
Every time he smiles, I wonder what would happen when it stops.
It’s a small, quiet fear that lodges behind my ribs and never leaves.
When I sleep, I dream of two futures —
one where he stands beneath burning skies, his eyes hollow,
and another where he dies peacefully beside me beneath the tree.
Both endings begin the same way:
with me loving him.
Tonight, we sat together again beneath Maori’s great tree.
The air was cool, carrying the faint echo of elven songs in the distance.
Rooga leaned back against the roots, eyes half-closed, his hands still dusted with shavings from another carving.
He looked at peace — unaware that his calm had become my storm.
“Luna,” he said quietly. “You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m thinking,” I answered.
“About what?”
I smiled faintly, staring up at the stars.
“About how beautiful the world is when you stop trying to understand it.”
He laughed softly, and my chest tightened at the sound.
Maybe one day, he’ll understand.
Maybe one day, I’ll have the courage to tell him what loving him truly means.
That to love him is to risk the prophecy itself.
Because if he is the heart that saves the world—
then I am the one who could make him forget why it needs saving.