Where patience gives way to quiet resolve. This is the chapter where Barakiel sets out again—not to reclaim, not to accuse, but to receive. And in that return, he is given something stranger, subtler, and perhaps more powerful than gold: instruments of provision.

The snows had begun to recede

Not fully. Not loudly. But with a slow grace, like a curtain drawn back by invisible hands. The ground softened, releasing its frost like a breath long held. Buds began to appear on the thinnest branches. The wind changed—carrying not warmth, but the memory of warmth.

And Barakiel felt it.

It stirred in his chest one morning as he stepped outside and found the frost no longer clung to the corner stones of the house. The goat—still docile, still false—grazed near the fence post, chewing dry hay without curiosity.

He watched it for a long time.

Then turned and stepped inside.

Mahira sat by the hearth, shaping flour into flat rounds with the heel of her palm.

She looked up only once.

“It’s time?” she asked.

He nodded.

She did not question where he would go, nor whether he would find what he sought. She had asked those questions before and found no need to ask them again. She simply wrapped two loaves in cloth and handed them to him without words.

This time, he took the staff.

The old one. The one carved by his grandfather, with the banded rings and the bird-head grip. It had once been a symbol of guidance. He had kept it buried for years. But now, it felt light in his hand.

“Do not seek justice,” Mahira said as he turned to leave. “Seek memory. And receive what is waiting.”

Barakiel bowed his head.

Then he stepped onto the road.

Not with fire.

Not with anger.

But with a silence sharpened by waiting.

And a heart prepared to be shown again.

Barakiel’s journey begins quietly, but with shadows waiting along the path. The Shenai, emboldened by their theft, now present a mask of diplomacy—demanding gifts from the realm they once defiled. The writing is immersive, deliberate, and rich with layered tension.

By the second day of walking, Barakiel reached the edge of the Galawan foothills.

The trees here stood farther apart, their trunks pale and splotched with late frost. Ravens circled overhead, cawing without menace—just observation. The path beneath his feet was faint now, but it still remembered him. The snow crunched in a way he could read, like a sentence half-erased but not forgotten.

As he passed a bend marked by a half-fallen stone arch, he heard them.

Not voices at first—just the creak of leather, the low clack of bone ornaments, the smell of boiled fur.

Then—

“Traveler,” a voice called “You return.”

Barakiel slowed.

Ahead, half-shrouded in morning mist, stood a group of Shenai. Not many—perhaps four. Dumak was not among them, but the posture of their shoulders, the way they leaned on their spears—not for defense, but for theatre—told him all he needed.

One of them stepped forward. He was younger than Dumak, broad-shouldered, his hair braided with bone and silver wire. His voice was pleasant, rehearsed.

“We greet you again, man of the snow-path. The one who walks between fire and frost.”

Barakiel said nothing.

“You travel again toward the far ice,” the man continued, “And the path you take, as you know… crosses Shenai soil.”

Barakiel’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“So it does”

The man smiled, showing two teeth stained black from root chewing.

“And so it is that the Shenai, in our modest wisdom, must request… an offering”

Barakiel tilted his head.

“An offering”

“A small gesture,” the man said “A gift from the realm you walk to One artifact. One object. Something to—how do you say it?—strengthen the goodwill of tribes. For passage, of course.”

Barakiel studied him.

Not with suspicion.

But with memory.

“You already took your offering,” he said.

The younger man stiffened. The others shifted uneasily.

Barakiel stepped forward once, calmly.

“And what was taken without blessing will return with burden. Not now. Not by my hand. But soon.”

He said no more.

And the silence he left in the clearing was heavier than threat.

The Shenai stepped aside.

And the path opened again.

Not in invitation.

In warning.

where Barakiel moves deeper into the passage between memory and mercy. The land that once listened to prophecy now listens again—and the sacred realm he seeks begins to stir.

Barakiel walked on, the snow rising again around his ankles.

The air grew colder, but not harsh. It was a purposeful cold, the kind that awakens without punishing. Above, the sky hung low—streaked with muted gold and silver, as if morning and dusk had agreed to meet for once.

He did not look back.

The encounter with the Shenai lay behind him like a discarded husk: the empty performance of diplomacy without reverence. Their voices, their requests, had not touched him. But their presence lingered like a shadow cast by memory.

The land began to change.

Here, the trees thinned. The wind grew still. The silence deepened—not empty, but attentive, like the pause before an oracle speaks.

Barakiel slowed his pace.

He remembered this feeling.

The first time he had passed into the edge of Svalur, it had begun like this—with the hush, the light turning different, the pull in his chest like a thread being gently drawn from behind his heart.

Now it returned.

Not as invitation.

But as recognition.

He stepped into a hollow flanked by two ancient stones. Moss traced the symbols carved into their surface—spirals, sun-lines, and the arc of the sacred word. Between them, the snow had already begun to part.

The veil was near.

Barakiel removed his staff and knelt.

He touched the snow with the flat of his palm.

“I come not for judgment,” he whispered “Nor to reclaim what was taken. I come with empty hands, again.”

The earth said nothing.

But the frost retreated slightly beneath his palm.

A path formed—narrow, glowing with light from beneath the snow, as if the land itself had lit a lantern.

He stood.

And walked.

Toward the mouth of the cave that remembered him.

where Barakiel moves deeper into the passage between memory and mercy. The land that once listened to prophecy now listens again—and the sacred realm he seeks begins to stir.

Barakiel walked on, the snow rising again around his ankles.

The air grew colder, but not harsh. It was a purposeful cold, the kind that awakens without punishing. Above, the sky hung low—streaked with muted gold and silver, as if morning and dusk had agreed to meet for once.

He did not look back.

The encounter with the Shenai lay behind him like a discarded husk: the empty performance of diplomacy without reverence. Their voices, their requests, had not touched him. But their presence lingered like a shadow cast by memory.

The land began to change.

Here, the trees thinned. The wind grew still. The silence deepened—not empty, but attentive, like the pause before an oracle speaks.

Barakiel slowed his pace.

He remembered this feeling.

The first time he had passed into the edge of Svalur, it had begun like this—with the hush, the light turning different, the pull in his chest like a thread being gently drawn from behind his heart.

Now it returned.

Not as invitation.

But as recognition.

He stepped into a hollow flanked by two ancient stones. Moss traced the symbols carved into their surface—spirals, sun-lines, and the arc of the sacred word. Between them, the snow had already begun to part.

The veil was near.

Barakiel removed his staff and knelt.

He touched the snow with the flat of his palm.

“I come not for judgment,” he whispered “Nor to reclaim what was taken. I come with empty hands, again.”

The earth said nothing.

But the frost retreated slightly beneath his palm.

A path formed—narrow, glowing with light from beneath the snow, as if the land itself had lit a lantern.

He stood.

And walked.

Toward the mouth of the cave that remembered him.

Barakiel returns into the heart of Svalur. The land does not greet him with spectacle, but with stillness shaped by memory. This is no longer a journey of awe—but of return, of quiet recognition, and of gifts deeper than gold.

The air in Svalur had not changed.

It still bore that impossible clarity—thin and sharp like the first note struck on a frozen string. Yet beneath it, there was warmth. Not in temperature, but in spirit. The kind of warmth that clings to the breath of those who have been welcomed.

Barakiel stepped through the final veil of frost, and the valley opened before him again.

The snow beneath his feet shimmered with blue firelight from below, the way spring glows inside the veins of trees before it shows in their branches. The pines rose taller here. The light was softer. And the silence was not absence.

It was belonging.

Far across the plain, the spires of the palace glinted faintly, their ridges flowing like carved light. Between them moved cranes—white-winged, elegant, writing prayers in the air with their slow, circling flight.

He felt them.

He did not call for Nooriyah.

He did not ask for the king.

He simply walked.

The guardians—no longer in bear-form, but tall figures draped in silvered cloaks—bowed as he passed. Not deeply. Not ceremonially. Just enough to say:

You are known here.

As he neared the palace, he saw her.

Nooriyah stood beneath an arch of blooming frost-vines, her hands folded before her, eyes already on him. She wore no crown. No veil. Only the same poise she had worn as a child, seated beside the hearth, listening to her mother chant verses to warm the morning.

She walked forward.

And he met her halfway.

“You returned,” she said.

Barakiel lowered his head “Because the waiting was not yet complete.”

She touched his shoulder gently.

“Then come. You are expected.”

Together, they stepped beneath the palace arch.

And the walls of Svalur, carved from snow, fire, and memory, brightened slightly in welcome.

where Barakiel is brought into the inner sanctum of the palace. The land offers not reward, but remembrance. And within that remembrance, the true gifts are revealed—not gold, but the tools of providence—simple in form, profound in use.

The halls of Svalur had not dimmed.

If anything, they had grown brighter, but not in the way of torches or stars. The brightness came from something subtler: the way light passed through the translucent walls, caught on the breath of those who moved through them. Each step Barakiel took echoed like a whispered name returning home.

Nooriyah led him through corridors he had not seen before.

These were not the vaulted chambers of the king’s throne nor the gardens that flowered beneath snow. These halls were lower, carved deeper into the foundation of the mountain itself. Here, the walls were darker, veined not with silver but with deep emerald light. The air was cool and still, like a place where sacred things were stored—not to be shown, but to be passed on.

At last, they entered a round chamber carved in the shape of a bowl, its floor sunken, its ceiling etched with a spiral of glowing glyphs. In the center sat a stone table—smooth, unadorned, humming faintly with presence.

Upon it lay two objects.

A wooden ladle, and a flat-handled spatula.

Barakiel’s breath caught—not from confusion, but from intuition. He knew, without being told, that these were no ordinary tools.

Nooriyah stepped beside him.

“You asked for nothing,” she said “But Svalur gives”

Barakiel stepped forward and looked down at the objects. They were carved of pale wood, lined faintly with runes, but simple—humble.

“What are they?”

A new voice answered.

Aurelion.

The king emerged from the curve of the wall, his silver cloak trailing behind him, eyes soft and quiet as ever.

“They are not symbols,” he said “They are not talismans. They are not meant to impress.”

He walked to the table, placed his hand gently over the utensils.

“They are vessels Instruments. Given only to those who feed without demand”

Barakiel looked up “And what do they do?”

Aurelion smiled faintly.

“They give”

In this moment, the divine logic of Svalur is revealed: tools of grace are simple, humble, and only powerful when wielded with reverence. Barakiel receives not instruments of command—but of quiet, faithful provision.

Barakiel reached for the ladle

His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the sense that he was about to touch something alive in its silence. The moment his skin brushed the smooth, pale wood, a warmth passed up his arm—not heat, but a recognition, like being remembered by something that had once dreamt of him.

The ladle was feather-light, its bowl shallow and wide, its handle engraved with three small glyphs: an open palm, a flame, and a seed.

He turned it gently.

It shimmered once, like sunlight glimpsed through water.

Then he reached for the spatula.

It was flat, unassuming—barely longer than his forearm. But it hummed faintly. Not with sound, but with presence. A quiet thrum beneath his fingers, like a breath waiting to be spoken. Its wood was darker, more fibrous, as if it had been carved from a tree that once stood at the edge of the world.

“How do they work?” Barakiel asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aurelion stepped beside him, folding his hands behind his back.

“They do not respond to command,” he said “They do not perform on whim. They are not enchanted in the way men think of magic.”

He looked at Nooriyah.

She nodded once, then stepped forward. From the folds of her robe, she drew a small stone bowl and placed it on the table. It was empty.

She took the ladle table Barakiel hands.

Closing her eyes, she whispered a phrase—not in the language of Svalur, nor the tongue of the mountain folk—but in something older.

Karaṇadvayaṁ bhojanaṁ divyāt sampadyatām

O twin instruments, let the food manifest from the divine.

A rhythm.

A remembrance.

A hymn.

Barakiel could not understand the words—but he understood the feeling: it was gratitude, given before the gift.

And then—

The ladle shimmered.

Not with glow, but with fullness.

Nooriyah dipped it into the empty bowl.

And poured out warm, fragrant soup.

Barakiel stepped back.

The scent of cardamom and thyme, of lentils and memory, filled the chamber.

“They feed,” Aurelion said, “as long as the hands that hold them do not ask for more than is needed.”

“And when they are taken by those who feed without blessing?” Barakiel asked.

The king’s gaze darkened slightly.

“Then they forget how to give.”

The sacred tools now receive their first invocation—not as a spell, but as a hymn: "Karaṇadvayaṁ bhojanaṁ divyāt sampadyatām"—a verse offered to draw sustenance from the divine, and in doing so, awaken the instruments into their purpose.

Nooriyah held the ladle above the bowl once more.

This time, she looked to Barakiel.

“Say it,” she said softly “Your voice has carried farther than mine. The earth knows your rhythm”

He hesitated.

The ladle shimmered faintly in his hand again, as if it knew it was being acknowledged. The spatula lay across the table, its edges glowing dimly with a light that did not flicker, but breathed.

Barakiel took a breath.

Then, slowly, with the reverence of one reciting an oath over seed before sowing, he spoke:

“Karaṇadvayaṁ bhojanaṁ divyāt sampadyatām ”

O twin instruments, let the food manifest from the divine.

The words echoed through the chamber—not loudly, but with weight, like stones dropped into deep water. The glyphs along the ceiling trembled faintly, and for a moment, the entire room exhaled.

The ladle warmed.

And from its hollow, a golden broth began to appear—slowly, silently, spiraling like liquid light. Nooriyah brought forward a second bowl. Barakiel, with hands steady now, dipped the ladle and poured the broth into it.

It steamed gently, scentless yet somehow familiar.

Then he lifted the spatula.

Its weight had changed. It was no longer light with expectation. It was full—with meaning.

He placed it over the stone hearth built into the floor. There was no flame.

Yet the air above it wavered.

And on the flat of the spatula’s face appeared a pat of warm, butter-soft bread—thin, round, as though baked in the sun.

Barakiel touched it.

Still warm.

Still real.

Nooriyah smiled.

“They remember what the earth once knew.”

Barakiel lowered his head.

He did not ask what else they could create.

He already understood:

They gave what was needed—

and only to those who asked with emptiness, not expectation

where the divine utensils reveal not only their gift, but their sacred law: that abundance follows humility, and memory serves only those who feed with patience. This page is woven with immersive imagery, sacred philosophy, and quiet transformation.

Barakiel stared at the bread in his hand.

It was still warm, still soft, its edges faintly golden. He broke it slowly and found it filled with something fragrant—something not seen, but felt. It was as if the bread had remembered every table he had sat beside in hunger, every fast broken with whispered thanks, every winter evening when the pot had only half-fed them, and yet they had said alhamdulillah.

He brought it to his lips.

The taste was not sweet. Not salted. It was true. It tasted like home, and longing, and the moment a prayer turns into breath.

Nooriyah sat beside him now, watching him eat.

“It will not feed those who do not wait,” she said.

He nodded.

“I know.”

Aurelion stood across the chamber, hands folded at his back. His voice, when it came, was quiet—but clear.

“These instruments are not for display. They do not perform for pride. They do not obey voices that speak only to fill bellies and never to honour hunger.”

He walked to the ladle and touched its edge with one finger.

“They are memory carved into form. The memory of a world where food was first given by rain, not trade. Where grain was kissed into being by wind, not bought. ”

Barakiel looked at the spatula, still faintly steaming, resting on the stone.

“And if they are stolen?” he asked.

“They cease,” Aurelion replied “Not instantly. Not cruelly. But they grow cold They forget. ”

Barakiel understood now.

The tools were not magical—they were responsive.

They lived.

And like all living things, they withdrew when handled without love.

He looked at Nooriyah.

“These are not riches,” he said.

“No,” she whispered, “They are responsibility.”

He folded the cloth over the ladle and spatula, cradling them gently, the way a man cradles something not yet tested—but already loved.

The tools did not glow.

They simply rested.

Waiting to be used. Not for glory. But for grace.

Barakiel now carries the divine instruments—not as weapons or treasures, but as sacred witnesses. Svalur does not send him forth with applause, only with the dignity of entrusted memory.

Barakiel left the chamber in silence, the cloth-wrapped utensils in his satchel, his staff in hand. Nooriyah walked beside him, their footsteps soft against the crystal-veined floor. Neither of them spoke. There was no need. What had been given was not something to discuss—it was something to protect.

The palace corridors, lit with soft auroral light, shifted as they passed. Walls reshaped slightly, welcoming and receding, the way snow yields to one who knows how to walk without imprinting. Svalur did not say goodbye. It never did.

Outside, the sky had begun to snow.

Not thickly. Just enough to bless the air with hush.

Barakiel turned once at the edge of the gate. Nooriyah stood at the threshold, her scarf pale against the silver trees. Her hand raised once in farewell, though her eyes did not weep.

“You will return,” she said.

Barakiel gave a slow nod “I must.”

She stepped back into the archway and disappeared into the shimmer of snow.

He crossed the valley alone, but never lonely.

The spatula and ladle inside his bag gave off no glow, no hum, no warmth. Yet he could feel them. Their silence was not emptiness—it was presence. They were listening.

The wind shifted as he approached the edge of the kingdom. He paused before the stone gate. The frost parted again, faintly, just enough for him to pass.

As he stepped through the veil into the cold forest beyond, he did not shiver.

The memory of Svalur. had settled into his spine.

And with every footstep through snow, with every breath drawn into winter, Barakiel now carried more than a gift.

He carried a law.

Feed with reverence.

Offer without pride.

And what the world forgets—you must remember.

Next Chapter: Chapter 10: Rope and Stick – Justice Restored