The Five Realms

Chapter 5: William I

Chapter 5: Names Are Power

The road home was quiet, paved in puddles and flickering reflections.

William walked beside his mother under the wide stretch of her umbrella, their steps soft on the damp pavement. The rain had passed, but its memory clung to everything—the trees dripping slowly, the smell of wet asphalt, the weight behind every word not spoken.

He hadn't said much since the service. Neither had she.

"You don't have to keep looking like that," his mom said gently, her voice breaking the hush like a matchstrike. "It wouldn't have changed anything."

He glanced at her. She gave him a tired smile, the kind parents gave when they'd already argued with themselves first.

"If we hadn't gone to Aunt Rena's—" he started.

"You'd still have watched it all burn from the front yard," she said. "And hated yourself just the same. You weren't meant to stop it, Will."

He looked down at the sidewalk. The puddles caught the orange streetlight like stained glass. "But I should've been there."

"You're here now," she said, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. "That's what matters. They know it. And so do you."

He didn't answer.

Her hand rested on his shoulder briefly, then dropped. "You're not one of them, not by blood. But you've been their brother in every other way. Don't forget that."

He nodded, slowly.

"Besides," she added, tone lightening, "Chyna didn't look too mad at you."

That pulled a huff of breath from him. Almost a laugh.

His mother smirked, bumping her shoulder into his. "I've seen the way she looks at you, Will. And I saw how she held your hand at the grave."

He rolled his eyes, but his face warmed. "You saw that?"

"Hard not to." She paused. "You okay with that?"

He was quiet a beat. Then: "Yeah. I think I am."

They rounded the corner. Home was just ahead—porch light glowing like a low star in the fog.

But William paused, glancing back down the street. Toward the graveyard. Toward the tree line.

"Something doesn't feel done," he murmured.

His mother followed his gaze, then exhaled. "Grief never feels finished, honey."

William shook his head. "It's not just that."

She studied him, not pressing, just... waiting.

But he didn't say more.

They reached the steps.

Before they went inside, William glanced at his mother again.

"Thanks," he said.

She gave his hand a squeeze. "Always."

Then the door clicked behind them, and the mist took the street back into its arms.

The box was old—scuffed wood, brass hinges dull with time. William pulled it out from under his bed like he was uncovering a secret he hadn't meant to find.

He'd nearly forgotten it.

Katherine had given it to him a year ago, before school let out for summer. Just pressed it into his hands one morning, no explanation, no context.

"Keep this safe," she'd said. "Don't open it unless something... breaks."

Back then, he hadn't asked what she meant. He just nodded and slid it away, like she was entrusting him with a spare house key or maybe old photos.