Narration POV
The morning light shone into a house, heating up the wooden floor. Steam rose from a pot suspended over a small hearth, carrying with it the rich aroma of a meticulously prepared stew. The scent filled the small house, bringing warmth to an equally warm morning in Tyson village.
Sinbad stood over the pot, stirring occasionally with a wooden ladle that had seen better days. His golden eyes, however, weren't focused on the bubbling concoction but rather on something held tightly in his other hand.
A letter.
Not just any letter, but a draft notice to the army of New Parthevia.
His sixth.
The parchment was clean and new. Black ink spelled out his name. His jaw clenched, a muscle working in his cheek as memories of his father flooded his mind. Bardr, standing proud despite his crippled leg, showing the scars of war that littered his body. Bardr, being taken away while teaching his son one final lesson.
Bardr, who never returned alive.
Sinbad looked from the letter to the crackling fire beneath the stew pot. Without hesitation, just like he had done many times before, he thrust the parchment into the flames. The edges curled immediately, blackening and disintegrating. He watched, transfixed, as the official seal of the empire melted away, as his name disappeared into ash. Little by little, the draft notice burned until only cinders remained, mixing with the wood that fueled the fire cooking their meal.
A silent act of defiance, the only one he had the power to do.
Sinbad's attention was pulled away from his thoughts by the soft padding of feet and a voice that carried a peculiar lilt.
"Good morning Sinbad? How are you?" Yunan asked, his eyes still lazy from sleeping.
Sinbad turned, his face instantly transforming into a welcoming smile, no trace of his previous contemplation visible. "Good morning Yunan, I'm fine. Did you sleep well?"
Yunan nodded, his long blonde braid swaying with the movement. His green eyes fell on an empty bowl sitting on the small wooden table, remnants of stew still clinging to its sides.
"You ate already? Do you have to leave or something?" he questioned, noticing that Sinbad was already dressed for the day, a rough-spun shirt hanging from his lean frame.
"Yeah, I work in the morning carrying cargo at the port," Sinbad explained, his voice, neither sluggish or tired, it seemed like he had been up for hours, or was used to this.
Quickly Sinbad ladled a generous portion of the steaming stew into another wooden bowl. He grabbed a carved wooden spoon from a container near the hearth and walked over to Yunan, extending both toward the traveler.
"Here, eat this if you feel up to it," he offered, the steam from the bowl rising between them.
Yunan's face lit up as he accepted the meal, his slender fingers wrapping around the warm bowl. "Wow. Thanks a ton," he replied with genuine gratitude.
"It's hot, so be careful," Sinbad warned, watching as Yunan brought the spoon to his lips.
Yunan blew gently on the spoonful of stew before tasting it. The savory blend of vegetables, herbs, and what little meat Sinbad could afford melded together perfectly. "It's delicious," he commented, eyes widening slightly in pleasant surprise.
A small smile of pride crossed Sinbad's features. He reached for a worn leather bag that rested against the wall and slung it over his shoulder, adjusting the strap until it sat comfortably.
"So what are you gonna do?" Sinbad asked, pausing at the door.
Yunan took another spoonful of stew before answering. "I'll make a tour of the village and continue on my journey."
Something flickered across Sinbad's face—disappointment, perhaps, or a hint of longing. He stood silent for a moment, as if contemplating something of great importance.
"Fine then," he finally said, his tone neutral. "You can come and go as you please. See you."
With those parting words, Sinbad pushed open the door and stepped out into the morning sun, leaving Yunan alone in the small house. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud, cutting off the golden sunlight that had shone through it.
Yunan continued to eat in the now-quiet house, the only sound being the occasional crackle from the dying fire and the soft clinking of his spoon against the bowl. Through the small window, he could see villagers beginning their daily routines—women hanging laundry, children carrying water from the well, elderly folk sitting in what little shade they could find. A village struggling to survive without its men, claimed by a war that seemed endless.
A soft click pulled Yunan's attention away from the window. He turned to see a door slowly opening from one of the adjoining rooms. Standing there, leaning slightly against the doorframe for support, was a woman with long dark hair streaked with premature gray. Her face, though gaunt and pale, still held traces of the beauty she must have possessed in her youth. Her eyes, the same amber gold as Sinbad's, were tired but kind.
"Is it good?" she asked, her voice soft but clear.
Yunan looked at her for a moment, taking in her frail appearance, the way her clothes hung loosely on her thin frame, how she seemed to struggle even to stand. He set his bowl down and offered her a warm smile.
"Good morning. Thank you for letting me stay here," he replied, inclining his head slightly in respect. "And yes, it's delicious."
"I taught him that recipe, you know," she said with a hint of pride, a mother's joy in her son's accomplishments, even in something as simple as a well-cooked meal.
"Well then, thank you for making delicious recipes," Yunan responded, his voice genuine.
Esra's lips curved into a smile, her face momentarily lighting up. "Your welcom—" she began, but her words were cut short as a coughing fit seized her.
Her body shook with each cough, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as she leaned more heavily against the doorframe. Yunan set his bowl aside completely and rose to his feet in concern. He looked around, unsure of what to do, before walking over to her.
"Come on, let's get you to bed," he said gently, offering his arm for support. "Sick people should rest."
Esra nodded weakly, allowing Yunan to guide her back to her small room. The space was simple but clean, with a narrow bed covered in worn but carefully mended blankets. A small table beside it held various jars and bottles—Sinbad's attempts to find medicines that might ease his mother's suffering.
"I shouldn't make my guest worry about me," she murmured as Yunan helped her sit on the edge of the bed.
"Have you been ill for a while?" Yunan asked, genuine concern in his green eyes as he studied her pale complexion.
"Yes, three years now," Esra replied, her voice tinged with regret. She smoothed the blanket beside her with trembling fingers. "I'm putting a burden on Sin. He's a kind boy. He's just like his dad."
Her eyes grew distant, lost in memories of happier times. "My husband used to say that Sinbad would one day change the world. But because of me, he's had to stay in this village." Her voice cracked slightly. "I worry about that a lot."
The room fell quiet as Esra looked down at her hands, fingers intertwined in her lap. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped them together, almost as if in anger or frustration. No one liked being a burden, especially not to family.
After a moment, her expression softened, the frown turning into a gentle smile as she looked back up at Yunan, who had been standing patiently by her side.
"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head slightly. "You probably don't want to know about stuff like this." She paused, a flicker of curiosity crossing her features. "I don't know why, but I feel as if I can share these things with you."
Yunan smiled at her, warmth radiating from his expression. "Really?" he asked, finding himself in a more normal position than he liked to admit.
"So, Yunan," Esra continued, her voice gaining a hint of urgency as she clasped her hands together in a gesture resembling prayer, "I have a favor to ask you." Her golden eyes, so like her son's, looked up at him imploringly. "If anything happens to Sin... please guide him."
The request hung in the air between them. Yunan stared at the woman, momentarily taken aback by the depth of her plea.
He wasn't quite sure why, but he knew he couldn't deny this request. It was as if some invisible thread of fate had drawn him to this small village, to this humble home, to this moment and Yunan knew better than to work against fate.
The seriousness of the moment was broken when Esra suddenly waved her hand dismissively, a self-deprecating smile crossing her lips.
"Because as a traveler, you have more experience than I do, right?" she added, lightening her tone. "I could complicate things for him even more by getting involved."
Yunan couldn't help but smile back, charmed by her attempt to mask the depth of her concern with practical reasoning. Before he fully realized it, words were flowing from his mouth, a promise he hadn't planned to make but one he suddenly felt compelled to keep.
"I'd be happy to," he said softly, meaning every word.
Esra's face brightened, some of the worry lines easing from around her eyes. For a moment, Yunan could see the beautiful young woman she must have been when Sinbad was born—full of hope and dreams for her child's future.
Their shared smile created a moment of perfect understanding between them, two souls connected by their care for Sinbad despite having known each other for less than a day. It was a peaceful moment, warm and genuine.
But Yunan's smile faltered as his keen senses picked up something Esra could not yet hear. The sound of hurried footsteps approaching the house, the rushed, panicked breathing of someone running at full speed. His body tensed instinctively, his eyes darting to the door.
The wooden door flew open with such force that it slammed against the wall, letting in a flood of harsh sunlight. Standing in the doorway, chest heaving from exertion, was the very same woman who had greeted Yunan and Sinbad when they returned to the village yesterday. Elizabeth's face was flushed, her eyes wide with fear and distress.
"Esra," the woman yelled, her voice cracking with terror. "Sinbad he's—"