By the time I sat up, I could hear movement in the kitchen. Water in the kettle. Mom humming under her breath—some old hymn, slow and cracked like the floor tiles.
Zeke was outside again before breakfast, splitting kindling with a rhythm that didn't match the peace of the hour. His jaw still clenched tight. He hadn't said much at supper the night before.
I sat by the window while the tea steeped, hands around the cup like I was warming something deeper than fingers. Dinah came in with Thalia a little later, and Mom made soft sounds at the baby, kissed her forehead, then went back to chopping herbs for the bread.
It was normal. All of it.
But I couldn't shake it.
That figure. Those soldiers. Their gear, worn like saints' robes—like reliquaries that bled when cracked. The Dominaran cross on one's shoulder, sun-faded but proud. Another wore a mantle painted with a dove in flight, and another had a medal shaped like the old citadel in Larnaca, hanging from his neck like a holy token.
Who were they?
Why me?
I kept my face straight when Mom turned to ask if I wanted honey in my tea.
I said yes.
Zeke was still splitting wood when I stepped out. The morning light caught in his hair, and the axe came down like he meant it. He looked over, nodded once.
"Morning," I said, picking up the kindling.
"Morning," he said back, breath short from the swing. "Sleep all right?"
"Not really," I said.
He paused, set the axe down. "Nightmares?"
"Something like that."
He gave a grunt, half-sympathy, half-understanding. "They'll pass."
We finished up the work together in silence after that—him swinging, me stacking. The quiet was heavy, but not bad. Just thick, like a wool coat that keeps you warm even if it weighs on you.
When Mom called us in, she handed Zeke a basket of wrapped herbs, eggs, and a note sealed with string.
"Take it to Marta," she said. "And stay out of the tavern."
Zeke raised both hands. "You wound me, Mom."
"I will if you're not back before lunch," she said, and kissed both of us on the cheek.
The sun was already hot when we started down the road. Zeke carried the heavier end of the basket, like always.
After a while, he said, "You wanna talk about it?"
I looked over. "What?"
"Whatever had you up."
I hesitated. "I don't know what to say. It wasn't… normal."
Zeke nodded, kept walking. "Doesn't have to be normal to matter."
I stared at the road for a while. The stones, the dust. The way our shadows stretched out ahead of us.
"It felt… like it meant something," I said. "Like it was meant for me."
Zeke was quiet.
"Do you ever think God still does that?" I asked. "Sends messages. Real ones."
He glanced over, slow. "Sometimes I hope not."
"Why?"
"Because the last time He did, people ended up in a desert for forty years."
That made me huff a laugh. "Fair."
Zeke slowed his pace, let the basket swing between us. "You think it was from Him?"
I shrugged. "It wasn't a nightmare. It didn't feel evil. Just… heavy."
"That's most things from Him, I think."
We walked a little longer, birds chirping in the brush.
Zeke said, "When I was your age, I had dreams too. Big ones. Some scary. Some just weird. But I never thought any of them were from God."
"Maybe they weren't."
"Maybe they were. But He doesn't always explain Himself, does He?"
"No," I said. "He doesn't."
Zeke looked at me again, not with worry—just with that quiet, steady way he always did when he knew I was holding something. Not pressing. Just there.
"If it comes again," he said, "whatever it is—just don't carry it alone, all right?"
I didn't answer right away. But I nodded.
He nodded back.
The streets of town were drowsy under the sun. Dust shimmered on the stone, and the white walls of the shops and houses gave back the heat like oven doors cracked open.
Zeke wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Should've brought water."
"You're the one who said we'd only be a minute."
He grunted, adjusting the basket on his hip. "A minute in Mom's math is a full day's work."
We passed the butcher, who was shouting something about lamb shank, and a pair of old women on a bench who paused their gossip long enough to nod at us.
"Marta's place still by the chapel?" I asked.
"Hasn't moved in thirty years."
"She still mad at you?"
Zeke smiled, sheepish. "I may have called her husband a sleepwalker with a drinking problem."
"You were twelve."
"Doesn't mean she forgot."
When we reached Marta's gate, it was open. Her cat watched us from the stone steps with the judgment of a Roman senator. Zeke handed over the basket with a few polite words, and she accepted it with a nod, still eyeing him like she was waiting for him to steal something.
We left quickly after that.
"Mission accomplished," I said.
"Victory for the House of Vale," said Zeke, mock-solemn. "Now, let's get something to drink before I melt."
We ducked into a little shade-covered stall near the square. The man behind the counter knew Zeke and passed him a cup of chilled lemon tea without asking.
"For both?" he asked.
Zeke nodded. "He's family."
The man looked at me, nodded once, and filled another cup.
We sat on the low wall across from the square fountain, where a few younger kids were daring each other to jump across the stones without falling in. Their laughter cut through the heat like birdsong.
"You think she knew?" I asked, after a long sip.
Zeke looked over. "Marta?"
"Mom."
He tilted his head. "About what?"
"The law. The readiness law."
Zeke's mouth tightened slightly. "She knew. She always knows."
"Why hasn't she said anything?"
"Because she's hoping it doesn't come to that."
"Do you think it will?"
Zeke didn't answer right away. The wind stirred the dust near our boots. Somewhere down the lane, bells rang—midday prayers.
"Eventually," he said. "It always comes for someone."
We didn't talk for a while after that. Just sat with the taste of lemon and rust in our mouths and the smell of warm bread in the air.
On the walk back, Zeke started humming a hymn under his breath. I didn't join in. I just listened. The words stirred in me, unspoken, like coals under ash.
When we reached the house, Mom was standing by the table, slicing tomatoes, and Dinah was rocking Thalia in her arms, humming the same hymn Zeke had been singing.
"Lunch," Mom said.
We sat together. Ate together. Prayed before the meal and thanked God for the bread and for the day.
After lunch, Mom brought out a little honey cake she'd saved from market day, and we all sat under the olive tree in the yard. Thalia toddled in loose, uncertain circles, chasing a chicken that didn't want to be caught. Dinah laughed with her head back, her braid catching the sun. Zeke leaned against the trunk with his eyes closed, legs stretched out, a half-smile on his face like he was listening to a song nobody else could hear.
Mom passed me a sliver of cake wrapped in paper. "Don't eat it all at once."
"I make no promises."
"You never do," she said, smiling.
Zeke cracked one eye open. "That cake's been spoken for."
"By who?" I asked.
"By me. I saw it first."
"That's not how cake works."
"It is in this house," Dinah said.
We let the breeze do the talking for a while. Bees moved slow in the lavender bush by the steps. The air was soft, warm with the scent of herbs and woodsmoke.
"You still thinking about helping Father Kallis mend that old baptismal font?" Mom asked Zeke.
"I told him I would," Zeke said. "And I will. Just haven't found the time."
"He says it's been leaking since Easter."
"Then it can wait a little longer."
Dinah chuckled and said something about the Lord having a long memory.
I watched Thalia tumble onto her backside, blink at the world, and then burst into laughter. Dinah scooped her up and kissed her cheek. The baby leaned over her shoulder and reached for me, fingers sticky with crumbs.
"Want your uncle?" Dinah said.
"She always wants me," I said, and took her. Thalia settled in like she'd done it a thousand times, which, honestly, she probably had. Her breath was warm against my neck.
Mom looked over at us, quiet for a beat. Then she said, "Your father used to sit out here just like this."
Zeke opened both eyes now. His face changed—just a little.
"Used to throw the stones from that wall into the fig tree," Mom went on. "Said he was training his arm, just in case they ever let him pitch for the Dominara Saints."
"They never did," I said.
"No," she said. "But he could throw, your father. That's where Zeke got it."
Zeke looked at his hands.
For a while, no one said anything.
Thalia sneezed. I handed her back to Dinah, and Mom stood and stretched.
"I'm going to make more tea," she said, brushing her palms on her apron. "Anybody want to help?"
"I'll come," I said, rising.
We walked inside together, the screen door creaking behind us. Mom didn't say anything right away. She just filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and lit the flame.
Then, softly: "He'd be proud of you boys, you know."
I didn't answer. I just nodded.