The sun hung low, fat and golden, casting long shadows across the yard. Zeke was already by the fence, crouched where the post had split near the base. I grabbed the box of nails and joined him, settling in with the kind of wordless rhythm we'd learned years ago, fixing what needed fixing before Mom got a reason to scold us.
"You missed a spot," Zeke said.
"I didn't," I muttered, squinting along the edge of the rail.
He pointed with two fingers. "There. That board's bowing."
I leaned in, saw the gap. Grunted. "Still doesn't matter."
"Maybe not. Until it does."
I passed him the hammer. He took it, drove the nail with a clean hit. I always liked how solid he looked doing things like that—like the land trusted him. Like he belonged to it.
"How's your arm?" I asked, grabbing the next rail.
"Fine. Just a bruise. You didn't hit me that hard."
I smirked. "Didn't mean to hit you at all."
"That's what they all say."
We fell quiet again, the soft thunk of nails and creak of wood the only sounds for a while, save for a lark somewhere in the trees. Zeke wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
"You think she'll be okay?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Mom. If…" He trailed off. "Just… if anything ever happens."
"She's tougher than both of us," I said.
Zeke nodded. "Still."
I stood up, stretched my back. The sun was in my eyes now, all golden light and dust hanging in the air like incense. I looked at him, the lines in his face drawn tighter than usual. His shirt clung to his back from the heat, and his hands were blackened with pitch.
"She'll be fine," I said. "So will you."
He looked over at me, and for a second I thought he might say something heavy. But he didn't. Just gave a short nod and tossed the hammer back in the box.
"Fence is good," he said. "That'll hold."
"Until the sheep figure out how to use tools," I said.
He snorted and clapped a hand on my shoulder.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's wash up before Mom accuses us of becoming barn animals."
We kicked the dust from our boots on the step and left them by the door, same as always. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of herbs and bread and whatever Mom had simmering in the pot. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until that moment—it hit me all at once, like falling into warm water.
Mom turned from the stove with a wooden spoon in hand. "Good. You're not dead."
"Not yet," Zeke said, brushing past her to the basin. "Fence is patched."
She gave him a look. "Did you patch it, or bury something under it again?"
"Can't a man do honest work without suspicion?"
"You can," she said, pointing the spoon at him, "but you never do."
I moved to the table and took my seat across from Dinah, who was bouncing Thalia gently on her lap. The little one was chewing on a spoon of her own, all gums and drool and wide eyes.
"Did you help with the fence too, Salem?" Dinah asked, her smile always soft around the edges.
"I hammered. Zeke complained."
"Sounds about right."
Zeke sat beside me, still drying his hands on his pants. "She's got a good grip," he said, nodding toward Thalia. "Nearly broke my finger yesterday."
"She gets it from my side," Dinah said.
"Oh," said Mom. "So your side's to blame for everything now?"
They kept up like that, teasing and warm, the kind of talk that didn't need meaning behind it. Just noise that felt good. Thalia laughed once, like a hiccup, and we all stopped for a breath just to hear it again.
Zeke reached for a piece of bread as Mom brought over the pot. She ladled thick stew into our bowls, murmuring something about using the last of the lentils, and how we'd need more by market day.
I caught her eye as she passed mine to me.
"You okay, sweetheart?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Just thinking."
"Well," she said, ruffling my hair, "think faster. Food's getting cold."
We bowed our heads. Zeke led the prayer this time—short, reverent, simple. I kept my eyes closed a little longer than I had to. There was something about the way Thalia babbled when he said amen that made me want to hold still. Just a little longer. Just in case.
After supper, the house got quiet in the way it only did when everyone was full and tired and trying not to be the first to say goodnight.
Zeke rocked Thalia near the hearth, whispering something soft that made her giggle in that sleepy way little ones do. Dinah sat cross-legged on the rug, her hair undone, thumbing through the prayerbook Mom had passed her. Mom herself sat near the window with her tea, watching the wind stir the olive branches in the dark.
I sat on the floor with my back against the wall, the last bit of warmth from the bread still humming in my belly. Nobody said much. But it wasn't a bad silence.
"Tomorrow'll be warmer," Mom said eventually. "We'll start the herb beds."
Zeke groaned.
"You want to eat or not?" she asked.
He grinned, but kept quiet.
I looked around the room—at them. At my family. And I thought about how easy it was to pretend everything was fine when we were all together like this. That maybe the world would hold off, just a little longer.
Eventually, one by one, we peeled off. Dinah first, with Thalia draped over her shoulder. Then Zeke, who ruffled my hair on the way past, not saying anything. Just that small touch.
Mom kissed my cheek and whispered, "Goodnight, my heart."
"Night, Mom."
I climbed into bed, pulled the blanket up, and stared at the ceiling while the house settled. Boards creaked. A dog barked somewhere far off. The smell of the rosemary bread still lingered faintly in the air.
Then I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a breeze. Just… presence.
I sat up—and he was there.
The man in white.
Not outside. Not in a dream. In my room.
He stood at the foot of the bed. Pale as ash, motionless.
He raised his hand.
Pointed.
Right at me.
Then slowly—so slow I thought I'd scream—he crooked his finger. A beckon. Like he wanted me to follow him somewhere.
I didn't move. My chest tightened, breath shallow.
I didn't move.
And then… he began to collapse. Not like falling, but folding inward. Light swallowing light. His body crinkled like old paper, edges curling in until there was nothing but a soft sigh of air, and he was gone.
I stayed upright in bed for a long time, watching the dark.
Eventually, I lay back down. But I didn't sleep. Not really.
I woke to pounding.
Not the kind that comes in dreams. Not thunder or hoofbeats or war drums on some distant plain.
This was real. Knuckles on wood. Sharp and urgent.
I blinked hard. The room was still dark but just beginning to blue at the edges. My shirt from yesterday lay in a heap on the floor. The corner of the blanket had slipped off one side of the bed.
Another knock. Then voices—low, terse.
I pulled on the shirt and stepped into the hall.
The front door was open. Zeke stood just outside, talking to two men in uniform. They wore the standard Dominara field grays, pressed neat, with iron crosses pinned at the collar and the sun-lion patch sewn over the heart. One of them held a clipboard.
Zeke's arms were folded. His shoulders were high and tight.
He nodded once.
Then again.
And then the man handed him a folded piece of paper.
Zeke shut the door behind him.
No more boots. No more uniforms. Just the quiet they left behind, like a weight.
He walked to the kitchen and laid the folded paper on the table. Didn't say a word. Just smoothed it flat with both hands and stepped back.
I stood in the hall, watching.
Mom came in from the bedroom, robe half-tied, hair still braided from the night. "Was it—"
She saw the paper.
Didn't have to ask.
Her breath caught. She moved to the table and read it.
ORDER OF CONSCRIPTION
SON OF JOSHUA VALE
REPORT TO THE COASTAL FORTRESS AT LARNACA WITHIN SEVEN DAYS.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
"We knew it might happen," she said, but her voice was brittle.
Zeke just nodded. That same tight line in his jaw.
Dinah came in carrying Thalia, still wrapped in a sleep-warm blanket. She paused when she saw everyone, then followed Mom's eyes to the paper. Read it.
Then just stood there, swaying slightly, arms full of her little girl.
"Oh," Dinah said.
That was all.
"I thought—" Mom started, then stopped. Shook her head. "We prayed. We hoped."
"It's not a surprise," Zeke said quietly. "We all knew the law."
"But it's you," Dinah said. Her voice cracked. "They're calling you."
Thalia stirred, blinking, fussing. Dinah bounced her gently, pressing her cheek to the baby's head.
"I thought they might take someone else first," Mom said. "Some boy from town. Someone without a wife, a child."
Zeke didn't look at either of them. Just kept his eyes on the table.
"You said it might not come," Mom said. "You told me maybe they'd stop needing men."
"I wanted to believe that."
Dinah sat down slowly, as if the news was pressing her downward. "We haven't even had her christened yet."
"She won't forget you," Mom said to Zeke, suddenly fierce. "Your daughter. No matter how long you're gone. I won't let her."
Zeke blinked hard.
"I'll write to the parish," Mom said. "We'll try to delay it. Find someone to speak on your behalf. It's not right, them taking a father."
"We knew," Zeke said again, a little firmer now. "This isn't new. We hoped. But we knew."
The room was quiet.
"I'll go," he said, after a moment. "I'll do what I have to do."
Dinah made a sound, small and sharp.
"You're not a soldier," Mom whispered.
"I might have to be," Zeke said.
Thalia squirmed. Reached out one hand for nothing in particular. Dinah tucked it back into the blanket.
I hadn't said a word.
Zeke glanced over at me. Just once.
I nodded. A little. I didn't even know why—maybe to say I heard him. Maybe to say I was here.
He didn't nod back.
Just turned away, walked to the back door, and stepped outside.