Morning sunlight leaked through the tall glass windows of the Sky House dining hall. The scent of baked bread and spiced milk drifted through the air. The long table was alive — full of plates, noise, and the clatter of mismatched cutlery.
Everyone was there.
Noa, seated at the end of the table, was quiet — too quiet. He hadn't touched his bread. He just kept staring into his cup.
Lyric, sitting beside him, noticed instantly.
> "Uh-oh. You've got that 'I-saw-an-angel-in-my-dream-and-now-I-question-my-entire-existence' face."
Noa didn't answer.
> "Or wait… was it a demon in a robe this time? Ooh! Was it your conscience? I hear they show up eventually."
Still nothing.
From across the table, Grandmother kirell, dressed in her usual robes and ten layers of worry, peered over her teacup.
> "Noa, dear? Are you feeling alright? You look pale. Paler than usual."
Lyric leaned in immediately, tone grave.
> "He had a dream."
Everyone stopped.
> "A mystical dream. With a man in white."
> "Told him the world is ending, Ore is dying, and that he's—wait for it—'born of all known and unknown powers'."
Gasps. A few forks clattered.
Grandmother kirell sat up straighter.
> "Is this true?! Noa, sweetheart, were you touched by a spirit?!"
> "Touched?" Lyric jumped in. "Grams, the man gave him a job interview."
What?!"
> "Swear on my plate. Sat him down, looked him in the eye and said: 'Will you be a hero in my story?' I mean, the nerve."
The entire table was frozen. Lyric continued, dead serious:
> "Apparently, it's like jury duty, but for chosen ones."
> "Lyric—" Noa muttered.
> "No, no, let me finish. So now, our boy's the maybe-hero in someone else's maybe-story, probably fighting the maybe-end of the world."
He turned to Noa.
> "Did he at least give you a cape? Or like… an ID card? 'Hello, my name is Future Savior'?"
Noa pinched the bridge of his nose.
Grandmother kirelll was fanning herself now.
> "The poor child is haunted by visions and you're making jokes!"
> "Grams, this is how I cope. Also, he hasn't eaten a single bite. If the end is coming, the least he can do is finish that honey roll."
Noa sighed. Finally picked up a piece of bread.
> "He called himself 'A'," he said softly. "Said he was a hero finder."
Lyric blinked. Then looked around the table.
> "You hear that? We're just leftovers, folks. Discount side characters. Our boy's being recruited by a guy with a letter for a name."
> "We don't even get full names anymore. Just consonants."
Everyone burst out laughing — even Grandmother, who was now dabbing her eyes with a napkin.
> "Oh gods, Lyric…" she muttered. "You're an idiot."
> "Grams, I'm an essential idiot. Keeps the house from imploding."
Noa, for the first time that morning, smiled.
Just slightly.
And across the table, someone muttered:
> "If he ever becomes a hero, we'll never hear the end of it."
> "Speak for yourself," Lyric said. "I'm already planning the biography. Title: Noa the Reluctant, and the Idiot Brother Who Survived Him."