---
Morning did not arrive gently.
It crept in through thin cracks in the shutters, pale and cold, stripping the night of its cover without offering warmth in return. The house stirred slowly—wood settling, embers dying, breath shifting in sleep.
Maxmilian was already awake.
He sat at the small table, sharpening his blade with steady strokes, the rhythmic scrape of stone against steel low enough not to wake the others. His movements were precise, habitual. The kind of routine built to keep the mind from wandering.
It didn't work.
Across the room, Voryn sat where he had been the night before.
Not sleeping.
Watching.
Rexor was still curled beneath his blanket, chest rising and falling evenly, one hand clutching the fabric as if afraid it might disappear. Aurélia slept lightly, as she always did when Maxmilian was home—half-aware even in rest, senses tuned to absence.
Voryn's eyes followed the blade as it moved.
Not with fascination.
With attention.
Maxmilian noticed.
"Did you sleep?" he asked, without looking up.
A pause.
"…Some," Voryn said.
It was a lie. A practiced one. Not meant to deceive—meant to end the question.
Maxmilian set the sword down.
"Come," he said. "Before the streets wake."
Voryn hesitated only a second before rising.
---
The air behind the house was sharp with cold.
The narrow yard was enclosed by a low stone wall, half-cracked, half-mended over the years. Hard dirt bore the marks of old footwork—training lines worn in by repetition. This space had never been meant for children, but children had learned here anyway.
Maxmilian nodded toward the staff leaning against the wall.
"Hold it."
Voryn wrapped his fingers around the wood.
"Show me."
Voryn adjusted his stance automatically—feet angled, weight centered, shoulders relaxed but ready. Not taught.
Remembered.
Maxmilian circled him once.
Slowly.
"Again."
Voryn moved.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't refined. But it was efficient. Defensive angles. Short arcs. Motions that assumed the opponent was stronger, faster, and crueler.
A style meant to survive longer than the enemy expected.
Maxmilian raised a hand.
"Stop."
Voryn froze instantly.
"Who taught you?"
Voryn looked past him, toward the wall where old cracks traced spider-like patterns.
Silence stretched.
Maxmilian softened his voice. "Who showed you how to hold a weapon?"
Voryn's grip tightened.
"…I watched," he said.
Not pride. Not shame.
Fact.
That answer told Maxmilian enough to stop asking—for now.
---
They returned inside as the sun climbed higher.
Aurélia was awake, kneading dough with tense hands, shoulders tight as if bracing against something unseen. She looked up when they entered, eyes flicking between Maxmilian and the boy.
"You're taking him out now?" she asked quietly.
"He won't learn indoors," Maxmilian replied.
"That's not what I meant."
They shared a look—years of unspoken arguments compressed into a second. Hunger. Risk. Survival measured in days.
Aurélia wiped her hands and crouched in front of Voryn.
"You'll stay close to Rexor today," she said. "Alright?"
Voryn nodded.
Rexor, already awake now, beamed.
"I'll show you the market," he said quickly. "And the old well. And the banner street. And—"
"Slow," Aurélia warned gently.
Rexor grinned anyway.
Voryn followed him without comment.
---
The market was louder than the house.
Too loud.
Voices overlapped. Vendors shouted prices. Iron rang against iron at the smith's stall. Horses stamped near grain carts, breath steaming in the cool air. Armor moved through the crowd like blades parting water.
Voryn stayed half a step behind Rexor.
Always half a step.
They passed the butcher's block—red water draining into the gutter. Voryn looked away.
They passed the cloth merchant, bolts of color swaying in the breeze. Voryn reached out unconsciously, fingers brushing rough fabric, then withdrew.
Near the shrine at the crossroads, candles flickered beneath a cracked stone figure. Someone had left fresh flowers. Voryn slowed, gaze lingering—then hurried on.
At the old well, children laughed as they hauled buckets together. Their hands slipped. Water splashed. They argued loudly.
Voryn paused just long enough to watch them.
Then steel scraped behind him.
A patrol.
His shoulders stiffened. Breathing shortened. Fingers curled.
Rexor noticed.
"You don't like them?" he asked, nodding toward the knights.
Voryn didn't answer.
"They keep us safe," Rexor added, unsure now.
Voryn stopped walking.
Rexor turned back. "What?"
For a moment, Voryn looked very young.
Then it vanished.
"They don't," he said.
Rexor frowned. "They do."
Voryn shook his head once and kept walking.
Rexor followed, confused, unsettled.
After a while, he spoke again. "You're good with that staff."
Voryn glanced at him.
"My father trains me," Rexor said, almost proudly. "One day I'll be strong enough to fight beside him."
Voryn said nothing.
Rexor hesitated. Then smiled awkwardly.
"Maybe… one day we could duel."
Voryn stopped.
Rexor flushed. "Just practice. No real fighting."
For a moment, Voryn didn't breathe.
Then he nodded once.
"Maybe," he said.
Rexor grinned like he'd been granted something important.
---
That evening, the thunder returned.
Not close. Not yet. But loud enough to remind everyone that the Outer Lands were never far.
Aurélia served a thin stew. Maxmilian ate in silence. Rexor spoke less than usual.
Voryn barely touched his bowl.
When Rexor finally stood, Maxmilian followed him outside.
The yard was quiet.
Rexor kicked at the dirt. "Father?"
"Yes."
"Voryn's strong," Rexor said. "Not like me. Not trained. But… he knows things."
Maxmilian waited.
"I asked if he'd duel me one day," Rexor added quickly. "Just practice."
Maxmilian studied his son.
"Did he say yes?"
"He said maybe."
Maxmilian nodded once. "That means more than yes."
Rexor frowned, unsure why.
They went back inside.
---
When the house finally settled again, Maxmilian spoke.
"Voryn."
The boy looked up.
"You're afraid of the knights."
It wasn't a question.
Voryn's jaw tightened.
Maxmilian leaned back slightly.
"I won't force you to speak. But you need to understand something."
Voryn waited.
"This house survives on truth," Maxmilian said. "Silence is allowed. Lies are not."
The fire cracked softly.
Outside, steel rang against stone.
Voryn stared into his bowl for a long time.
Then he looked up at Maxmilian.
His voice was flat. Empty. Older than it should have been.
"They took everything."
Nothing else followed.
No explanation.
No names.
No tears.
The fire burned lower.
And for the first time since entering Aurelion, Maxmilian felt something colder than the Outer Lands settle into his chest.
---