Arin twirled the wooden spoon between his fingers like a tiny sword.
I had just settled back into my chair, tea warming my palms, when my body froze—my scholar brain racing through every possible disaster scenario. No, no… this is fine. It's just a spoon. A harmless, ordinary spoon.
…Right?
"Arin," I said cautiously, setting the cup down before my hands betrayed me, "what are you planning now?"
"I'm practicing precision, Father!" he declared proudly.
The spoon spun again, slicing through the air in a clean arc—and missed the flower vase by a fraction.
I flinched.
That fraction is going to get me killed someday.
From behind him, Lysa appeared without a sound. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. She tilted her head slightly, studying Arin's movements with unsettling focus.
"Father," she said calmly, "your survival depends on what you do next."
Then she crouched just a little, peering at Arin's grip.
"Or," she added, "you could be crushed. That is also a possibility."
"Lysa!" I protested weakly. "Please don't discuss my death like it's a lesson!"
She ignored me completely. "Your elbow is too low. Tighten your grip. Precision comes before power."
Arin's face lit up. "See, Father? I'm improving!"
I pressed my fingers to my temples. "You're eight. You're supposed to be learning how to read quietly—not how to flatten your own father!"
A soft presence leaned against the doorway.
Avaris.
Her dark hair was tied neatly as always, posture relaxed, arms crossed. A faint smirk curved her lips as she observed the scene.
"Don't worry, love," she said gently. "They only tease you because they know you can't fight back."
I swallowed.
That was meant to be comforting.
Somehow, it felt like a sentence.
Arin suddenly lunged forward, the spoon flashing toward me.
I reacted on instinct, raising my arms—but my body lagged behind my thoughts. Weeks of poor sleep and mental exhaustion caught up all at once.
The spoon struck my forearm.
Not hard.
But hard enough.
I stumbled backward, heel catching the edge of a stool.
"Father!" Arin shouted.
Too late.
I crashed into the low table behind me, scrolls and ink scattering across the floor. Pain bloomed behind my eyes, dull and heavy.
"This—this is—" I groaned, "—impossible!"
"That was predictable," Lysa said coolly.
"I am a scholar!" I coughed. "A peaceful man! I am not meant to be attacked in my own home!"
Arin laughed nervously. "You're just scared!"
Then my legs gave out.
The world tilted.
And everything went dark.
When I came to, the sky above me felt too bright.
I was lying on a straw mat in the courtyard, bandages wrapped around my arms, legs—far more than necessary. My head throbbed. My limbs felt distant, heavy.
Arin hovered over me, eyes wide and panicked.
"Father? Father! You're awake, right? I didn't mean to—I swear I didn't mean to!"
"I'm… fine…" I murmured, though even breathing felt like effort.
"No, you're not!" he blurted. "I'll fix it—I'll bandage you properly!"
He tried.
By the time he finished, I looked like a poorly wrapped relic dragged out of an old ruin.
Lysa stood nearby, arms crossed, observing silently.
"…You look ridiculous," she said at last.
From the doorway, Avaris watched.
At first, she was calm.
Then she moved.
She crossed the distance in an instant and knelt beside me, her hands already checking my pulse, my breathing.
"Ilyas," she said quietly. "Don't do that again."
Her fingers brushed my forehead, smoothing my hair back.
They were trembling.
I blinked. "Avaris…?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she turned to Arin.
"What were you thinking?" she asked—not angry, not loud, but firm enough to make the air feel heavy.
"I—I didn't want to hurt him!" Arin said quickly.
"I know," she replied. Then, more softly, "But he isn't like you."
Her gaze returned to me.
"Be gentler," she said. "Or next time… I will intervene."
A chill ran through me.
I still didn't know who she really was.
The courtyard grew quiet.
Arin stayed close, guilt heavy on his face. Lysa stood slightly apart, watching, saying nothing. Avaris remained beside me, adjusting my robe, making sure I stayed conscious.
My vision blurred again.
"Ilyas," she said quickly.
I felt her hand tighten around mine.
"Stay with me."
Her voice—usually calm, controlled—wavered.
As the edges of the world darkened, one thought surfaced clearly in my mind:
I still don't know who she is…
but I know this—she was afraid of losing me.
And that realization lingered, unresolved, as everything faded to black.