Morning arrived the way it always did in our house—politely, but without asking permission.
The kettle began its soft, judgmental whistle before the sun fully cleared the tiled roofs. Somewhere in the courtyard, a bird argued with another bird about territory, volume steadily increasing until one of them clearly won. The floor creaked beneath familiar footsteps, and the house stretched awake like an old scholar with stiff joints.
Normal.
I liked normal. Normal meant no fires, no messengers with stiff backs, no symbols carved where symbols did not belong.
I poured tea and told myself, firmly, that today would be boring.
"Father."
I did not turn. Experience had taught me that responding too quickly encouraged further ambushes. "Yes, Arin."
"How long does it take for tea to become strong?"
"That depends," I said, "on whether you wish to drink it or use it as a weapon."
"I want to drink it," he said, then hesitated. "But a weapon option is good to know."
Behind him, Lysa snorted softly, already dressed and composed, hair tied back with a neat ribbon. She looked as she always did in the mornings—calm, precise, entirely too awake for her age.
"You steep it until Father forgets about it," she said. "Then it becomes dangerous."
"That explains a lot," I muttered.
Avaris entered from the hallway, already dressed as well, sleeves rolled just enough to be practical. She moved through the room adjusting small things without thinking—straightening a chair, nudging a cup back from the edge, glancing once at the shutters to make sure they were still properly latched.
I noticed. I always noticed.
I just didn't comment.
Breakfast passed with the comfortable chaos of routine. Arin argued with his bread. Lysa read while eating, a habit I pretended not to encourage. Avaris corrected Arin's posture with a look alone. I revised the opening sentence of my irrigation treatise in my head and hated it for the sixth consecutive day.
"Father," Arin said suddenly, mouth full, "did you know Lysa can beat three boys bigger than her?"
I froze mid-sip.
Lysa did not look up. "Four," she corrected mildly. "But one tripped, so it hardly counts."
I lowered my cup slowly. "Beat them how."
"With a staff," Arin said proudly. "And once with her hands. And once—"
"Arin," Lysa said.
He clamped his mouth shut, eyes wide.
I looked at my daughter. She met my gaze calmly, chewing, unbothered.
"I assume," I said carefully, "that this occurred under supervision."
"Yes," she replied immediately.
"And with permission."
"Yes."
"And without permanent injury."
A pause. Brief. Honest.
"Yes."
I exhaled. "Very well."
Arin blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it," I said. "If I object every time your sister proves competent, I would never get any work done."
Lysa's mouth twitched. Victory, small and contained.
Avaris hid her smile behind her cup.
The children finished quickly. Bags were fetched—simple things, worn but clean. Training clothes, notebooks, Arin's beloved wooden spoon tucked away after Avaris confiscated it with practiced efficiency.
Lysa helped Arin tie his laces without being asked.
That, more than anything, made me pause.
"You're early today," I said.
"Yes," Lysa replied. "Master Ren prefers punctuality."
I nodded. I'd met Ren. Quiet man. Sharp eyes. The sort who spoke rarely and corrected often. I had approved the arrangement two years ago after extensive questioning, background checks, and one memorable conversation in which Avaris had stared Ren down until he visibly reconsidered several life choices.
"I'll walk him part of the way," Lysa added.
"I know," I said.
Arin bounced on his heels. "I'm eight now!"
"Yes," I said. "You've mentioned."
"Which means—"
"I know," I said. "Eligibility."
That got their attention.
Lysa looked at me fully now. "You remember."
"I am not senile," I said dryly. "Yet."
Arin beamed. "So I can enroll?"
"We'll discuss it properly," I said. "After today."
Avaris met my eyes across the table. There was a look there—approval, relief, something else folded beneath.
The children left in a rush of noise and promises and one nearly forgotten bag retrieved at the last moment.
The gate closed.
The house exhaled.
For a moment, there was only quiet. The good kind. The earned kind.
I sat at my desk, opened my notebook, and stared at the margin where the faint symbol still lingered beneath my palm. I had not forgotten it. I simply hadn't invited it to speak yet.
Avaris moved behind me, adjusting my collar absently. "You're tense."
"I am contemplative," I said.
"That is not what your shoulders look like."
I sighed. "You always do this."
"Marry observant man?"
"No," I said. "Point out things I'm trying to ignore."
She leaned against the desk. "And yet you married me."
"Clearly a lapse in judgment."
She huffed softly, amused.
I turned the notebook slightly so she could see the mark. "I've seen this before."
Her fingers stilled.
"Not here," I continued. "Not on furniture. But carved into crates. Scrawled on orders. Stamped where people assumed no one would question it."
She said nothing.
"It's military," I went on, tone light, academic. "Imperial, if memory serves. Or adjacent. Logistics, perhaps. Not frontline."
Still nothing.
I closed the notebook gently. "You don't have to tell me."
She finally looked at me then, expression unreadable. "You always say that."
"And I mean it," I said. "When you're ready, I'll listen. Until then, I trust you."
Something shifted in her eyes. Not relief. Not fear.
Recognition.
She reached out, pressed her forehead briefly against mine. "One day," she said quietly. "Just not today."
"That's fine," I replied. And I meant it.
We spent the rest of the morning in companionable silence. I worked. She organized. The house returned to its rhythms.
Until, of course, it didn't.
The door burst open with all the subtlety of a siege.
"Father!"
Arin skidded in, breathless. "They said I can start provisional training!"
Behind him, Lysa entered more calmly, though her eyes shone with something bright and sharp.
"I told you not to run," she said.
"I didn't run," he argued. "I strategically advanced!"
I rubbed my temples. "I see."
Master Ren's voice echoed faintly from the gate, calling Lysa's name. Not sharply. Respectfully.
That gave me pause.
Lysa paused as well, hand on the doorframe. "We should go."
"Yes," I said slowly. "You should."
She hesitated, then added, "I'll bring him back on time."
"I know," I said.
She studied me for a heartbeat longer than usual. Then nodded and left.
The house felt larger in their absence.
I returned to my desk, but my thoughts lagged behind.
Training. Enrollment. Routine.
I had approved it all.
I had watched it happen.
And yet—
Somewhere between daily departures and quiet competence, my daughter had become known to a place that valued strength.
That night, as the kettle cooled and the house settled, I wrote one final note in my ledger:
Arin — age eligible.
Lysa — two years attending. Trusted.
Ask nothing. Observe everything.
Outside, the road carried voices home.
And for the first time in a long while, I wondered not what danger might come to my family—
But how ready they already were.