December 8th, 1940
The fire crackled in the hearth, its glow painting shifting shapes on the walls. Meika sat cross-legged, chin propped on her knees, listening as Luke stoked the embers. The world outside was restless, rumors of unrest, old wounds reopening but here, in the hush of the small room, only the fire and his voice mattered.
"Do you know how old our nation is, Meika?" Luke asked, the glow of fire dancing around him.
She raised her fingers, still clumsy with numbers. "Seven."
He smiled faintly. "And do you know how old you are?"
"Seven."
"Exactly." He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the night itself were listening.
"That means you carry its years inside you. When you grow... well... this nation grows too."
"Tuck in, little one... for I will tell you a tale of heroes and redemption."
Meika tilted her head. "A story?"
Luke nodded, then frowned, as if reconsidering. "The oldest one."
The firelight danced in his eyes as his tone shifted into something slower, more solemn, the echo of a memory passed from generation to generation.
"Once, long before you or I, these islands wore chains for five hundred years. The people suffered, beaten down by masters from across the sea. But when hope seemed gone, three figures rose from the depths to bring hope to a people who forever longed for it. The Writer, who gave words sharp enough to cut through silence. The Knight, who fought with shield and blade to guard the weak. And the Betrayer... who once walked beside them, but whose grief twisted her heart until she struck against her own."
Meika hugged her knees tighter, the weight of the legend starting to get to her. "Why would she do that?"
Luke's eyes softened. "Because even heroes can break, little one. Sorrow can break a hero's heart... and turn them against those they love..."
A gust of wind blew through the window, memories flashing through his mind before he continued.
"Yet do not fear, little one... for I'm not done." His voice dropped to a whisper.
"The legend says their story is not finished. That one day, another will rise, someone who carries the fire of the Writer, the courage of the Knight, and even the sorrow of the Betrayer. Not to destroy her... but to redeem her. An Angel of the Light that came from the depths to end this sorry tale."
The fire popped, throwing sparks into the air. Meika's eyes were wide, her small face lit with wonder and fear. "Do you think it's real?"
Luke smiled faintly and brushed ash from his sleeve. "Stories survive because... well, because there's something true in them, Meika."
The fire flared, shadows bending along the walls. Somewhere far away, a gust of wind moaned like a warning.
Meika leaned closer, her eyes reflecting the fire, whispering, "What if it's me?"
Luke's eyes lingered on her, long and searching, before he looked back to the flames. His memories carrying the burden of revolution and the flames that dominated the fight he abandoned years ago.
"Then the world will need you to remember mercy more than wrath."
________
Luke closed the door with care, the hinges sighing as if reluctant to sever the quiet moment inside from the restless city beyond. Julianne sat on the worn sofa, a shawl draped around her shoulders, her eyes fixed on the fire that still burned low in the hearth. A soft smile touched her lips.
"You told her the tale?" she asked, her voice warm, though tinged with something deeper.
Luke exhaled slowly, leaning his hand against the frame of the window. Beyond the glass, Cheapsake was alive even at this hour. Carriages rattled through the streets, laden with crates of supplies; messengers darted between taverns and barracks; the echo of marching boots mixed with the distant calls of dockhands unloading the ships. The Loyalist Rebellion had set everyone in motion.
"There's no point in hiding it, love," Luke said at last. His reflection in the window looked older than his years. "She's seven now... as old as our nation itself. She even asked me if it's her... and it...." His voice faltered. He pressed his hand to the cool glass, staring out at the bustle as if the city might have an answer. "It scares me."
Cody and Ken Drick would have given him an answer, comforted him, and would have promised to help him in making sure this legend doesn't burden them all greatly.
Julianne rose quietly and joined him, laying her hand gently on his arm. "Of course it does," she said. "Legends are meant to frighten as much as inspire. But you've seen her... There's something in her eyes... something that listens deeper than most... reminds me a lot of Kyra when she was still..."
Luke turned toward her, shadows from the fire flickering across his tired features. "But if it is her... then mercy will be asked of her in a world that has forgotten mercy. And what if the world breaks her before she has the chance?"
The silence between them was heavy. Outside, a bell tolled in the harbor, its iron voice cutting through the restless night. His wife leaned her head against his shoulder, her gaze also fixed on the city.
"Then we must make sure she remembers the story," she whispered. "So that when the world tries to break her... she knows that... redemption isn't selective... it's for all."
The fire in the hearth snapped, a single ember leaping free.
"There's a letter from Cody..." his wife said gently, tugging him back from the window, away from the storm inside his mind.
Luke blinked, his brooding softened by the lilt in her voice. "A letter?"
She smiled, reaching for the folded parchment resting on the mantle. "He's engaged!" The warmth in her tone seemed to banish the shadows for a fleeting moment.
"Oh!" Luke's expression broke into a grin, genuine and boyish despite the worry lines carved deep into his face. "Cody, engaged? About time."
Julianne laughed, a sound rare in these grim days. "The last of you three to finally settle. You should have seen how much he wrote, pages upon pages about her. He sounds... happy."
She took it from the table and gave it to him.
He took the letter reverently, tracing the familiar handwriting. A wave of nostalgia passed through him, unbidden, nights of plotting under candlelight, voices raised in debate, promises sworn over bread and wine. Cody had always been the dreamer, the one who believed their nation could endure.
"He deserves this," Luke said softly, almost to himself. "After everything... he deserves it more than anyone."
Julianne studied his face, catching the shadow that lingered there even in his smile. "And you," she said, laying a hand against his cheek. "Don't forget that you deserve peace too."
Luke kissed her palm gently, but his eyes drifted once more toward the window, where Cheapsake's restless lights flickered like warnings in the dark.
He unfolded the letter again, eyes tracing Cody's words, words brimming with joy, of promises, of a future he dared to believe in. For a fleeting moment, Luke allowed himself to share that joy.
But then the ember in the hearth snapped, sparks leaping, smoke curling upward like a whispered omen. His grip on the parchment tightened, as though the warmth of Cody's hope might slip away if he let go.
Upstairs, Meika stirred in her sleep, clutching her worn teddy bear close, a small smile softening her young face.
The house was warm. The city was alive. Yet Luke felt the weight of the tale pressing down on him heavier than ever.
Because legends had a cruel way of turning hope into burden, turning grief into something worse and deep within in his heart, he feared the day when stories would no longer be enough.
To be Continued