The first night without the seven boys felt like a house suddenly missing half its heartbeat.
Byrt and Cindy lay side by side in the wide bed they had shared for twenty-one years, the mattress seeming too vast, the room too quiet. No heavy footsteps thudding up the stairs, no muffled laughter drifting from the loft where the older sons once bunked together, no creak of floorboards as someone slipped downstairs for a midnight drink of water. Only the soft, even breathing of the younger children in their rooms and the distant hoot of an owl beyond the window.
Byrt stared at the ceiling beams he had hewn himself a decade ago. "They're safe," he murmured, more to convince himself than Cindy.
She turned toward him, her hand finding his beneath the quilt. "They're strong. And they carry our love with them." A faint glow flickered at her fingertips—habitual magic, a tiny ward of comfort she wove into the air between them. It smelled faintly of lavender and hearth smoke. "But gods, Byrt, the silence is loud."
He pulled her closer. They did not speak again that night. Sleep came in fits, broken by dreams of steel flashing in torchlight and black-sun crests glinting under unfamiliar stars.
Morning arrived gray and damp. Mist clung to the fields like a shroud. Byrt rose before first light, brewed strong tea, and walked the property line. The barn felt emptier; the goats bleated in confusion at the missing hands that once scratched their chins. He fed them himself, mucked the stalls, checked the fences. Every task reminded him of a son who used to do it better, faster, with a joke or a complaint.
At the mine, three neighbors waited—men from houses Piffel, Thorne, and Calder—with picks and lanterns. They were good men, steady, but none had the easy rhythm the Tenebrae boys brought to the work. Still, they swung with purpose. Byrt led them down the shaft, pointing out the reinforced joists, the vein's richest stretch. They worked in companionable quiet, broken only by the ring of metal on stone and the occasional grunt of effort.
Back at the house, Cindy moved through her day like water finding new channels. Roselda and the girls—Clarice, Eden, Landina, Elizabeth—divided the chores without needing words. Clarice took the garden, coaxing tomato vines higher with gentle growth spells and weeding rows that once took Jeffrey and Matthew half the morning. Roselda handled the kitchen, her everyday magic keeping fires steady and dough rising perfectly. Eden and Landina tended the chickens and goats, scattering feed laced with calming charms so the animals stayed placid without the boys' familiar voices. Elizabeth, youngest of the older girls, gathered eggs and swept the porch, humming softly to fill the quiet.
Belfin, six years old and suddenly the "man of the house" in his own mind, puffed out his chest and declared he would help everywhere. He followed Cindy like a shadow, carrying buckets too heavy for him until she lightened them with a spell, then proudly dumped them where she pointed. Ophelia trailed him, giggling, turning small chores into games—enchanting brooms to sweep in spirals, making watering cans pour in perfect arcs.
By mid-afternoon the second day, a rider clattered up the path bearing the black-and-gold seal of the Eldermere Guard. Cindy's heart lurched. She wiped flour from her hands and met the messenger at the gate.
"A letter from your sons, ma'am," the young man said, tipping his cap. "All seven safe and accounted for."
Cindy accepted the folded parchment with trembling fingers. Byrt appeared at her side, dust-streaked from the mine, eyes sharp. They retreated to the kitchen table. The girls crowded close; Belfin climbed onto a stool to peer over shoulders.
Roland's bold hand opened the letter, though each boy had added a line or two.
Father, Mother, sisters, little twins—
The muster was unlike anything we've seen. From 137 families, 500 young men arrived at the guard post. Farmers' sons, miners' sons, boys who've never held more than a scythe now stand shoulder to shoulder with swords at their hips. The resolve here is iron. They came because they know what's at stake: homes, fields, families. We Tenebraes are proud to stand among them.
First day of evaluation broke us down and built us up. Captain Ulric Dane and his sergeants tested everything—stance, strike, shield-work, endurance, even basic fieldcraft. We seven took the field together. Every mark came back perfect. Not one flaw. The captain called us forward at dusk, before the whole company.
"House Tenebrae," he said, "your father taught you well. You are promoted to sergeant, each of you. You'll each command a squad of fifteen men. Lead them as your father would lead you."
We're stunned. Honored. A little terrified, truth be told. But we'll do right by the name.
The threats are real. Scouts report goblins in the deep woods—small raiding bands, quick and vicious. Kobolds in the rocky draws, setting traps. Lizardmen along the river bends, scaled and silent. Harpies circling the high ridges, shrieking before they dive. Not armies, not yet, but enough to keep us sharp. We drill dawn to dusk, sleep with swords beside us.
Tell Belfin and Ophelia we miss their pranks. Tell the girls we're wearing the crests proudly—the black sun shines even in torchlight. Tell Father we remember his words: a knight in shining armor falls first. We keep our gear rough, ready, used.
We love you all. We'll come home.
—Roland, Chris, Tom, Sam, Harold, Jeffrey, Matthew
Cindy pressed the letter to her chest. Tears slipped free, but they were bright ones. Byrt's arm went around her shoulders; his own eyes shone.
" Sergeants," he said, voice rough with pride. "All seven."
Clarice laughed through tears. "They'll be insufferable when they get back."
Roselda smiled softly. "They were already insufferable."
The younger girls cheered; Belfin whooped and demanded to be taught sword forms immediately. Ophelia clapped her hands, conjuring tiny illusory black suns that floated around the table like fireflies.
That night the house felt warmer. The absence remained, but it carried a different weight now—pride instead of pure worry. Byrt read the letter aloud again after supper, then carefully folded it and placed it on the mantel beside the family crest carved into oak.
Days blurred into routine.
Byrt mined with the neighbors each morning, the shaft deepening steadily. Ore carts rolled out fuller each week; the vein showed no sign of thinning. He bartered portions to the Levithoro forges, receiving finished tools and promises of more armor should it be needed. Stanley sent word through Tyrell that Clarice's betrothal gifts were being prepared—fine steel bands etched with interlocking forge hammers and crossed swords.
Cindy and the girls kept the compound thriving. The garden burst with early greens; goats gave rich milk; chickens laid steadily. Roselda taught the younger ones more complex household spells—preserving charms for meat, warding runes for the root cellar. Clarice wrote long letters to Tyrell, sharing snippets of daily life and asking after his forge-work.
Byrt often paused at midday, gazing toward the distant guard post. He wondered about AshenVale and Black Hollow, the other two settlements carved from the Gilded Wilds. Word traveled slowly—runners, occasional traders—but rumors drifted in: AshenVale had lost two logging parties to harpy ambushes; Black Hollow reported kobold tunnels collapsing under their eastern fields. Eldermere seemed to fare better, perhaps because of the iron mine's steady output, perhaps because of the sheer number of militia it had sent.
He pushed the thoughts aside. There was ore to wrest from stone, children to raise, a wife to love, a home to hold.
One evening, as the sun sank behind the western ridge, Byrt stood on the porch with Cindy. She leaned against him, head on his shoulder. The younger ones played in the yard—Belfin and Ophelia chasing enchanted butterflies Roselda had conjured. The older girls sat on the steps, sewing and singing softly.
"They'll come back," Cindy whispered.
"They will," Byrt answered. "And when they do, this house will be too small again."
She laughed quietly. "Good. I like it loud."
He kissed her temple. Above them the first stars appeared, bright against the deepening blue. Somewhere out there, seven young sergeants drilled their squads under torchlight, black-sun crests gleaming on their chests. Somewhere out there, the wilds waited.
But here, in the Tenebrae compound, life held steady—resilient, warm, unbroken.