The morning came quietly.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at my hands.
Still raw. Thin scabs across my knuckles. The skin split open from gripping too hard, hitting too much. My fingers stung with every twitch.
But it wasn't the pain that made me still.
It was her.
Sera.
She'd seen me cry.
I closed my eyes, pressing my palms against them. The memory hit like a punch to the gut.
I broke. Right there, in front of her.
She hadn't said anything cruel. She hadn't laughed or pulled away.
But still… I hated it.
My face flushed with the memory—hot, sharp, stupid.
You're supposed to be stronger now. Not some boy who falls apart because it's dark and quiet and no one else is watching.
But she had watched.
And worse—she'd stayed.
I breathed in through my nose and let it out slow.
Get up.
My body ached like it always did, but I moved anyway.
Outside, the air was cold enough to bite. Frost painted the grass and the railing of the porch in silver veins. Mist drifted through the trees like smoke.
I didn't hesitate.
The sword waited where I'd left it—leaning against the stump behind the house.
I walked toward it, boots crunching softly under the frozen grass.
This was the part of the day that still made sense.
This, at least, hadn't changed.
The grip was still too large for my hand.
The balance—wrong.
It didn't matter.
I picked up the sword like I always did. Let the weight settle in my fingers. Felt the ache in my wrist where it pulled too far forward. Adjusted my stance.
And then I moved.
One step forward.
Swing.
Back.
Breathe.
Again.
The frost crunched beneath my boots with every shift of my weight. I heard it more than I felt it. The cold didn't touch me here—not when I was moving.
The blade sliced through empty air.
Too slow.
Again.
My shoulders burned. My arms trembled by the tenth swing, but I didn't stop.
Lower your shoulders. Don't overreach. Keep your eyes up.
His voice. Always there.
Even now.
Especially now.
My foot slipped in the frost. The edge came down crooked, off balance.
I cursed under my breath and reset.
You can't afford to miss anymore. Not out there. Not again.
So I kept moving.
Strike. Turn. Breathe.
Strike. Step. Breathe.
My body screamed. My leg throbbed with every step.
But pain was easy now. It didn't ask questions.
It didn't wonder who I was supposed to become.
It just reminded me I was still here.
Alive.
Every swing was a sentence. Every breath, a word.
I wasn't training to become something great.
I was trying not to forget what I already lost.
I tightened my grip.
And swung again.
I didn't hear her approach.
Not until I paused to catch my breath—shoulders heaving, chest tight, blade lowered at my side—and turned my head slightly toward the trees.
She was there.
Sera.
Standing just a little off the path, arms crossed, one hand holding something wrapped in cloth. A piece of bread maybe. Or a bundle for her father.
Her eyes met mine.
And just like that—
My face flushed.
The cold air didn't matter. My skin burned hotter than the sun. I turned back to the stump, gripping the sword tighter, hoping she hadn't noticed.
Of course she noticed. She always notices.
I tried to focus on the blade. On my feet. On anything but the look on her face when I had broken apart in front of her.
I'd cried.
She'd held me.
And now she stood there, quiet and calm like it hadn't meant anything at all.
Or maybe it had.
That made it worse.
She didn't speak right away.
Just stood there, watching.
I swung the sword again—just once—just to do something. But it felt clumsy. My grip was too tight. My arms too tense.
So I lowered it.
Waited.
"You're training harder," she said finally. Her voice was light, but not teasing.
I nodded. "I have to."
"Do you?" she asked gently.
I didn't look at her.
"Yeah. I do."
A pause.
Then footsteps—soft ones.
She came closer, just a few paces. Not too near. Not far enough to ignore.
"You don't have to be ashamed," she said.
My jaw tightened. I didn't answer.
"I didn't think you were weak," she added. "Not then. Not now."
I clenched the sword tighter.
The silence stretched between us like a string pulled too tight.
"I'll leave you to it," she said, and turned to go.
I almost said something.
Almost.
But the words stuck.
And then she was gone.
The sound of her footsteps faded.
And I was alone again.
Theon's axe struck the wood with a dull crack.
The log split cleanly. He set another in its place.
Lira sat nearby on a low stool, sewing a torn sleeve by the fading light. Her fingers worked without needing to look—steady, practiced. But her eyes kept flicking toward the treeline.
Toward where I had vanished hours ago.
"He's pushing himself too hard," Lira said quietly.
Theon didn't look up. "He's not a child anymore."
Lira snorted softly. "He's twelve."
Theon split another log. The sound echoed into the trees.
"He's not what he was when he crawled through that door," he said after a moment. "You saw it too."
"I see a boy who hasn't smiled in days. Who barely speaks. Who carries a sword like it's the only thing holding him upright."
She tied off a thread, bit it clean, and looked down at the cloth in her lap.
"I worry about him."
Theon leaned on the axe handle, brow furrowed.
"He's… something different. That boy's seen more than most grown men. But he's not broken. Not like others I've seen."
Lira didn't answer right away.
Then: "He cries like someone who's trying to bleed out the past."
Theon looked at her.
"And trains like someone who's trying to carve himself into something new."
He paused.
"Something dangerous."
They sat in silence for a while. The woodpile shrank. The light faded.
Sera stood just beyond the corner of the house.
She hadn't meant to listen. Not really. But something in her had pulled her closer when she saw her parents sitting outside—quiet, low voices, as if afraid the trees might overhear.
So she stayed hidden, barely breathing, her back pressed against the wall, listening.
And the words hit harder than she expected.
"Do you think he'll stay?"
"No. He's already gone. Just hasn't walked away yet."
Her chest tightened.
She stepped back, one foot crunching softly in the frost. Her breath caught. She didn't wait. Didn't think.
She stormed around the corner and into the light.
"You can't just let him leave!"
Both her parents turned at once—Lira startled, Theon already frowning.
"Sera," Lira said gently, "you shouldn't—"
"No!" she snapped, louder than she meant to. "You don't get to talk about him like that. Like he's already somewhere else. He's here. He's with us. And you're acting like it doesn't matter."
Theon's brows drew together. "It's not that simple."
"Yes, it is!" Her fists were clenched now. Her voice trembled. "You see him training every day. You see how much he's hurting. And instead of helping him… you're just letting him drift away."
She looked between them, eyes burning.
"He eats with us. He helps with the chores. He… he belongs here."
Lira stood slowly, setting the fabric aside. "He's not a lost animal, Sera. He's a boy trying to find his way back to himself. And sometimes that path doesn't lead here."
Sera shook her head hard. "Then stop him. Talk to him. Something. Don't just sit there and say he's already gone."
Her voice broke on the last word.
"I don't want him to leave."
The silence that followed was heavy. Only the wind moved.
Then Theon spoke, quiet but steady.
"If he stays… it has to be his choice."
Sera blinked hard, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
"Then help him see that he still has one."
I stood where the trees grew thinner.
Where the soil still bore the marks of a spade and hands that had bled.
The grave hadn't changed. The earth was dark, slightly sunken now from the rain. A small bundle of wildflowers, left by Sera days ago, had started to wither.
I crouched down slowly, letting my hand rest on the cold dirt.
I didn't speak.
There wasn't anything left to say.
How many times had I come here?
Every morning. Every night. Sometimes when the wind felt like him, or when I couldn't breathe unless I heard his voice in my head again.
I stared at the ground for a long time.
Waiting.
For something. A sign. A feeling. Anything that might tell me what came next.
But there was only wind.
Only silence.
Only me.
I lowered my head.
I can't stay here.
The words came like breath. Not spoken aloud. Just… understood.
The fire inside me hadn't died. It had only gone quiet. Waiting for me to move.
This family is kind. They gave me warmth. A roof. Food. They didn't ask for anything in return.
I clenched my jaw.
And that's why I can't stay.
Because I didn't belong here.
Not really.
Not in this quiet. Not in this peace.
I belonged to the edge of a blade. To the silence after a scream. To the weight of a sword and the ghost of a voice that said again. again. again.
My fingers dug slightly into the earth.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, barely a breath. "But I have to go."