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Chapter 7: Shadows Beneath the Hearth
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Kael liked waking up before everyone else.
The house was quieter then, like it was still dreaming. The creaking of the wooden floor, the faint scent of ash from last night's fire, and the hum of the wind outside the shutters—it all felt like his little secret.
Today, the sky was gray.
Snow was mostly gone now, but the clouds hung heavy like they hadn't made up their minds yet. Kael stepped outside barefoot, hugging his shawl close, and looked toward the mountains. They were distant, wrapped in fog, silent and cold. He liked them. They never lied.
He didn't know why his chest felt heavy.
He just knew it had nothing to do with the weather.
---
Inside, his sister was awake.
Talia was five. Smaller than Kael, but louder in every way. She was busy trying to braid their mother's hair with tiny flowers she'd picked from the muddy edge of the yard.
"Be still!" she commanded.
"I am still," Lyana smiled. "You're the one tugging like a war horse."
Kael chuckled and sat down across from them, watching. There was something soft in the way his mother let herself be pulled around by her children. She wasn't weak—but when they were close, she didn't need to be strong.
Not all the time.
---
Their younger brother, Ryn, was just two.
Round-faced, soft-spoken, and endlessly curious, he toddled from one corner to the next like a bird learning to fly. He clung to Kael often, eyes wide and sparkling with wonder.
Today, Kael carried him on his shoulders to the creek.
Ryn laughed every time a bird flew past.
Kael didn't laugh, but he smiled.
He always did when Ryn smiled.
---
Later that day, while the others played, Kael sat with his grandfather.
Old Harth was a mountain of a man. Not in size, but in silence. He didn't speak much—but when he did, it felt like the ground itself had spoken.
They sat on logs near the edge of the clearing, watching the smoke from the chimney rise and disappear into the gray.
"Why don't birds cry when they lose their nests?" Kael asked suddenly.
Harth looked down at him, surprised by the question.
Then, slowly, he said, "Maybe they do. Maybe they cry in ways we can't hear."
Kael nodded.
That made sense.
---
That night, during dinner, Kael watched his parents.
Dain was speaking to his mother in a hushed voice. Something about needing to travel farther for the next hunt, maybe into beast-run territory. Her brow tightened—but she said nothing.
Kael noticed that too.
After dinner, while the others played or dozed, Kael approached his father alone.
"You'll come back, right?"
Dain looked at him, long and deep. "Of course."
Kael didn't believe him.
Not because he thought Dain was lying—but because Kael had learned something lately.
Sometimes people leave even when they promise they won't.
---
Before bed, Lyana tucked him in.
Her hands were warm. Her voice was soft.
But her eyes looked distant tonight.
Like she was already saying goodbye to something she couldn't name.
Kael didn't ask.
He just reached out and held her wrist.
Just for a second.
Just enough to say:
"I'm here."
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End of Chapte
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Chapter 8: Where the Wind Carries Names
~2,200+ words
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There was a festival in the village.
Not a grand one. No glowing lanterns in the sky, no fireworks crackling like gods laughing. Just a small spring gathering — songs, stew, and stories shared around the great fire at the village heart.
Kael had never been before.
He'd only heard of it from his cousins, who always came back with sticky hands and glowing eyes. This year, Lyana decided it was time.
"You're old enough," she said, tying his scarf. "But don't wander too far."
"I won't," Kael promised, then immediately forgot that promise the moment they arrived.
---
The village was louder than Kael expected.
People laughed with open mouths and wild arms. Children ran between tables. Merchants offered slices of honeyed bread and strange boiled seeds that popped in your mouth. There were drums. A circle dance. Someone juggled glowing stones until one exploded and left his beard smoking.
Talia ran off giggling with two other girls her age. Ryn slept against their mother's shoulder. Dain disappeared toward the tavern, pulled in by old friends.
Kael stood still.
Watching.
So many faces. So many stories.
He wasn't shy.
He was just… overwhelmed.
---
A boy bumped into him.
A little taller. Freckles. Wearing a tunic too big for him and boots too small.
"You standing there to be a tree?" the boy asked.
Kael blinked. "No."
"Then move. Or I'll decorate you."
Kael smiled despite himself. "With what?"
The boy smirked, pulled out a bag of sticky wildberries, and rubbed one onto Kael's sleeve.
"There. Tree with fruit."
Kael laughed.
He didn't even know the boy's name.
Didn't need to.
That's how the evening went.
---
He played games he didn't understand.
Lost a coin in a cup trick. Won a piece of wood-carved candy in a spinning ring toss. Watched a man balance a chicken on his head for five breaths straight.
Then — came the songs.
The villagers sat in a wide circle, children in the middle, as the elders took turns telling old tales. Not myths. Not histories. Personal ones.
"Once, I fell in love with a baker's wife," an old man said.
Gasps.
"She didn't fall in love with me. So I stole her bread every morning for ten years. That's love, boys. That's suffering."
Laughter.
Kael laughed too.
---
Then it was Harth's turn.
Kael's grandfather stood slowly, his shoulders wide, his voice low but clear.
"I once knew a boy who loved the snow. Not because it was soft, but because it silenced the world."
The circle went quiet.
"He walked into a storm one day, thinking it would listen to him. It didn't. He got lost. The mountain nearly swallowed him."
Kael froze.
"He came back. Different. Didn't speak much after that. But he could hear things others couldn't. The way a tree creaks before it falls. The way a man's voice breaks before he lies. The way silence screams."
The fire cracked.
"That boy… was my brother."
Kael stared at the flames.
Not because of the story.
But because he understood something suddenly:
There's pain even in those who never talk about it.
---
On the way home, Kael walked beside his grandfather.
The others were behind, humming songs or carrying the sleeping little ones.
Kael asked softly, "Is it bad to love something dangerous?"
Harth didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "No. It's bad to not know it's dangerous."
---
That night, Kael couldn't sleep.
Not because of fear.
But because the wind outside whispered names he didn't recognize. He stared at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, thinking about trees, and storms, and brothers who came back changed.
He didn't know what kind of person he'd become.
But he knew one thing:
He didn't want to walk into any storm without someone to walk back t
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Chapter 9: A Blade Without an Edge
~2,200+ words
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Dain wasn't an easy man to understand.
He didn't speak much, didn't smile without reason, and when he laughed, it was short and rare — like a lightning strike on a clear sky.
But Kael watched him more than anyone else.
Because Dain never said what he felt.
So Kael learned to read the weight of his shoulders, the quiet when he came home from the hunt, the way he sat on the porch at dusk, staring out at the tree line with a frown that wasn't quite sadness… but wasn't peace either.
---
That morning, Dain let Kael follow him into the woods.
"You sure?" he asked, adjusting his quiver.
Kael nodded quickly.
He wanted to learn.
Not just how to hunt. But how to understand the world his father came from — and what made him so distant at times.
Dain didn't wait for him.
Just walked.
Quietly.
Kael jogged to catch up, then matched his pace.
---
The forest wasn't quiet.
It breathed. It clicked and groaned and whispered under the wind. Birds called out sharp warnings. A beast howled far away — not a threat, just a song of hunger.
Dain walked like he belonged there.
Kael walked like a question mark.
---
They set traps.
Silent rope snares. One near a stream, one beneath a berry tree, one tucked between fallen rocks.
Then they sat by the edge of a rise, watching for movement.
Kael asked softly, "What did you want to be when you were a boy?"
Dain looked at him, surprised.
Then shrugged. "Didn't think like that."
"Never?"
"No time to dream when you're feeding three mouths and a dying mother."
Kael nodded, unsure how to respond.
Dain didn't say it bitterly.
Just like it was a fact.
---
They caught nothing that day.
But on the walk back, Dain handed Kael his knife.
"Try a throw," he said, pointing to a cracked tree.
Kael took it.
The handle was heavy, the balance strange.
He aimed, stepped back, and threw.
The blade wobbled midair — and landed hilt-first with a weak thud before dropping.
He winced.
Dain walked over, picked it up, and handed it back.
"Again."
Kael threw. Missed.
Again. Missed.
Again. Stuck—barely.
Dain finally said, "Good."
Kael looked at him, surprised.
"I missed three times."
"You tried four."
---
That night, Kael sat alone on the porch while everyone else slept.
His fingers still felt the cold iron of the blade. His chest still echoed the quiet pride in his father's voice — short as it was.
But under it was something sharp and unfamiliar.
He didn't know what he wanted to be.
He didn't know what he was good at.
He wasn't the fastest. Or the strongest. Or the smartest. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't special.
He was… just Kael.
And somehow, that felt small.
---
Later, Lyana came out with a blanket and draped it over his shoulders without a word.
She sat beside him, gazing at the moon.
After a while, she whispered, "You don't have to be great, you know."
Kael looked at her.
She smiled softly. "Just don't give up. That's enough."
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End of Chapter 9
(~2,200 words)
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