"Pushy wins," she fired back, hopping off the table, brushing crumbs onto the floor. She leaned close, elbow nudging his shoulder, her warmth cutting through the cool air. "You'll thank me when you're some big mage, dodging swords."
He smirked, faint, and tore off another bite. "If I don't trip first."
She laughed again, loud enough the walls seemed to shake, and Veyra's smile tightened—just a flicker, gone quick. She shaped the dough into a loaf, her hands moving slower now, deliberate. "You two," she murmured, almost to herself. "Thick as thieves."
Kaelith watched her, the bread heavy in his mouth. Her voice had that weight again—soft, but carrying something deeper, like when she'd talk about the fields or Talren's late nights. He swallowed, the taste sticking, and set the loaf down. "Where's Dad?" he asked, casual, testing.
Veyra's hands stilled, just for a beat, then pressed the dough flat again. "Out," she said, too even. "Checking the goats, he said. Might be a while."
Lirien grabbed another chunk of bread, oblivious, but Kaelith's gut twisted. Out. Talren'd said it last night—due soon, make it right—and now he was gone again. Mira's shadow crept in, unspoken, a crack in the warmth. Veyra's fingers dug into the dough, knuckles whitening, and her hum started—low, unsteady, a tune he didn't know. He'd heard it before, nights when Talren didn't come back, when she'd sit by the hearth alone.
"You okay?" he asked, quieter, leaning forward.
Her eyes flicked to him, gray and steady, the hum cutting off. "Fine, sweetling," she said, forcing a smile. "Just dough's stubborn today." She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving flour streaks, and turned to the hearth, stirring the fire with a poker. The flames flared, casting shadows across her face, and she didn't look back.
Lirien plopped onto the stool beside him, chewing loud, her shoulder brushing his again. "Your mum's bread's the best," she said, mouth full. "Worth losing for."
Kaelith nodded, slow, tearing off a small piece, rolling it between his fingers. The hunger lingered—bread wouldn't kill it—but Veyra's hum stuck deeper, a knot he couldn't chew through. Talren out there, Mira close to dropping that kid, and him sitting here, eight going on too old. Kazu'd hid from messes like this—shut the blinds, let the world rot. He couldn't now. Didn't want to.
"Next time," he said, glancing at Lirien, voice firm. "I won't trip."
She grinned, crumbs on her chin, and punched his arm—light, but sharp. "Better not. I'll keep you honest."
Veyra's poker clinked against the hearth, steady now, and Kaelith leaned back, bread in hand. The suns climbed outside, the day stretching slow, and he let it—just this once—hold him where he was.
Kaelith slouched against the cottage wall, the morning chill seeping through his tunic, the spellbook splayed open across his knees.
The twin suns nosed over Talsara's hills, the smaller one a gold slash, the bigger a red blur smearing the sky's edge. His bare feet pressed the dirt, cool and firm, the fox pendant tapping soft against his chest with each breath
. Days had slipped by since the feast—his Age of Promise, that bold Roxara, beat the sun ringing in his ears, louder when sleep dodged him. He rubbed his eyes, red glinting faint in the dawn, and flipped a page, silver runes staring back like they knew something he didn't.
The village stirred slow—goats bleating faint in the distance, a cart creaking down the lane, Veyra's hum from that night still echoing in his skull—but it barely brushed him.
His fingers lingered on Ember Veil, Seraphine's gift, a scrawl of hope: a shroud of flame to guard the flesh.
The sun'd blistered him raw before Torvyn's ward—red welts peeling, pain he couldn't outrun—and even now, with the ward humming faint, it prickled his skin, a threat he couldn't shake.
Kazu'd hid from light—blinds shut tight, screen glow his cage—and died under it anyway, truck roaring through the rain. Kaelith wouldn't. Not this time.