The scent of stew drifted through the cottage, thick with herbs and promise. Reivo stood barefoot on the wooden floor, shoulders hunched as he stirred the pot with a long-handled spoon nearly too big for his hands. He was barely eleven, but tonight, he was on cooking duty—a decision his mother had made with suspicious ease before stepping outside to tend to her garden.
"Don't burn it this time," Mira teased from her seat at the table, legs swinging back and forth. She was only eight but wielded sarcasm like a sharpened blade. "Last time, the potatoes were blacker than the forge coals."
"They were perfectly edible," Reivo muttered.
"They were charcoal."
Senn giggled from the floor, where he sat surrounded by carved wooden animals. The little boy was only four, a mess of curls and mischief, currently attempting to stack a bear on top of a squirrel.
"I liked 'em!" he declared.
"You also ate dirt that day," Mira pointed out.
The door creaked open, and their father stepped in, tall and sun-warmed, carrying an armful of kindling. His shirt clung to his chest with sweat, and sawdust dotted his beard. But as always, he wore a smile the moment he crossed the threshold.
"Smells good in here," he rumbled, kissing Reivo on the head before setting the wood aside. "We're eating a feast, are we?"
"If we survive it," Mira said dryly.
Their mother followed him in shortly after, wiping her hands on her apron. The sun framed her in gold for a moment before the door closed behind her. She was smaller than their father, quick and sharp-eyed, with hair always slipping from its braid and herbs always clinging to her sleeves. She knelt beside Senn, inspecting a scrape on his arm before kissing it gently.
"You're bleeding, sweetling. What happened?"
"Bear bite," Senn whispered, pointing accusingly at the wooden bear.
"Poor bear," she said with mock solemnity, "facing such a ferocious warrior."
Reivo smiled, ladling stew into bowls. It was simple fare—root vegetables, wild herbs, and a touch of cured meat—but it filled the room with warmth. They gathered around the table, hands brushing as they passed bread, Mira sneaking extra onions into Senn's bowl when he wasn't looking.
It was a small house, worn by years of storms and seasons. But within it, love was stitched into every curtain, every dented pan, every faded blanket. Reivo sat between Mira and his father, shoulders touching, and for a time, the outside world melted away.
After dinner, they moved to the grove behind the house, fireflies beginning to flicker in the early dusk. Their father lit a small lantern while Reivo pulled out his wooden sword, the dragon carving catching the last of the sun's light.
"Again with that thing?" Mira groaned, flopping onto the grass.
"He's practicing to be the next Dragonblade," their father said, voice proud.
"Dragonblade!" Senn echoed, raising a stick of his own and waving it in chaotic arcs.
Their mother laughed, brushing her fingers through Mira's hair as they sat together. "He's got the heart for it."
Reivo squared off against an invisible enemy, his blade slicing the air in slow, practiced arcs. His father watched, arms crossed, nodding occasionally.
"Weight on the back foot when you strike," he advised. "You'll control the flow better."
Reivo adjusted and tried again.
They stayed like that until the stars came out, Senn eventually crawling into his mother's lap, Mira drawing constellations in the air with her fingers.
"I wish we could stay like this forever," Mira said softly.
Her mother squeezed her shoulder. "So do I."
Later, after the others had drifted to sleep, Reivo lay awake in the loft, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight filtered in through a crack in the wood. His father's voice reached him from downstairs.
"You see how he trains? Every day, rain or shine."
"He's trying so hard," his mother replied. "Sometimes I worry."
"About what?"
"About what the world might make of that heart."
There was silence, then the soft creak of the floor as they moved about. Reivo closed his eyes, feeling their voices wrap around him like a blanket.
He didn't know what the world would ask of him. But here, in this house, with them—it felt like he could face anything.