Before the Academy, before the polished halls and endless duels, there was a crooked house on the edge of a dying town.

  An uneven floorboard that creaked when you stepped wrong.

  Cracked windows that rattled in the wind.

  A roof that moaned when it rained.

  And inside that broken house — a family.

  Worn thin by the world, but still standing.

  ---

  Father was a mercenary.

  Gone more than he was home.

  But when he did come back, he filled the whole house with noise — boots stomping, laughter spilling into the dark corners.

  "Guess what I saw, Lucien," he said once, setting his battered pack by the door.

  "A war?" I asked dryly, trying to sound older than my years.

  He laughed — a deep, hearty sound that rumbled in his chest. "A bird. Big as Elias. Bright red. Stole my bread right from my hand."

  "You're making that up," I accused.

  "Would I lie to my favorite son?"

  "I'm your only son," I grumbled, though my lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

  Mother chuckled quietly from the hearth, stirring the stew with slow, practiced movements.

  "Don’t listen to his tales, boys," she said, voice soft but warm. "He’s spent too much time chasing ghosts and gold."

  Elias clambered onto Father's lap, his tiny hands clutching at worn leather armor.

  Mara, barely more than a baby, squealed and clung to his sleeve.

  "Maybe one day I’ll take you all to see it," Father said, pressing a kiss to Mara's forehead. "A place where the skies burn red at sunset, and the birds are bigger than dreams."

  I believed him.

  ---

  He left again when the leaves started to die.

  "Just one more season," he promised, kneeling to look me in the eye. His hands were rough, calloused — the hands of a man who built his life on violence.

  "Be strong for them, Lucien. You're the man of the house now."

  I nodded, swallowing the fear that wanted to rise.

  "Take care of your mother. And keep your siblings safe."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He ruffled my hair — one final touch — and then he was gone.

  No grand farewell. No looking back.

  The door slammed shut against the cold.

  ---

  The first snow fell.

  Then the second.

  By the third, we stopped pretending.

  Mother stopped setting a place for him at the table.

  Elias stopped asking when he'd come back.

  Mara forgot the sound of his voice.

  Still, I waited.

  Even when the food ran low.

  Even when the cold seeped deep into the bones of the house.

  I waited.

  Because he promised.

  ---

  The letter came in spring.

  Carried by a man with downcast eyes and a scarred face.

  He didn't speak much.

  Just handed over the battered parchment, bowed awkwardly, and left us standing there — holding the end of our world in trembling hands.

  Mother read it aloud, voice thin and hollow:

  Died in service. No body recovered. Compensation pending.

  Just words.

  No details.

  No mercy.

  Elias clutched at her skirts, eyes wide and wet.

  Mara whimpered, not understanding but feeling the weight of it.

  "Mama?" Elias whispered.

  "Where’s Papa?"

  Mother said nothing.

  Her hands shook as she folded the letter neatly — too neatly — and placed it on the hearth.

  I picked it up later, after she put them to bed.

  The paper crumpled under my fingers.

  Empty promises.

  Empty house.

  "He promised he'd come back," I muttered to no one, staring into the dying fire.

  Mother’s shadow crossed mine.

  Her voice — quiet, ragged — broke the silence.

  "Sometimes," she said, "they don't get to keep their promises."

  ---

  The sickness came with the second winter.

  No one was strong enough to fight it — not Mother, worn thin by grief and labor.

  Not Elias, who coughed himself hoarse in the night.

  Not Mara, whose laughter faded into soft, broken cries.

  I tried.

  Gods, I tried.

  I chopped wood until my hands split.

  I scavenged through half-dead towns for medicine we couldn't afford.

  I prayed to gods I didn't believe in.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Mother called me to her side one night, when the fever took her voice but left her with just enough breath to speak.

  "Lucien," she rasped, pulling my hand against her chest.

  "Live."

  "You're going to get better," I lied, desperate. "You have to. They need you."

  She smiled — soft, almost forgiving.

  "They need you more."

  And then she was gone.

  Elias and Mara followed within days.

  ---

  I buried them on the hill behind the house.

  No gravestones.

  Just a pile of stones, a blue ribbon tied to a crooked branch — Mara’s favorite, the one Father had brought from some far-off market.

  The wind howled around me, cold and merciless.

  I sat there until night swallowed the world, until the stars blinked overhead like eyes that saw too much and cared too little.

  No one came.

  No one noticed.

  ---

  The Academy was supposed to be a lifeline.

  Instead, it became a reminder.

  Every stone, every blade, every duel whispered the same thing:

  You are alone.

  You are replaceable.

  You are expendable.

  I learned quickly.

  Faster, harder, colder than the others.

  Because I knew something they didn’t:

  Family is a lie the world tells you to make you easier to break.

  Love is a chain.

  And promises?

  Promises are for fools.

  ---

  Still, on the quiet nights, when the rain taps against the Academy’s clean, polished windows, I can almost hear them.

  Mother’s humming.

  Elias' wild laughter.

  Mara’s soft singing in the dark.

  And sometimes — just sometimes — Father’s voice, low and worn:

  "Take care of them, Lucien. Promise me."

  I failed.

  I survived.

  And I carry the ashes of those promises like a brand across my soul.

  The flames may have taken them.

  But they didn’t take me.

  Not yet.

  ---

  [End of Chapter 6]