Dawn brought along soft vibrant rays, stirring Ev awake before the breeze could. He blinked slowly, adjusting his eyes to the pastel blush of morning that blanketed Erelund. The sky was painted in its various hues of amber, rose, and a pale gold. Gentle gusts rustled the tall wildgrass at the edge of the Calder yard and the leaves of the majestic oak tree towering over Ev. Twitters of words chimes through the branches, crisp and sweet, like the gentle ringing of Spring bells.

This is…peaceful.

“You let him sleep outside? Outside! Harold!” Lyria’s voice sharply pierced the calmness of nature.

“He’s a child god damn it, not a bear, a child!” Lyria added, beginning to feel more and more concerned

“I know, I know,” Harold muttered in response. “But come on, Ly, did you see him? He was so adorable and peaceful, blanket and all, curled up like a little forest spirit.”

“That’s not the point,” she sighed, not unkindly. “What if he caught cold?”

“Well,” Harold said, with a note of finality, “it’s his birthday. Let him have it.”

There was a prolonged pause.

“Fine.” Lyria broke the silence, relenting at last. “But only because it’s his birthday.” She added in a softer, more Lyria-like tone.

Ev quietly sat up, brushing grass from his hair and adjusting the blanket over his lap.

Should I even have been listening?

I don’t know but something about Dad’s – about Harold’s defence of me, makes my chest feel warm. What is this alien feeling?

Moments later, the door creaked open. Lyria stepped out into the morning radiance, her slippers brushing the wooden deck, with a small plate in her hands.

That smell: sweet, and rich. It’s unmistakable.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Lyria said softly, meeting Ev’s gaze as she approached. Her auburn hair was tied back loosely, and her cheeks slightly flushed from the kitchen. “Someone fell asleep under a tree last night.” Lyria giggled, ruffling her son’s hair.

Ev blinked up at her with an unreadable expression.

Just as I thought

“I brought your favourite: Honey-glazed bread, freshly baked by yours truly.” Lyria announced with an odd sense of pride, soon realising he was only one years old.

Ev’s eyes widened just slightly at the crust: golden and glistening. Its glaze catching and reflecting sunlight like specks of amber. “Thank you,” he murmured, almost automatically. “Mama—”

“Come on,” Lyria smiled, pulling Ev up by one arm, helping him onto his feet, while holding the plate in her other hand. “First up, we need to get rid of that organic odour. Bath time!”

They returned inside, where Ev’s eyes were met with a burst of colour. Streamers of soft blue, silver, and pale green danced from the beams of the wooden ceiling. Ribbons curled around the table legs, and a large hand-baked cake—rustic and imperfect but clearly made with care—sat proudly at the centre. It was decorated with fresh berries, cream swirls, and a single candle perched slightly off-centre.

The room was filled with an aroma of sugar, woodsmoke, and sunshine.

Ev stopped straight in his tracks. The air caught in his throat.

All of this… for me?

Why? What do they want out of me?

Lyria noticed Ev’s uneasy shift in expression and knelt beside him, whispering into his tiny little ear, “It’s not much, but we wanted to be special.” She chuckled “Because you’re special to us, little Ev.”

Part of me wants to smile. It wants to really genuinely smile and dive into all this sweetness. But the other part of me keeps telling me, this can’t be real. It’s a façade. This love is just a tactic, a disguise, a trap, like it has been in my other lives. I’ll just play along for now

Ev looked between his mother and the cake, his hands slightly trembling, but his face smiling – not even Ev knew whether this was a real smile or a smile he was forcing.

Harold’s voice cut through the tension, like sunlight through the gaps between leaves casting intricate shadows on the ground. “Now before we do anything else…”

He stepped forward, placing a box in Ev’s hand.

Ev looked towards both Lyria and Harold for approval to open it.

Lyria was looking away, as if she half didn’t want to give this to him. Harold on the other hand simply shot a large smirk towards him, his hand extended out with his thumb up. His eyes engraved with an expression as if to say “Go for it, kiddo!”

Erven slowly lifted up the lid, unwrapping the bundle inside with slow, reverent fingers. Beneath this cloth was a beauty Ev thought he’d never possess again: a sword, a small wooden sword.

“It’s a bit big, but you’ll grow into it, I’m sure!” Harold beamed.

A sword? I’ve seen so many of these before, so why does it not feel the same. No. This is different. They were all for bloodshed and harm and tyranny. This…this is for what I want.

“Thank you, I love you so much, Dad.” Ev grasped onto his father with a grip far too strong for a one year old, although Harold failed to pick that up feeling overwhelmed. Lyria, now looking, began to blush feeling embarrassed and jealous that her husband got the first “I love you”. She sat there, her lips pouted, like a petty teenage girl almost.

“I love you too, Mom. I love both Mom and Dad!” Ev announced in his state overwhelmed by emotion.

Love? What does that word even mean…