By the time they reached the chicken coop that evening, silence stretched between them like a taut rope.

Draven pushed open the wooden door. The air inside was damp with straw and feathers, the lantern light casting jittery shadows along the walls. The hens stirred, low clucks echoing in the gloom.

“You take the far side,” Draven muttered.

Kaelen nodded, slipping toward the nests. His hands trembled as he reached beneath the first hen. He expected the familiar warmth, the smooth curve of an egg. Instead, the bird snapped at his fingers, beak scraping his skin. He yelped and drew back.

“Quiet,” Draven hissed. “Father’ll hear.”

Kaelen swallowed hard and tried again. This time the hen struck harder, wings flaring, feathers flying against his arm. The others took up the commotion, their clucking sharp and angry, the sound swelling like a storm breaking loose.

“I don’t understand,” Kaelen whispered, clutching his stinging hand. “They’ve never—”

Another bird lunged at him, pecking his sleeve. Kaelen stumbled back, bumping into the wall. The lantern swung in his grasp, shadows reeling across the straw.

Draven swore under his breath, striding across the coop. He shoved the basket into Kaelen’s arms and began plucking eggs himself with quick, practiced motions. The hens stilled almost immediately, their ruffled feathers settling, though their beady eyes still followed Kaelen with unnerving intent.

When the basket was full, Draven slammed the coop door shut behind them. The muffled clucking pressed at Kaelen’s ears like a heartbeat.

Outside, in the fading light, Draven rounded on him. “What are you doing to them?”

“Nothing!” Kaelen snapped, voice cracking. “They just don’t like me anymore.”

Draven’s frown deepened. He glanced back at the coop, then at his brother’s scratched hands. “Then I’ll come with you from now on. Father doesn’t care who gathers the eggs, only that it’s done. But I’m not letting you get torn up every night.”

Kaelen hugged the basket close, saying nothing. But in the hollow of his chest, the secret pressed against him — the secret he had hidden in their room, the one he was certain the hens could somehow sense.

That night, when Draven had finally drifted into an exhausted sleep, Kaelen crept to the corner where his small wooden box was hidden beneath a loose floorboard. He eased it open, heart thudding.

The egg sat nestled among rags and trinkets. Kaelen’s breath caught.

It seemed… larger. Not by much, but enough that his chest clenched with doubt. He rubbed his eyes and leaned closer. The shell was the same stormy grey-blue, threaded faintly with silver veins, but now it pressed against the cloth more tightly, as though swelling from within.

“No,” he whispered to himself. “It’s just my imagination.”

The egg pulsed faintly at his touch, a warmth that curled through his fingers. For a heartbeat, he thought he heard it again — that faint tap-tap, tap-tap, like a heart beating against the shell.

“Kaelen?”

He nearly dropped the egg. Draven’s sleepy voice came from the bed, heavy with fatigue. Kaelen shoved the egg back into the box, slammed the lid shut, and shoved the board into place just as Draven sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“What’re you doing?”

Kaelen forced a shrug. “Just… checking my things.”

Draven squinted at him for a long moment, then sighed. “Come to bed. Father’ll have us up early.”

Relief washed through Kaelen as his brother flopped back down, too tired to press. But his heart kept hammering long after he slid under the blanket, the secret burning between them like a second pulse.