The longhouse smelled of smoke and sage. Shadows gathered thick in the rafters, where the beams creaked like tired bones. The elders sat in a row at the far end of the hall, their faces carved into stern, unreadable masks by the firelight.

Draven and Kaelen sat on a rough bench, knees knocking together. Kaelen couldn’t stop sneaking glances at their mother, Eira, who sat just between them. His hand kept twitching, as if he wanted to reach out and hold hers but didn’t dare in front of so many watching eyes. His face was bright, open, almost glowing with joy.

Draven sat stiff as carved stone. His arms folded tight across his chest, his eyes never leaving Eira. He didn’t lean toward her. He didn’t smile. Every breath felt too sharp, like if he let his guard down for even a moment she would slip away again—or worse, reveal she was something else entirely.

Their father, Harlan, stood behind them, arms crossed. His jaw was clenched so tight it seemed his teeth might crack.

Elder Bran leaned forward, his voice carrying like the crack of a whip.
“Eira has returned, and with her, she carries new life. As is the law of this valley, as her husband, you must claim the child as your own, Harlan. Otherwise, you have no standing here. The boys would go with her, and you would have no place in this valley.”

The fire popped. The silence that followed stretched long.

Kaelen tilted his head up at his father, blinking with innocent confusion. Draven kept his gaze low, refusing to look at either of them, but his stomach roiled with anger.

Harlan’s face was red, his fists curling at his sides. “You would throw me out,” he spat, “after I bled for this valley? After I’ve kept the forest from swallowing us whole?”

“You are not of this valley,” another elder said smoothly. “You never were. We gave you Eira’s hand to bind you to us, but it is her blood, her children, that root you here. Refuse, and you cut yourself free.”

Harlan’s eyes slid to his wife. She didn’t meet them. Her hands rested gently on her swollen stomach, her expression calm, unreadable.

Kaelen leaned into her side, smiling faintly, as though this were all some great misunderstanding that would soon be set right. Draven shifted away, heart hammering against his ribs.

Finally, Harlan’s voice cracked like old wood. “Fine,” he snarled. “I’ll claim it.”

The elders nodded, satisfied. “Good. Then it is settled. The child is yours. The family remains whole.”

Another elder leaned forward, his tone lighter. “And to ease this burden, we will grant you payment for your work guarding the forest. You have done well, Harlan, keeping the strangeness at bay. The valley owes you thanks.”

Kaelen perked up, shoulders straightening at the praise he thought reflected on them all. Draven’s jaw clenched tighter, his suspicion flaring.

“And as for the story,” Elder Bran said, lowering his voice, “it will be thus: upon learning she was with child, Eira was sent to the city. Her last birthing was hard, and we feared for her life. We told no one for fear of drawing ill fortune, and only now do we speak of it, for she has returned safe.”

The other elders nodded gravely, as though this had always been the truth. As though the boys themselves had not lived every day of her absence.

Draven’s stomach turned. He wanted to shout, to call them liars. But when he glanced at Kaelen, his younger brother was gazing up at their mother with such bright, relieved eyes that the words died in his throat.

Eira reached out then, resting a hand lightly on each of their shoulders. Kaelen leaned into her touch. Draven sat rigid, cold, but didn’t pull away.

The longhouse hummed with approval. The tale was set. The valley would believe.

Only Draven and Kaelen would remember the truth—that their mother had gone into the forest, and something had brought her back.

—---

By the time they returned from the market, the sun had dipped behind the hills, leaving long, cold shadows across the valley. Harlan was already waiting, the smell of ale and sweat clinging to him. His eyes were hard, dark, flashing with anger the moment he saw the basket of food.

“This is what you bring me?” he bellowed, yanking at her hair, forcing her forward. Spittle flew, damp and warm, landing on her cheek. “Sub-par! Do you even know what quality is?!”

Kaelen’s chest tightened. His stomach lurched with a mix of fear and indignation. He lunged forward. “Father, stop! You can’t—”

Draven’s hand caught him, tugging him back, the strength in it rough but necessary. “Kaelen! Don’t—don’t get in the way!”

Harlan slammed a fist against the table, the wood shuddering under the impact. “This is my house! My food! My rules!” he roared, boots scraping against the floorboards as he stormed out into the night.

Eira touched her hair, brushing a strand from her face. Her calmness was unnerving, like water flowing over rocks, unstoppable and indifferent. She bent to Kaelen, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead. “Thank you, Kaelen,” she said softly, voice warm, grounding. “But listen to Draven.”

She set to work at the hearth, the knife slicing through vegetables, the aroma of onions and herbs curling in the air. The boys fell into rhythm beside her: Kaelen washing, chopping, humming under his breath; Draven measuring and stirring, jaw tight, eyes darting to the door every so often. Their hands moved in careful choreography, the clink of utensils and the hiss of the fire filling the quiet like music.

No one spoke of Harlan’s rage. No one flinched. The firelight flickered across their faces, catching Kaelen’s bright excitement, Draven’s wary tension, and Eira’s steady, comforting calm.

It was their normal. Their life.

Kaelen hummed as he cracked an egg into the pan, the yolk golden against the dull steel. Draven poured grains of salt, each movement precise, controlled, a tightness in his chest matching the bitterness behind his eyes. The valley outside whispered and gossiped, but inside, the rhythm of the kitchen, the scent of cooking, the warmth of the hearth, it all held them steady.

And for a fleeting moment, everything seemed… ordinary.