Life at Hollowrest was a careful rhythm of endurance.

The children rose with the creak of the iron bell. Cold floors kissed bare feet. There were no shoes unless your last pair hadn’t fallen apart—and Akari’s had long since dissolved into flapping scraps. He didn't mind. He’d learned how to step quietly. How to move through shadows. His siblings called it “skittering,” like a bug dodging boots.

Each morning brought gray porridge and cold glances from Matron Fel—who stirred the pot with the same ladle she used for discipline. Akari took the smallest portion. He always did. That way, Caeli could have more.

"Eat faster," Rael would say, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Or you’ll be late for wood chores.”

But Rael often gave up her share too—passing it to Corin when he made his famously terrible impersonations of the matrons.

The six of them sat in the corner furthest from the windows, pressed shoulder to shoulder on the old bench that wobbled when Corin bounced his legs. That bench had become their kingdom, their sanctuary, their front line.

The other children gave them space. Not out of fear, but quiet reverence. The six weren’t the strongest or the oldest, but they were always together.