Chapter 3: The Elements of Home

Arthur trudged across the boundary of his protective circle, the cart creaking behind him. His boots crunched on the frost-kissed grass, leaving a trail of temporary scars in the earth. A bird, driven mad by instinct or merely by the sight of Arthur himself, flung itself against the invisible wall surrounding the place, a barrier formed of stones as ancient as the very gods he once dethroned. The poor creature rebounded, more insulted than injured. Arthur watched it spiral into the sky, perhaps searching for a place less unwelcoming. Good luck with that, little bird.

He turned his back to the wilds and approached the entrance of his home, the wooden planks groaning beneath the combined weight of man and cart. The old homestead, a stalwart survivor of time and countless battles, each scorch mark and weathered beam a testament to its stubborn resilience. It had seen better days, but so had Arthur, and yet here they both were, still standing.

Pausing at the threshold, he reached out to secure one of the heavy wooden shutters that had come loose in the rising wind. The iron bands reinforcing it felt cold under his calloused hands. He knew the house well enough to appreciate its design – every element, every detail, was crafted with purpose. There was no room for the frivolous here, not when the enemy was both outside and within.

The eerie melody of bone wind chimes caught his attention. Their hollow song, once a comfort, now seemed to carry a warning on the chill breeze. He paused, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes before pushing open the heavy oak door, its iron hinges protesting with a low, mournful creak.

The warmth of the interior washed over him, a stark contrast to the biting chill outside. His eyes fell on Sofia’s door, closed as usual. A good sign? Perhaps. Candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room. The place was a patchwork of desperate measures and controlled chaos—thick hemp mats lined the walls to prevent yet another fire, sand-filled barriers were strategically placed to absorb water or smother flames, and iron-reinforced beams stood like weary soldiers holding up the roof.

Ah, but the floorboards—they told the real story. Dark, warped, cracked—each blemish a testament to the years of wear, water damage, and the occasional divine intervention. Intricate water channels ran along the baseboards, ostensibly for drainage but suspiciously complex. Damp, moldy spots marred the wood, as if to remind Arthur that no matter how hard he tried, he could not control everything.

Smooth river stones embedded in the floorboards formed curious patterns but had also contributed to the wear. The stones were partially displaced, some cracked or chipped, disrupting the originally intended pattern. Scorch marks on the ceiling hinted at past mishaps, and now faint, uneven patches of smoke damage marked the walls, where the structure had once been exposed to drafts and errant flames.

James, his eldest boy at 15, knelt by the hearth, frustration etched across his face as he struggled with flint and steel. Sparks flew, but the kindling remained stubbornly unlit. The wrought iron fire screen stood open, its unique hinged design allowing full access while still providing protection when needed. Across the room, Ceres, aged 10, was engrossed in washing dishes, his movements unnaturally fluid as water seemed to dance around his hands. And then there was little Sara, barely five, she sat in the corner surrounded by her stone toys, meticulously arranging a set of family figurines with an intensity that belied her years.

Arthur dropped his axe, the thud drawing James’ attention. The boy looked up, eyes flashing with frustration, a chip off the old block if ever there was one.

“Having trouble, James?” Arthur’s voice, gruff yet not entirely devoid of warmth, cut through the silence.

James' shoulders tensed. "I've got it under control."

Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. Arthur nodded, his eyes drifting to the singed blanket hastily tucked behind a chair—a telltale sign of James' recent failure. "And what's the story behind that?" he asked, gesturing towards the evidence of a recent mishap.

James followed his father's gaze, his cheeks flushing with the shame of a caught thief. "It's nothing. Just a small accident. I handled it."

“Handled it, did you?” Arthur’s tone was measured, as if weighing the boy’s words on scales only he could see. “Your mother used to say that handling something means preventing it in the first place.”

James winced at the mention of his mother, the pain still fresh despite the years. “The flame obeys the hand that tends it,” he recited, striking the flint with renewed vigor, as if trying to spark something more than just a fire. “I don’t need you hovering. I’m not a child anymore.”

"No," Arthur agreed, his tone softening just enough to remind James that disappointment and love often walked hand in hand. "But you're not a man yet either. The path between is treacherous, especially for one with your... gifts."

James looked up, his eyes a storm of defiance and doubt. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have them at all."

But before Arthur could deliver the paternal wisdom he’d rehearsed countless times, a splash and a yelp came from the kitchen. Ceres, full of restless energy and poor judgment, stood surrounded by a puddle of water, his clothes soaked through. He was handling dishes with surprising efficiency. Water had moved around him with an unnatural grace, cleaning faster than any child should be capable of, until it didn’t.

“Ceres, what have I told you about shortcuts?” Arthur called out, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were predictable, expected. And wasn’t that the problem? He was stuck playing the same game over and over, with everyone expecting him to make the same moves.

“I didn’t mean to—” Ceres started, but Arthur waved him off.

“It’s fine. Just clean it up. The right way,” he added, though he wasn’t entirely sure what the right way was anymore. Maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe it was all just a matter of perspective.

As Arthur's lecture to Ceres faded into the background, a small hand tugged at his sleeve. He turned to see Sara, her wide eyes shimmering with innocence in the candlelit room. She held out her palm, revealing a collection of stone figurines seated around a crude table.

"Look, Papa," she said, her voice a whisper of wonder, "they're having supper together."

Arthur knelt down, because what else could he do? His joints protesting the motion as he brought himself eye-level with the miniature assembly The figures were crude, sure, but there was something... comforting about them. Something simple and pure in a world that was anything but. And for just a moment, he felt something stir in his chest, something almost like... pride? No, that wasn’t right. It was more like... nostalgia. It was the stone matriarch, with her etched smile and arms extended as if to embrace her family, that seized his attention. A pang of melancholy tightened his chest, the weight of memories unbidden yet inescapable.

‘Very lovely, Sara,’ he murmured, patting her head with a gentleness that surprised even him. He didn’t have to be a soldier right now. He could just be... Papa.

His hand lingered on the figure of the matriarch. How long had it been since Helena’s smile had graced this place? Too long. And yet, she was still here, in every corner of this home, in every whispered memory.

A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the scraping of Ceres' cloth and James' renewed attempts at the fire. Arthur's eyes swept over the room, noting the stillness that had settled since the earlier commotion. He sighed and moved to the large oak table at the center of the room, its surface worn smooth by years of use. The table was the heart of the home, the place where meals were shared, stories were told, and plans were made. He traced a finger along one of the deep grooves carved into the wood, a reminder of a long-ago accident involving a misplaced hunting knife.

Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing his tired eyes. He needed to focus, but his mind kept wandering. The stillness of the room was a lie, he knew it. It was the calm before the storm, a brief reprieve in a battle that never truly ended. His eyes drifted to Sofia’s door, ajar and taunting him with possibilities. Something was wrong. Sofia was careful, meticulous even. She didn’t leave things to chance. Not like this.

He crossed the room to investigate, pushing open the door with a creak. "Sofia, are you here?"

His call was met with silence—a silence that was becoming all too familiar.

Arthur stepped inside, his boots making muffled thuds against the thick rug. His eyes were immediately drawn to the disorder that seemed out of character for Sofia. Her old boots lay haphazardly near the bed, a clear sign she had left in a hurry—perhaps even barefoot.

Arthur stepped further into Sofia's room, his eyes scanning the disarray. The metal shoulder and wrist armour were carelessly draped over a chair, her throwing knives lay half-buried beneath a pile of books and papers and her broom leaned against the corner of the room.

Arthur, ever the master of deduction, pieces together that Sofia has left. Gasp! Alert the media! A teenager snuck out! Surely this has never happened before in the history of parenting.

Arthur's eyes fell on the pristine cage in the corner of the room. The cage was empty, and although it was well-maintained, it felt oddly out of place. PonPon, Sofia's beloved pigeon, was not in his usual spot. Arthur’s heart sank. Sofia never went anywhere without that pigeon, and the fact that it was gone meant she had left with it. But where, and why now, with night so close at hand, especially without her usual gear?

Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair. Sofia had always been quiet, content to lose herself in books and sketches. But lately, her silence had taken on a defiant edge. She reminded him of a coiled spring, taut with potential energy waiting to be released. Her recent forays outside the protective boundary were becoming more frequent, each one fraying his nerves a little more. Sofia had been pulling away, slipping through his fingers like a gush of wind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not with words, not with warnings, not with the iron bands that held the shutters in place.

Arthur's gaze shifted to the cluttered desk against the wall. Despite Sofia's usual disorganization, the desk had been a sanctuary of sorts, filled with her sketches and research. Arthur’s heart sank as he spotted the crumpled paper on the desk, covered in symbols that meant nothing to him but everything to her. Ibernia was a land of ancient traditions and cryptic texts, and though he had lived in Sangrevor, the capital, for years, its alphabet remained a mystery to him. He picked it up, frowning. She was planning something. The only question was what.

His eyes caught a familiar, albeit worn, photograph tucked beneath a pile of notes. It was a photo of his late wife Helena, her smile captured in a rare moment of peace. Next to her, a younger Sofia, holding her mother's old broom.

Arthur's gaze shifted back to the desk, where Sofia's scattered notes lay in chaotic disarray. Despite the jumble, there was a recurring theme in her writings—a quest for understanding.

Arthur's attention was drawn to a carefully folded letter wedged between two books. The envelope bore the elegant script of Ibernian, but the name "Helena Salvatoris" at the end was clear. This was the final letter from Helena, read to the family after her passing. He remembered the somber day when Sofia translated it for them, the letter holding Helena's last words and her hopes for her family. The broom Sofia now used, a cherished token of her mother, seemed almost a burden in the light of Helena's final wishes.

Arthur's heart ached as he unfolded the letter, the sight of Helena's flowing handwriting evoking a pang of nostalgia. Though he could not read it, he understood enough from Sofia's translations—the letter was a message of love and encouragement, a last gift from a mother who had tried to impart wisdom in her final moments.

Arthur sighed and placed the letter back carefully. The letter and the photograph spoke volumes about Sofia's current state.

Arthur stood quietly for a moment, the weight of unspoken concerns heavy in the air. Sofia's room, usually a cluttered haven of disorder, now seemed more like a shrine to her grief and unresolved questions. He looked around one last time, trying to piece together what might have prompted her sudden departure.

As he left the room, his mind raced with possibilities. Was Sofia in danger, or was she merely seeking answers in her own way?

"Where's Sofia? The sun's nearly set."

James and Ceres exchanged a look. "She mentioned the creek," James offered. "Said she wanted to sketch or... something."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "And you let her go alone? This close to nightfall?"

Ceres piped up, "Sofia can handle herself! She's probably lost track of time reading again."

"That's precisely what worries me. Stay here,” he ordered, grabbing his axe. “And keep that fire burning.”

James nodded, though his hands were shaking.

Arthur took one last look at his children, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he might not come back. But that was the game, wasn’t it? The game he’d been playing his whole life. The game he had to keep playing, because if he didn’t, who would?

With a final, determined breath, he stepped outside into the night, ready to face whatever was coming. Because that’s what Arthur did. He fought the battles no one else would. And maybe, just maybe, this time he’d win.