The boy was laughing.
Small feet danced across the wooden floor, chasing shadows in the warm light of dusk. In one hand, a wooden sword; in the other, a folded map, drawn in crayon and wild imagination.
"Father!" he cried, "The enemy has crossed the river!"
From the kitchen came the scent of rosemary and bread, and the soft hum of a lullaby half-forgotten.
Jonathan leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. He didn't smile not fully, but his eyes did. That was enough.
"And what does the captain suggest we do, General?" he asked.
"Ambush!" the boy grinned, lowering his voice. "We'll strike from the orchard. Mother says the apples are allies."
Jonathan chuckled low, rough. "Wise woman, your mother."
He stepped forward, ruffled the boy's hair, and knelt down to eye level. "One day, all this... all this make-believe you love... it'll change. The sword will be heavier. The map harder to read. You'll see war for what it is."
The boy frowned. "Then I'll fight harder."
Jonathan studied him for a moment. His voice grew quieter. "Then promise me something."
"What?"
"Never lose that fire in you. But... learn when to put it down."
The boy didn't understand. But he nodded anyway.
Jonathan stood, turned toward the hearth.
And for a heartbeat, the boy's face shifted. A shadow passed in his eyes brief, unreadable.
But gone before it could linger.
Now.. the present.
The study was dim. Dust hung in golden shafts of fading light. Maps curled at the edges. A fire cracked but gave little warmth.
Alfred, old and tired, sat across from Rayan. He looked smaller than Rayan remembered.
"You deserve to know," Alfred began. His voice was quiet, reverent, like speaking in a place of the dead.
"Your father… Jonathan... he didn't fall in war."
Rayan's eyes didn't blink. "Then what happened?"
Alfred swallowed. His hands trembled slightly.
"He was murdered."
The words passed between them like cold steel.
Rayan didn't move.
"Assassinated," Alfred added, as if trying to soften something that could not be softened. "The details were hidden. I wasn't told until years later. By then... it was too late."
Rayan leaned back slowly. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers unmoving. His gaze wandered to the fireplace.
It wasn't grief in his eyes.
Nor anger.
Something quieter.
A stillness that held weight.
Alfred leaned forward. "I thought you should know. He... he loved you, Rayan. Deeply. Even when the world turned against him."
Rayan gave a small nod. Barely visible.
"Thank you," he said, and his voice was perfectly calm.
But when Alfred looked away, Rayan's fingers clenched slightly against the armrest. His breath slowed. Memory flickered behind his eyes.
A cabin in the woods.A storm without thunder.
Ash beneath the hearth.