Morning sunlight poured through the windows of Elara's small restaurant, scattering bright patches across the wooden floor. The air was already alive with the scent of warm bread, simmering stew, and roasted herbs. The modest building sat near Valora's western market, nestled between a cobbler's shop and an apothecary. Though small, the restaurant was known for its warmth—not just from the hearth, but from the gentle kindness of the woman who ran it.
Elara Valtor moved through the kitchen with the practiced grace of someone who had built her life around caring for others. Her hands, worn but sure, measured ingredients by instinct rather than rule. Every morning before the city fully stirred, she prepared for the day's rush—kneading dough, stirring pots, chopping fresh vegetables while humming under her breath.
Kael had offered to help that morning, though he suspected his mother accepted more for company than necessity. He stood beside her, sleeves rolled up, slicing carrots far less gracefully than she did.
"Careful there," Elara said, suppressing a smile as he nicked the edge of his thumb.
"It's under control," Kael muttered, sucking at the tiny cut. "You make it look too easy."
"That's because I've had seventeen years of practice more than you." She wiped her hands and checked the stew. The rich aroma of beef and thyme filled the room, and Kael felt his stomach growl in protest.
"How did you learn to cook like this?" he asked, watching as she ladled broth with care.
"From your grandmother," Elara said, her tone softening. "She used to run a tavern outside the old city walls. She taught me that good food can quiet a troubled heart. Sometimes, that's all a person needs—a warm meal and someone willing to listen."
Kael glanced at her, noticing the faint smile lines near her eyes. She was not a woman of wealth or prestige, but in that kitchen, surrounded by the smell of stew and bread, she seemed to him stronger than any noble he'd ever met.
When the first customers arrived, Elara greeted each by name. Dockhands, merchants, and travelers filled the seats. Her laughter wove easily among theirs, and Kael worked alongside her, delivering plates and cleaning tables. For every weary face that entered, Elara offered not just food but comfort—a touch on the shoulder, a kind word, a moment of rest.
An old sailor with a limp grinned as she set a bowl before him. "Elara, your stew could bring the dead back to life."
She laughed lightly. "Then eat quickly, before it cools and proves you wrong."
Kael smiled at their exchange. He could see it clearly now—the quiet magic his mother carried. It wasn't power in the grand sense, not like the sorcerers and warriors sung about in tavern tales. But it was something deeper: the power to heal through kindness, to make a person feel seen.
At midday, when the crowd had thinned, Beron arrived. He still wore his dockworker's tunic, sweat darkening the fabric along his shoulders. His steps were steady despite the years that had worn on his knees.
"Thought I'd find you two buried in flour," he said, lowering himself into a chair.
Elara wiped her hands on her apron and kissed his cheek. "And yet you keep coming back for it."
Beron chuckled. "Because the company's worth the mess."
Kael brought him a bowl of stew and sat across from him. Beron's eyes, sharp even in rest, studied him quietly. There was always a depth there, like a man who had seen too much and carried it silently.
"How was the forge today?" Beron asked.
"Busy," Kael said. "Lord Valerius stopped by. He mentioned your name."
The older man's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Did he now?"
"He said something about a ledger."
Beron exhaled slowly. "That ledger will balance soon enough. Don't let that vulture trouble you." He tried to smile, but the weariness beneath it betrayed him.
Kael hesitated. "Were you really a soldier, Father? Before the docks?"
For a moment, Beron said nothing. His gaze drifted toward the window, to the distant outline of the cathedral tower cutting through the skyline. "A long time ago," he said at last. "Before you were born. Back when Valora still thought it could save the world."
Elara, wiping down the counter, paused to listen. "You don't often talk about those days."
"Some things are better left where they belong," Beron said quietly. Then, softer: "But yes, Kael. I served under the Crown's army. We were told we were fighting for peace, but all I remember now are the fires. Villages turned to ash. Men who never came home."
Kael studied his father, seeing him not as the man at the docks or the quiet figure at breakfast, but as someone who had once stood on battlefields. It unsettled him—and inspired him.
"Do you regret it?" Kael asked.
Beron shook his head. "Regret? No. But it taught me that strength without mercy is just another form of cruelty. Remember that, Kael."
Elara placed a hand on her husband's shoulder, and the silence that followed felt sacred. It was the kind of silence that carried years of shared burdens—and love resilient enough to bear them.
By late afternoon, the restaurant was quiet again. The sun slanted through the windows, turning dust motes into golden sparks. Elara and Kael cleaned the tables while Beron repaired a broken chair near the corner.
"You know," Kael said, wiping his hands, "if I ever do take up the forge, I want to make something for you both. Not just a tool or a blade—something that lasts."
Elara smiled faintly. "What would you make?"
"A pendant for you," he said after a moment's thought. "With a flame etched into it. You always say light survives as long as someone carries it."
She blinked, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness, and her eyes glistened slightly. "That would be lovely."
"And for me?" Beron asked, hiding his grin behind his mug.
Kael thought for a second. "A sword hilt—but one that never sees battle. Just to remind you that you don't have to fight anymore."
Beron let out a low chuckle. "That might be the first weapon I'd actually want to keep."
The three shared an easy silence, the kind that didn't need filling. Outside, the day softened into evening, and the faint hum of the marketplace faded to a calm murmur.
As Elara extinguished the lanterns one by one, Kael lingered by the doorway, looking out into the street. He felt an ache he couldn't quite name—something between gratitude and fear. Gratitude for the peace that surrounded them, and fear that such peace never lasted.
Beron clapped a hand on his shoulder. "The world isn't kind, son. But family—family gives it meaning. Remember that when it tests you."
Kael nodded, his throat tight. "I will."
Elara reached over, brushing her fingers through his hair the way she used to when he was small. "And remember what I told you, Kael. Even when darkness comes—keep the light alive."
That night, as the stars scattered across the Valoran sky, Kael lay awake listening to the faint murmur of his parents' voices downstairs. Their laughter rose now and then, soft and weary but real. It wrapped around him like a blanket, and for the first time in weeks, he drifted to sleep without dreams.
He didn't yet know that this peace—these small, precious moments—would one day become the memories he clung to in the darkness.