---
Morning did not fix anything.
Light entered the house the same way it always had—through familiar cracks, over worn stone, across a table that had fed them for years. Dust floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by the soft movement of breath and the distant sound of the city beginning another ordinary day.
Nothing looked different.
That was the problem.
Maxmilian woke before the pain.
Habit did that.
Years of training had carved discipline into his body deeper than bone. His eyes opened at the same hour they always had, mind already cataloging tasks that no longer existed. For half a second, his body moved as if whole—muscles tightening, core engaging, instinct demanding readiness.
Then reality arrived.
He shifted to sit up—and the absence struck like a delayed blow. His balance failed. His breath caught. The world tilted just enough to remind him that symmetry was gone.
The stump burned.
Not sharply.
Not violently.
But deep.
A dull, spreading heat that felt less like injury and more like memory—like the body remembering something it should still have.
Maxmilian inhaled slowly through his nose, then exhaled just as carefully. He did not curse. He did not shout. He did not reach for help.
He simply sat there, jaw tight, eyes lowered, recalculating a body that no longer matched its purpose.
This was worse than pain.
Pain could be mastered.
Loss required redesign.
Aurélia noticed.
Of course she did.
She always did.
She said nothing at first. She crossed the room quietly, the hem of her dress brushing stone that had heard far worse than footsteps. She placed a bowl of water beside him, the surface trembling slightly before settling. Then she knelt and adjusted the bindings with practiced care, fingers firm, efficient.
Only then did she speak.
"You shouldn't sit alone."
"I'm not," Maxmilian replied.
It was not defiance. It was fact.
The room was full of consequences.
Rexor stood near the wall, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His posture was rigid, like a drawn bow that had nowhere to release its tension. He hadn't slept. It showed—not in weakness, but in the way his anger had turned inward, grinding instead of exploding.
Voryn was absent.
That, too, was intentional.
Maxmilian broke the silence himself.
"We'll need to ration."
Aurélia's hands paused for exactly one second.
Rexor turned sharply. "What?"
"We have enough stored for three weeks," Maxmilian continued, voice even, deliberate. "If nothing goes wrong."
Rexor let out a laugh—once, sharp and humorless. "Something already did."
Maxmilian met his gaze. "Which is why we plan."
"You always plan," Rexor snapped. "And look where it got you."
The words hit harder than any blade.
Not because they were cruel—
—but because they were true enough to hurt.
Aurélia moved instantly, stepping between them like a shield. "Rexor."
"No," Maxmilian said quietly. "Let him speak."
Rexor's fists clenched, shoulders trembling with restrained force. "You went out there like nothing could touch you. Like you were untouchable."
"I misjudged."
"You never misjudge!" Rexor shouted, voice cracking despite himself. "That's what kept us alive!"
Silence fell again.
Heavier this time.
The kind of silence that presses on the ears.
Maxmilian looked down at his remaining hand.
At the calluses. The scars. The strength that remained—and the balance that did not.
"I did yesterday."
That ended the argument.
Not because Rexor accepted it—
—but because there was nothing left to strike.
Rexor turned away sharply, breath uneven, rage collapsing inward where it could do more damage. He paced once, twice, then stopped as if realizing there was nowhere to go.
Aurélia finished the bindings and stood.
"I'll manage the house," she said quietly. "We'll stretch what we have."
Maxmilian nodded. "Thank you."
The words sounded wrong.
Not because they lacked sincerity—
—but because thanking your own wife for survival felt like admitting defeat.
Rexor left without another word.
The door closed harder than necessary.
Only then did Maxmilian speak again, his voice lower, stripped of command, stripped of certainty.
"I can't provide the way I did before."
Aurélia met his eyes without hesitation. "I know."
"I need time."
She nodded once. "Take it."
She left him alone after that.
Because sometimes staying only reminded a man of what he had lost.
---
Voryn returned at midday.
He didn't announce himself.
He never did.
The door opened and closed without ceremony, like the house itself had learned his rhythm. His clothes were dusted with ash, boots marked with fresh scratches—not deep enough to be dangerous, but recent enough to matter.
Maxmilian noticed everything.
"You went out," he said.
"Yes."
"Where."
"Near the eastern scar."
"That zone isn't stable."
"It is if you know where to step."
Maxmilian studied him longer this time. "Did you fight?"
"No."
A pause.
"Did you kill?"
"Yes."
Maxmilian exhaled slowly. "How many."
"Enough."
That answer would have angered him before.
Now it only tired him.
"You shouldn't be doing this alone," Maxmilian said.
Voryn removed his gloves and set them aside. His hands were steady. Too steady.
"I won't do it alone for long."
That made Maxmilian look up.
Voryn continued, calm as ever. "I found routes. Smaller work. Things that don't require full engagement."
"That won't feed a family."
"It will if I don't fail."
Maxmilian's jaw tightened. "You're taking responsibility that isn't yours."
"I'm taking responsibility that exists."
Silence stretched between them.
Long.
Dense.
Then Maxmilian said it—the thought that had been rotting in him since morning.
"I think… I can't do anything for my family anymore."
The words tasted like rust.
They were not spoken for sympathy.
They were spoken because denying them would have been a lie.
Voryn didn't deny them.
He didn't argue.
He stepped closer instead.
"I won't let this happen," Voryn said.
Maxmilian looked at him sharply. "This isn't a story, Voryn. Promise doesn't fill stomachs."
"I know."
"Then don't—"
"I won't let this house starve."
The certainty in his voice was not hope.
It was intent.
Maxmilian searched his face for recklessness.
Found none.
"You're not ready for what that costs," Maxmilian said.
Voryn met his eyes. "You taught me the price."
That ended the conversation.
Not because Maxmilian agreed—
—but because he recognized his own lesson being returned to him.
Very well.
If the world demanded payment—
They would choose who paid first.
---
That night, Rexor trained until his hands split.
No orders.
No structure.
Just movement.
Strike after strike, muscle screaming, breath ragged, trying to burn helplessness out of his body. Blood slicked the grip of his weapon, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
Stopping meant thinking.
And thinking meant remembering his father on the floor.
Voryn watched from the edge of the yard.
He did not correct him.
Some pain had to be survived raw.
Above them, the sky remained indifferent.
The Outer Lands did not care about injuries.
Hunger did not negotiate.
And survival—true survival—never asked permission.
The house stood.
Not because it was safe.
But because not everyone inside it was willing to fall.
---