[Kingdom of Azuraea – South-Eastern Coast, Year 951]
" What's beyond that sea, Brother Ethan?"
A girl voice was small against the wind. She stood on the lower rail of the cliff-side fence. Her scarf—faded blue, darned twice—snapped against her shoulder as she pointed to the endless water.
Ethan pressed his palms to the top beam, leaning little on railing.The boy was thirteen, narrow, coat one size too short at the wrists.
He waited before answering—, the distant hiss of waves push up through the damp air.
"More land, I suppose," he said at last, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "Other people. Other towns."
Esheka tilted her head, as though she could glimpse those roofs if she squinted hard enough.
"Have you ever seen them?"
"No." Ethan smoothed a thumb over the fence-rail knot. "But Father says sailors used to come in winters when the sea was calmer brings Lantern oil. Cinnamon."
" Used to," she repeated, Then her hand jerked sideways, finger pointing at a lonely shape in the south: a rusted tower perched on a seam of black rock almost four kilometres down-coast, half smothered by sea-mist.
"What's that thing, like a chimney with windows?"
"A lighthouse," Ethan murmured. "It keeps ships from crashing after dark."
Esheka frowned. "We never see ships."
"hmmm," he agreed, and left it there.
Wind curled around them, smelling of kelp. Gulls swooped lower, feathers flashing white against the sky before vanishing beyond the cliff-edge.
Ethan's boot nudged something smooth in the grass. He crouched, brushed away grit, and lifted a fist-sized pebble—heart-shaped, glass-black, strangely warm despite the chill. An ember glimmered beneath its surface, bright as a banked coal.
"Look what I found, Eshe."
Her brown eyes widened. She hopped down from the fence to cradle the stone between mittened palms. The faint glow painted rose-gold on her cheeks.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, then looked up at him for permission he hadn't thought to grant.
He gave a small nod. "You can keep it a moment. It's warm, isn't it?"
She hugged it to her chest. Ethan glanced once more at the quiet tower, then at the empty sea road curling toward town.
"Come on," he said, nudging her shoulder. "If we hurry, the baker might still have sponge-cake left."
They followed the dirt track down from the cliffs, the faint glow of the Heart shaped stone slipping between Esheka's fingers.
By the time the low wooden houses of the village came into view—some no wider than fishing sheds, roofs stitched with moss and salt-bleached boards.
"Give it here," Ethan said gently, holding out his hand.
Esheka blinked up at him. "Why?"
"you will lost it like the last time you lost 100 cents"
The girl puffed her cheeks and clutched the stone tighter for a beat, then with a little huff, placed it in Ethan's palm. The surface still felt warm. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his threadbare coat.
They reached the muddy square at the center of the village—a well with a cracked lip, a leaning post for notices, and a crooked sign hanging outside a squat building of grey brick.
"Marla's Table." The only eatery in the village.
Inside, it smelled of boiled oats and burnt onions. Three tables were occupied—miners, by the looks of them, hunched over mugs, dust still on their sleeves. No one looked up as Ethan pushed the door and stepped in with Esheka close behind.
Marla herself stood behind the counter, apron stained with broth and flour. She raised one heavy brow at them.
"Got coin today, Morven?"
Ethan swallowed, reached into his pocket—and pulled out two folded banknotes, faded blue, soft at the corners. He flattened one against the counter.
"A slice of cake, please. The lemon one, if there's any left."
Marla snorted. "Lemon's dear. You'll have barley loaf with fruit bits."
Ethan glanced down at Esheka, whose eyes were already tracing the glass display case, lingering on the square of lemon cake sitting alone in the corner like a golden jewel. He pressed the second note on top of the first.
"I'll pay the difference."
Marla's fingers swept the notes away without a word. She plated the cake slice—thin, —and handed it down. Esheka took it like it might vanish.
They sat at a quiet corner table. She ate slowly, reverently, fork scraping gently along the ceramic.
"You're not hungry?" Esheka asked, mouth full.
"Already ate," he said, watching the window fog curl around outside.
When they were done, Ethan wiped her mouth with his sleeve and stood.
As they stepped out into the sharp, damp wind, Esheka giggled and said, "Mum's going to smell sugar on me."
"Then don't let her sniff you," Ethan replied.
She took his hand.
In their way back sun had dipped low, casting long golden beams across the dirt path that led from the village center to the Morven home. Esheka skipped beside Ethan, swinging his hand and humming tunelessly.
The village was quiet at this hour—just a few tired men rolling barrels back into sheds, oil lamps flickering. Their boots crunched over gravel and mossy stone as they passed the empty well and the single wooden sign that read:
"Lacree Hollow—Est. 873."
The Morven house stood at the edge of the lane, pressed against a hillside.
Smoke curled weakly from its slanted chimney. Its roof was patched with tin, and ivy clung to one side like a half-frozen shawl.
Creak
Ethan pushed open the crooked wooden door with a grunt.
Inside, the warmth hit them. A single oil lamp hung low, The scent of root vegetables and smoke curled through the small, square room. A cast-iron stove crackled in one corner. The dining table sat just a few steps from the threshold—rough, stained wood surrounded by creaky benches and four stools.
Ethan tugged off his scarf, tossed it onto a peg, and slid onto one end of the bench. Esheka climbed in after him, feet swinging above the floor.
"Mom, we're starving," Ethan called, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together.
Marien Morven turned from the iron stove, wiping her brow with a flour-streaked sleeve. "Hold your belly, boy. Pot's been simmering all afternoon."
She ladled thick root stew into chipped bowls, set a heel of barley bread between them, then lowered herself onto the bench with a sigh.
"Where were you two?" She glanced at the wall clock—its single hand just edging past the half-hour. "It's nearly seven. Dark comes quicker this season."
Ethan shrugged, spoon already hovering over broth. "Just walked the ridge. Lost track of the sun."
Marien's gaze narrowed. "Lost it for three hours, did you? Must be a slippery sun."
Before Ethan could answer, the cottage door thumped. Aldric Morven ducked inside, shoulders dusted with foundry soot, set his tool satchel by the threshold, and kissed Marien's cheek on the way to the table.
"Leave the verdict for tomorrow," Aldric said, easing onto the creaking stool at Esheka's side. "Let them have supper first."
Esheka beamed. "See, Mom? Father's fair."
Marien snorted. "Fair? He's soft on you, that's all." Still, her voice gentled. "All right then—eat."
Aldric lifted Esheka into his lap, spinning her once till she squealed. "What mischief kept my little angel late?"
"We watched the sea," she said through a mouthful of bread. "Waves were big as houses!"
Marien's fingers tapped the tabletop. "No market stop? No sweets?"
Both children shook their heads in unison.
A lone sugar crystal glittered on Esheka's collar, but Marien let it pass, lips twitching.
Aldric broke the loaf, handed portions around, then bowed his head a moment before tasting the stew. Steam fogged his spectacles. "Good turnips tonight."
.
The smell of boiled cabbage lingered lightly over the low beamed rafter. In the background, the evening pushed against the windows, frosting the glass with orange-gray light. In the little square room which doubled as kitchen and dining area, Ethan was crouched at the wooden table, gazing into the worn grain of the planks.
Marien washed a dented pot in the washbasin, sleeves rolled up over elbows, humming half a tune to herself.
Aldric worked across from Ethan, repairing a boot sole with heavy cord, hands going in the slow beat of repetition.
The air was warm.
Ethan exhaled sharply.
Aldric looked up, catching the motion.
"Something in your mind, boy?" Aldric asked.
"Nothing,.....it's just—"
"It's… boring here, Father. Every day the same routine ,same sea. Why do we have to stay in this place?"
Ethan's brow furrowed. "I've never even stepped beyond the ridge. Why can't we go to the city, even once?"
A pause.
"I passed the postman earlier," Ethan said, lifting his gaze. "He gave a letter to Mrs. Yarrow. Her son got into Hollowthorp Technical School. They left just last spring. Same age as me."
Marien didn't turn from the basin. "Mm. They were saving for years."
Ethan's voice sharpened. "So did we. Didn't we?"
Aldric paused mid-threading. "We can't go to City yet,"
Ethan leaned forward. "Why not? Other families did. Mr. Hartley took his whole lot to Belgrave last year—he's laying pipework and still has coin left for tuition. Even the Tagget twins went. And they couldn't count past ten."
"They followed work," Aldric said quietly. "Luck favored them."
"No," Ethan snapped. "They wanted to live like a successful man not like pest"
Marien finally turned, drying her hands on a rag. Her brow furrowed. "You think we don't want?"
Ethan looked between them. "I think we've chosen comfort over a future."
The room quieted. The pot still dripped.
Aldric's voice came low, like earth settling. "You don't know what the city costs, Ethan."
"I know what it offers." He stood now, arms braced against the table. "You ever think I want to shovel coal the rest of my life? Watch Esheka stitch buttons for noble collars while their sons play with gears and tomes?"
Aldric's knuckles tightened around the boot. "We've told you before. We're here for a reason."
"Then tell me the reason!" Ethan barked.
Marien flinched. Esheka, quiet at the edge of the room, looked up from where she was lining up pebbles along a windowsill.
Aldric rose slowly, the lines on his face deepening in the firelight. "I'll tell you when the time's right."
"You always say that." Ethan's voice cracked. "You say we're safe, that the world out there is dangerous. But what about me? I'm rotting here, Father."
And what then?" Ethan pressed. "Spend my life hammering iron like everyone else? I'm not asking for riches—just a chance."
Marien dried a bowl, stacking it with deliberate care. "Chance comes when it's safe, Ethan. The world out there isn't gentle."
"It can't be worse than here," he muttered. "We live like peasants—"
Marien's rag slapped the counter. "Mind that word."
"It's what we are," Ethan snapped, heat rising in his cheeks. "And it's what I'll stay if we never leave."
Aldric stepped closer, his height casting a long shadow. "You think living small is shameful? You think your mother and I don't want more for you?"
"Then why don't you let me try?!"
Silence. The firewood cracked once. Rain began to patter faintly on the window.
Aldric's voice was soft now. "There are things you don't understand. I have done what I must. To keep you safe. That's more than pride. That's love."
Ethan swallowed the lump in his throat, looking away. "Then it's a love that cages."
Marien whispered, "Ethan…"
But he was already moving. He grabbed his coat from the peg, his fingers trembling. "I won't be another forgettable name carved into a shack wall," he said. "I'll find a way out—even if it's alone."
He stepped out the door before they could answer, the wind catching the hinges behind him.
The path was damp and cold beneath his boots. The sea beyond the ridge was a flat steel plate beneath the moon....