The sun had dipped low by the time I reached the house, casting the hills in gold that didn't feel earned. The windows glowed dim with lamplight. I stepped onto the porch and pushed open the screen door.
Inside, they were already eating.
Mom glanced up first. "There you are," she said, not unkindly. "Wash your hands."
Zeke sat at the table, shoulders hunched, a spoon halfway to his mouth. Dinah beside him, feeding Thalia from a little bowl. The baby babbled something soft and messy, then stuck her hand in her porridge and laughed like nothing in the world was wrong.
I washed up at the basin, dried my hands, and took my seat across from Zeke.
"Hey," I said, just enough to be heard.
"Hey," he answered.
"Hey," Dinah echoed.
Thalia smacked her spoon against the table. "Say-lem!"
I smiled a little at that. "Hi, Thalia."
The food was stew. Potatoes and lentils, warm and heavy. Bread on the side, torn into pieces and passed around without ceremony. Nobody said much while we ate, but there wasn't silence either. Just the quiet sounds of a family trying.
Zeke buttered a crust of bread and pushed the dish toward me. "You been with Jonas?"
"Yeah."
He nodded, like he didn't need more than that.
Mom asked, "Did he say how his folks are doing?"
"Holding on."
That was enough for her.
Dinah offered Thalia a little cup of watered wine, then wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve when the child missed her mouth. Her smile was tired but real. I caught her watching Zeke when he wasn't looking.
The meal wound down slow. No one rushed. No one lingered too long either.
Eventually, Zeke stood and carried his bowl to the sink. Mom started clearing plates. Dinah rocked Thalia against her shoulder, humming something old and soft. I helped where I could, drying dishes, folding the cloth napkins into uneven quarters.
Then I said, "Think I'll head to bed."
Mom reached out and touched my arm, just a brush of fingers. "Alright, sweetheart. Sleep well."
Zeke looked up from the stove. "Night."
Dinah gave me a small nod. "Rest."
Thalia, mostly asleep, waved a hand in the air. "Bye-bye."
I smiled and ruffled her curls before heading down the hall to my room.
I changed slow. Pulled the blanket up to my chest and lay still for a long time, watching the way the moonlight filtered through the curtains.
It had been six days since the notice came.
Six days of quiet mornings, heavier silences, and meals that didn't taste right. Six days since we stopped pretending this wouldn't happen.
I hadn't seen Jonas since the day we talked under the fig tree. His mother took him to visit family in the countryside—whether to give him peace or to keep him out of sight from the names posted on the square, I didn't know. I didn't ask. I didn't write.
Now it was the seventh day.
Zeke was leaving in the morning.
No one said it outright. We didn't have to. It hung in the corners of the house like smoke, like a draft that never left no matter how tightly we shut the doors.
Dinner was set before the sun went down. The good cloth was laid across the table—white, with stitched green vines. The same one we used on feast days. Or for funerals.
Mom had cooked a real meal: lentils, roasted carrots, bread with olive oil, even a cut of meat she must've bartered hard for. She didn't sit right—too straight, like she was holding herself together with her spine.
Zeke came in last. Washed. Fresh shirt. Boots cleaned. His hair was combed like he was going to a wedding.
We sat.
We bowed our heads.
Mom said the prayer. It was the same as always, but slower. She spoke every word like it might be her last chance to say it with all of us in the room.
"Amen," she whispered.
"Amen," we answered.
We ate.
The candles flickered softly. Thalia sat on Dinah's lap and played with her spoon, mashing carrots into her dress, then laughing like nothing in the world was wrong. Dinah wiped at the mess and smiled, even as her eyes stayed red-rimmed and raw. She hadn't cried in front of us—not fully. But we could all tell.
Mom kept glancing toward Zeke between bites, like she needed to memorize him. Zeke kept his head down mostly. He ate, said thank you when the bread came his way, buttered it with one hand.
"I'll write," he said eventually, like it had been sitting on his chest all day. "As often as I can. Might not be much, but I'll try."
"We'll write too," Mom said. Her voice was too calm, like a pot too full that hadn't boiled over yet. "Even if you don't answer, we'll send them."
Zeke nodded. "Tell me what Thalia says when she starts talking proper."
"She already talks proper," Dinah murmured. "You're just not home enough to hear it."
That almost got a smile out of him.
"She'll be walking soon," Mom said, her eyes still on Zeke. "You come home before she runs."
Zeke swallowed hard. "I will."
The food was good. I tasted none of it. Just chewed and swallowed like it was a task to complete.
At one point, Zeke passed me the bread dish and said, "You been with Jonas?"
"Not since the third day," I said. "His mom took him to see family out near Erythra."
He nodded, like he'd expected that. Nothing more to say.
The meal went on.
And then, when plates were near empty and the baby had started to drift against Dinah's chest, Mom reached across the table and put her hand on Zeke's wrist.
"You remember what I said."
Zeke didn't speak right away. Then, quietly, "Only if I have to."
Mom turned to look at me. Her eyes were tired and shining. "Both of you. You hear me? Only if you have to."
I nodded. "I hear you."
She let her hand fall back into her lap. Folded it tight with the other.
Zeke wiped his mouth. Stood. Carried his plate to the basin. Dinah rose too, whispering something to Thalia as she shifted her onto her shoulder. Mom started gathering the cups and bowls, her movements gentle, practiced, like if she made too much noise something might break.
I helped where I could. Wiped the table. Folded the napkins. Took care not to bump into Zeke as we moved around the small kitchen.
Then I said, "Think I'll head to bed."
Mom touched my elbow. "Alright, sweetheart. Sleep well."
"Night," Zeke said.
Dinah nodded. "Rest."
Thalia, half-asleep, lifted one hand. "Bye-bye."
I ruffled her curls on the way out.
And then I went down the hall, the weight of the night already draped over my shoulders. I undressed slowly. Pulled the blanket to my chest.
And stared at the ceiling while the house breathed quietly around me—our last night as we were.
That night, I dreamed again.
The man was there.
White-robed, silent. His eyes not kind, but knowing. He reached for me—not like before, not a summons, but like a father steadying a child's shoulder before leading them through something they shouldn't see.
I followed.
The olive groves passed us by like shadows. The trees bent low with sorrow. The sky was pale, like morning but wrong. Too quiet. Too wide.
We stood on the ridge.
Below us, Zeke marched with hundreds of others. Gray coats, rifles over shoulders, heads down like the weight of heaven was too much for their necks to bear. They didn't sing. They didn't shout. Just walked. Toward a horizon ringed with fire.
Then the dream moved. Shifted like a page turned.
We were in the town square. Soldiers back from the front. A wagon rolled in. Canvas draped. Silent crowd.
Mom was in front. Her hands were shaking. The officer said something—I couldn't hear it. Just saw the way she dropped when they lifted the cover.
It was Zeke.
Face pale. Eyes closed. One hand over his chest, stiff with the seal of Dominara folded against it.
Mom screamed without a sound. Then she was gone too—gone from the square, gone from our home. The next thing I saw was her scarf hanging from the rafters of our porch, twisting slightly in the wind.
The man beside me said nothing. Just stood there, and I couldn't look at him.
Then Dinah.
Alone now. Dirt-smudged, thinner by the day. Thalia in her arms. Eyes wide. Too quiet. She sat begging near the old fountain, lips cracked, hands shaking as she pressed a crust of bread into her daughter's mouth.
Thalia didn't eat.
She didn't cry, either.
She just… leaned in and stopped breathing.
Dinah didn't move for a long time. Then she lay beside her.
The world turned cold.
I tried to cry out. Tried to run.
The man held me still.
His hand was not cruel. But it didn't let go.
Then his voice came—not loud, not angry. Just truth, too large to fit in my ears.
"This is what happens when the line breaks."
I fell to my knees. The square was empty again. The porch was clean. The olive trees still swayed.
I woke up sweating. The pillow damp. My arms shaking.
I turned my face to the wall.