"Papa!"
The cry rang clear across the fortress courtyard, cutting through the hammer of carpenters, the clank of armor, and the murmurs of refugees like a shaft of sunlight through storm clouds.
Desax had barely turned before a small body slammed into his legs, arms clutching tight. He laughed, surprised, and scooped the boy up with ease. Marcus was light in his arms—too light, perhaps—but the warmth of him was grounding, a reminder that not everything in the world was ash and ruin.
"Haha!" Desax spun him once, Marcus shrieking with delight, before settling him against his shoulder. He pressed his forehead to the boy's hair, inhaling the familiar scent of smoke and bread that clung to him. "Have you been a good boy, Marcus?"
Marcus pulled back, grinning ear to ear, cheeks flushed pink. His mop of dark hair stuck up wildly, stubborn as ever. "Mama says yes. But Uncle Kleber says no."
Desax arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Uncle Kleber talks too much."
"Oi!" Kleber's voice barked from behind, brimming with mock offense. He strode over, hands on his hips. "Don't teach the lad to ignore good advice! That's the first step to disaster."
Marcus giggled, burying his face in Desax's shoulder.
Kleber crouched down, leveling his gaze with the boy's. His expression was exaggeratedly stern, though his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Tell me, lad. Did you eat all the honey cakes last night?"
Marcus froze, smile faltering, eyes darting toward the barracks like a criminal caught mid-theft.
Kleber clutched his chest, staggering back as though struck. "Villain! You left not a single crumb for your poor, starving uncles!"
Bal's deep chuckle rolled from nearby. Arms crossed over his barrel chest, the giant shook his head. "Better him than you, Kleber. At least the boy has an excuse—he's growing."
"And what excuse have you?" Masen added, his tone dry as dust.
The laughter swelled around Marcus, who squirmed in Desax's arms, giggling harder with each word. For a moment, the fortress did not feel like a place built on bones and trenches. It felt alive.
But Desax only half-heard the banter. His gaze lingered on his son's hands, small fingers gripping tight to his tunic as though afraid he'd vanish again. The weight of him in his arms was both blessing and burden. He'd spent weeks marching through broken villages, through fields where the stench of death lingered like fog. And here was life, fragile but unyielding, staring up at him with eyes that trusted completely.
"Papa," Marcus whispered suddenly, tugging at his collar. "Did you bring me something?"
Desax raised an eyebrow, feigning sternness. "Already asking for gifts, hm?"
Marcus nodded earnestly, lips pressed into a solemn line, though his eyes betrayed the excitement brimming there.
"Greedy little crawler," Desax teased. Still, his heart softened. He swung his satchel forward and rummaged inside before producing a small wooden horse. It was roughly carved, no finer than what a soldier might whittle by firelight, but its edges had been smoothed carefully.
Marcus's eyes went wide. He snatched the toy with both hands, hugging it close. "A horse!" His voice rang with unfiltered joy. "It's mine!"
"Careful," Desax said, brushing his hair back. "That horse has crossed rivers and mountains to find you."
Lucy had been standing silently near the tent entrance, arms crossed as she observed the reunion. Her expression was unreadable, but when Marcus lifted the horse aloft as though it were a treasure, something softened in her eyes.
Bal stepped up beside her. "You're expecting too much," he said quietly, gaze fixed on the boy.
Lucy exhaled, almost a sigh. "I know. But still…"
Marcus looked up then, noticing her. "Is Aunty okay?"
Lucy straightened, smoothing her tone into something gentler. "I am fine, boy. Don't worry about me."
Marcus's grin returned, untroubled by shadows adults could not escape. He darted away, clutching his toy horse, galloping across the dirt with unsteady legs.
Desax finally made his way to his tent, Marcus leading the charge. Inside, Elira was waiting. Her hair, black as ink, was braided back neatly, though flour dusted her hands and the apron tied around her waist. She looked up as they entered, and for a moment the hard edges of her face softened. Relief poured across her features—not surprise, but the quiet gratitude of someone who had feared the worst and been spared.
"You're thinner," she murmured, stepping forward and brushing her fingertips across his cheek. It was a fleeting touch, almost hesitant, before she drew back.
Desax caught her hand before it retreated, pressing it briefly to his chest. "And you're sharper," he said, smiling faintly. "I thought I left you with bread, not blades."
Her lips quirked upward, a shadow of her old smirk. "Please. We both know you like it."
Marcus burst between them, horse aloft. "Look, Mama! Papa brought me a horse! Faster than Uncle Kleber and stronger than Uncle Bal!"
Elira laughed softly, guiding him further inside. "Then keep it close, little rider. It might have to carry you through dreams tonight."
For a while, Desax stood at the tent entrance with her, listening to Marcus's galloping footsteps and playful shouts echoing against the canvas.
The warmth of the moment was fragile. Too fragile.
"You saw him again, didn't you?" Elira asked, her voice quiet but certain.
Desax's jaw tightened. He did not look at her. "Yes."
She studied him, her dark eyes searching his face for what he would not say. "And?"
He let out a slow breath. "He's changed. Again. Not just older. His voice, his eyes…" He turned, finally meeting her gaze. "Elira, he doesn't seem like a boy anymore. Not even a man. He's something else."
The words hung between them, heavy as lead.
Elira said nothing at first. Her gaze drifted to the tent flap, where Marcus's shadow flickered, small and unburdened. Finally, she whispered, "Will that something protect us? Or enslave us?"
Desax had no answer. He looked at his wife, then at the dim silhouette of his son, and the silence weighed heavier than words.
"I don't know," he admitted at last. "But I think there is someone who can help us reach a favorable outcome."
He stepped aside as another figure approached. Lucy moved from the shadows, her posture firm, her eyes softer than when she stood on battlefields.
"A mother," Desax said quietly.
Lucy nodded once, gaze fixed on the boy still galloping in circles with his toy horse.