I was slowly regaining strength—enough that each morning, I tested my legs by pacing the cramped room, determined to leave. But every time I gathered my few belongings, Seres would appear in the doorway, arms crossed, her pale eyes sharp as winter frost.
"Not yet," her stance seemed to say.
Seres shook her head the moment I mentioned leaving, her pale eyes flashing with something between concern and stubbornness. She pointed at my bandages, then to the still-healing wound on my side—her meaning clear. Not yet. When I opened my mouth to protest, she pressed a bowl of warm broth into my hands and leveled me with a look that brooked no argument. Three days wasn't enough, and she wouldn't let me stumble back into the wilderness half-healed. With a sigh, I relented. Then she'd press another bowl of bitter medicinal tea into my hands, her fingers lingering just long enough to check for fever. When I opened my mouth to argue, she'd simply point at my ribs—where the deepest wound still pulled with every breath—and shake her head.
Three days became five. Five stretched toward a week. And though the wilderness called to me, Seres' stubborn care kept me grounded—for now.
The first days passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion, but as my body slowly mended, my mind turned to the gaping void between us—language. Seres and I existed in separate worlds, divided by words neither of us understood. That changed when she placed a chipped clay bowl in my hands one morning and said, clear and deliberate, "Soran."
I blinked. She tapped the bowl. "Soran."
Understanding dawned. Bowl.
Thus began our lessons.
The Foundations
Seres was a patient but relentless teacher. She started with the necessities—objects, actions, the basic framework of survival. A wooden cup became "reth," water "valla," and fire "dros." She would say the word, wait for me to repeat it, then nod or shake her head depending on how badly I butchered the pronunciation. Kai, ever the opportunist, would sometimes pop his head in and shout corrections before Seres shooed him away.
The children became unexpected tutors. Mia was the gentlest, pointing to objects and repeating their names slowly, her dark eyes bright with encouragement. Ethan, ever practical, taught me verbs by acting them out—"keth" for eat, "miran" for walk, "senn" for stop—his movements sharp and precise.
Nico, of course, turned it into a game. He'd hold up random items—a rock, a frayed rope, a half-whittled stick—and grin as I fumbled through the words. If I got it right, he'd cheer; if I didn't, he'd clutch his chest in mock despair before trying again.
Luna was different. She didn't speak much, but when she did, her words carried weight. One evening, as I struggled with "yis" (sleep), she simply placed a hand over her heart, then mine, and said, "Yis is not just close eyes. Yis is… safe." It was the first time I realized their words held layers mine didn't.
Not every lesson went smoothly. Some sounds were impossible for me to replicate—their word for river, "hyrrin," required a rolling *r* I couldn't manage. Seres would pinch the bridge of her nose, exhale, and try again. Kai, ever unhelpful, would mimic my failed attempts back at me, earning a swat from Ethan.
Tenses were worse. Without the structure of grammar, time blurred. "I ate" and "I will eat" sounded nearly identical until Seres resorted to drawing lines in the dirt—past, present, future—like some desperate scholar.
And then there were the words that didn't translate. "Veyen" wasn't just home; it was the smell of herbs drying by the fire, the sound of laughter in the rafters. "Tahl" wasn't just cold—it was the kind of cold that seeped into bones and stayed.
The first full sentence I managed was "Reth valla, kesht?" (Water cup, please?). Seres paused, then handed it to me without a word. But the way her shoulders relaxed told me everything.
Nico, of course, demanded more. "Say 'Nico is greatest warrior!'" he'd insist, flexing his skinny arms. When I butchered it, he'd collapse laughing, only to spring up and try again.
Mia taught me the names of the herbs Seres used for healing—"liss" for the bitter green paste that stung my wounds, "firra" for the sweet-smelling leaves that eased pain. Ethan showed me how to warn of danger—"Dros miran!" (Fire moves!)—when the wind sent embers scattering.
And Luna? Luna taught me silence. The way a pause could mean yes, a glance could mean wait, a tilt of the head could mean I understand.
Soon enough, I could piece together fragments. "Seres miran keth" meant Seres goes to eat. "Mia veyen tahl" meant Mia's home is cold. It wasn't fluency, but it was enough.
The Rhythm of Survival
Morning always began with fire.
I'd wake to the scrape of flint, the quiet crackle of kindling catching flame. Seres would already be moving—stoking the embers, setting a pot of water to boil, her white hair catching the first weak light seeping through the cracks in the walls. By the time I managed to sit up without hissing in pain, she'd press a warm cup of reth into my hands. "Valla," she'd say, and I'd murmur it back, the word no longer foreign but familiar as the weight of the clay between my fingers.
Chores and Lessons
The children arrived like a storm each morning, tumbling in with the chill still clinging to their clothes. Ethan and Mia would carry baskets of foraged roots and dried meat from whatever hidden storeroom they used; Kai would dramatically present whatever oddity he'd found that day (a peculiarly shaped rock, a bird's nest, once—alarmingly—a live frog); Nico would already be talking, as if he'd started mid-sentence somewhere outside and hadn't bothered to pause for breath. Luna was the last to enter, always silent, always observing.
Work was divided without discussion. Ethan and Mia repaired tools or braided rope with practiced hands. Kai was tasked with fetching water—a chore he turned into a series of increasingly elaborate acrobatic feats until Seres fixed him with a look that could wither stone. Nico, when he could be wrangled into focus, chopped firewood with more enthusiasm than skill. Luna tended the herb bundles drying overhead, her fingers gentle as she checked each leaf.
And me? At first, I was relegated to sitting uselessly by the fire, relegated to grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle under Seres' watchful eye. But as my strength returned, so did my responsibilities. I learned to mend fishing nets (badly), to sort edible roots from poisonous ones (under strict supervision), to bank the fire so it would smolder through the night. Small things. Necessary things.
Meals and Meanings
Food was a quiet ritual. Seres would portion out stew or flatbread with the same solemnity as a priest offering sacrament. No one spoke until the first bite was taken—a habit I later learned stemmed from an old superstition about thanking the spirits before eating. The children, normally boisterous, would eat with surprising focus, though Nico still managed to tell stories between mouthfuls, his hands painting pictures in the air.
It was during these meals that I picked up more of their language—not just words, but the unspoken rules. How passing a dish to someone's left was polite, but to the right was an insult. How leaving even a crumb in your bowl was an invitation for bad luck. How Seres would always set aside a portion near the fire—an offering, I realized, to whatever gods watched over this broken place.
Nightfall softened the edges of the day. The children would leave one by one—Ethan dragging Kai by the collar, Mia whispering a soft "Yis veyen" (Sleep well), Nico promising some grand adventure for tomorrow. Only Luna lingered sometimes, her blue hair turned indigo in the firelight as she traced shapes in the ashes.
Seres and I would sit in silence then, the fire between us painting shadows on the walls. She'd mend clothes or sharpen tools; I'd practice writing their words in the dirt with a stick, sounding them out under my breath. Sometimes, if the wind wasn't too cruel, she'd hum—a low, wordless tune that sounded older than the ruins around us.
Becoming Part of the Weave
The change was subtle. The morning Mia handed me a knife without being asked. The day Kai didn't laugh when I mispronounced "hyrrin" but simply repeated it slowly. The night Nico slumped against my shoulder half-asleep, his orange hair tickling my neck.
And Seres—the way she began leaving tasks for me without checking, trusting they'd be done. The way her fingers brushed mine when passing a bowl, no longer cautious of the contact. The way she'd say "Ardyn" now, not as a stranger's name, but as someone's whose presence required no explanation.
I wasn't a guest anymore. I was simply there.
And somehow, that was enough.
Though they lived together like family, Seres and the children weren't bound by blood. Each of them was an orphan, their homes and kin lost to the war raging in the neighboring country. Seres had simply gathered them—a quiet woman with winter in her eyes and these broken children left in the wreckage—giving them shelter when no one else would.
Ethan's Wary Trust
Ethan watched me like a hawk tracking prey.
At first, he positioned himself between me and the others, his dark eyes sharp with suspicion. When I struggled to lift firewood, he'd wordlessly take it from my hands, as if my weakness was a threat in itself. But the day he found me practicing "keth miran" (eat go—a hopeless attempt at "going to eat"), something shifted.
He stared at my clumsy scratches in the dirt, then knelt beside me. "Kethan," he corrected, tapping the correct order. "Go to eat."
When I repeated it perfectly, he gave a single nod—the barest acknowledgment. But after that, his vigilance softened. He still hovered, but now it was to nudge a knife closer when my fingers fumbled, or to gruffly point out which roots were poisonous. Protection, not paranoia.
Mia's Quiet Lessons
Mia was the first to treat me like a person instead of a puzzle.
She'd appear at my side during chores, her small hands deftly fixing the nets I'd tangled. "Like this," she'd murmur, guiding my fingers without impatience. At night, she'd linger by the fire, whispering words for me to repeat—"starlight" (sylvain), "laughter" (kireth)—things no one else bothered to teach.
Once, she caught me staring at Seres' offering bowl. "For the lost," she said, touching her heart. "So they eat too." Then she pressed a piece of dried apple into my palm—a child's version of the same ritual.
Kai's Necessary Chaos
Kai was a spark in the gloom.
He'd sneak up behind me and shout "Dros!" just to watch me flinch, then collapse laughing when Seres scolded him. He claimed my bandages made me look like a "wrapped forest spirit" and pantomimed bowing to me until even Ethan cracked a smile.
But his true masterpiece was the day he swapped Seres' bitter medicinal tea with mint water. Her expression when she took the first sip was so comically horrified that I choked on my own drink—which hurt my ribs but was worth it for the way Nico howled with laughter. Seres flicked Kai's ear, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
Luna's Wordless Gifts
Luna spoke in silences.
She'd leave small things where I'd find them: a smooth stone, a feather, once a carefully folded leaf that released a sweet scent when unfolded. One evening, she sat beside me and traced a shape in the ashes—a bird in flight. Then she pointed to me, to the door, and back to the bird.
You'll fly free soon.
I didn't need words to understand.
Nico's Relentless Joy
Nico refused to let me be an invalid.
"Miran!" he'd demand, hauling me outside to "train" (read: wobble after him while he brandished a stick like a sword). He invented a game involving tossing pebbles into a crack in the wall, cheering wildly when I managed to hit it. When I finally won, he crowned me with a circlet of weeds and declared me "King of Rock-Throwers"—a title he demanded I honor with "great deeds and many stews."
The day I outwalked him—just a few paces farther than before—he whooped loud enough to startle birds from the trees.
Seres' Unspoken Pact
She never said "stay."
But she began leaving an extra portion of food by my bedroll. She'd wordlessly refill my cup when my hands shook too badly to pour. And one night, when the wind howled through the cracks like a living thing, she didn't protest when I moved my pallet closer to the fire—closer to them—instead of hovering at the edges.
No oaths. No grand declarations.
Just a bowl of stew pushed into my hands.
A child's laughter in the dark.
A home where there shouldn't have been one.