Arc 1: The Hidden Hearth ----------------------------------
The first thing Ryn noticed that morning wasn't the alarm clock.
It was the smell.
A soft fragrance of miso soup simmering somewhere beyond the door slipped beneath the cracks of his bedroom and tugged him gently out of dreams. For a long moment, he stayed buried beneath the thin blanket, eyes half-shut, listening to the faint clatter of wooden chopsticks and the warm, hushed hum of a woman's voice drifting from the kitchen.
He knew that sound. That rhythm. That warmth.
With a reluctant groan, he rubbed his eyes, forcing himself upright. The morning sun filtering through the curtains painted his small room in pale gold, dust motes spinning lazily in the beam. He stretched his arms with a yawn, the faint stiffness in his shoulders reminding him of a dream already slipping away. Something about fire. Something about chains.
The memory scattered before it could settle.
By the time he stepped into the hallway, the sight waiting for him was the same as it had been every morning for as long as he could remember.
"Aunt Hestia," Ryn murmured without meaning to.
She was at the stove, auburn-golden brown hair tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders. The color seemed alive in the morning light, strands catching like molten copper as she moved. She wore a cream-colored apron tied neatly at the waist, the knot sitting above curving hips in a way that made her look less like someone's aunt and more like a young bride straight out of a magazine spread.
Her back was turned as she stirred something on the stove, the hem of her apron swaying gently, and the faintest hum escaping her lips like a lullaby. Even without turning, she seemed to notice him immediately.
"Good morning, Ryn." She glanced over her shoulder, smile bright enough to warm even the dreariest dawn. "You're up earlier than usual today."
Ryn rubbed his neck, sheepish. "Couldn't really sleep."
"Mm. Then breakfast will help." She turned fully now, eyes the soft, smoldering shade of embers at dusk. In her hand was a ladle dripping broth, in the other a towel she used to wipe her fingers before setting it aside.
Before he could respond, she stepped forward and laid her hand on his shoulder.
That hand.
It wasn't just warmth. It was heat — gentle, embracing, but alive in a way that sank straight into his bones. It radiated calm, a comfort so complete it almost made him weak at the knees. Her palm lingered too long, thumb brushing lightly against the curve of his collarbone before she finally drew away.
Ryn swallowed, looking anywhere but her. It was just his aunt. Just Hestia. There was nothing strange about it. And yet… a faint stirring pressed against the back of his mind, like a warning bell too far away to hear clearly.
"Sit," she said simply, voice carrying that unshakable warmth. "It's ready."
He obeyed without thinking, sliding into his usual seat at the low dining table. The lacquered wood gleamed under the morning light, and already she was setting dishes in front of him.
Rice steamed in neat bowls. A perfectly grilled fillet of fish, its skin crisp but glistening with moisture. Miso soup, golden and fragrant, dotted with tofu and scallions. Pickled vegetables on a small side dish for balance.
It was the kind of meal that belonged on the glossy page of a cooking magazine — but it wasn't the food itself that made Ryn's chest tighten.
It was the way she served it.
Every movement was deliberate, tender. When she placed the bowl in front of him, her hand brushed his sleeve. When she poured his tea, she bent just slightly too close, her auburn hair falling forward so that it brushed his cheek.
And then, when she finally sat across from him, she didn't start eating.
She just watched.
Her chin rested lightly in one hand, her lips curved in a smile so soft it was almost fragile. But her eyes — they didn't blink, didn't stray, didn't let him go.
Ryn shifted uncomfortably, chopsticks hovering. "…You're not eating?"
"I will." She tilted her head, auburn strands slipping against her cheek. "But I like watching you first."
He gave her a puzzled look.
"You make the food worth making," she added, voice barely above a whisper.
Ryn's chest gave a small, inexplicable shiver. He forced a laugh, breaking eye contact as he reached for the rice. "You're weird sometimes, Aunt Hestia."
"And yet," she murmured, amusement in her tone, "you always finish every bite."
He didn't argue. Because it was true.
The food melted on his tongue, every flavor perfectly balanced — the crisp skin of the fish, the fluffy rice, the deep, soothing taste of the miso. But beyond taste, there was something else. A warmth that filled not only his stomach, but something deeper. A comfort that seeped into his chest, wrapping around his heart like invisible arms.
He ate quietly, while she hummed softly across from him, her gaze never leaving his face.
---
Hestia watched him, and her smile never faltered.
So fragile. So unaware. Even now, her little godling sat across from her in mortal flesh, cheeks pink with sleep, shoulders still bearing the faint traces of chains he could not remember.
If he knew. If he even glimpsed the truth of who he was, of what she had done to keep him here—would he turn away, abandoning her with the same hands she once held?
No.
No, he wouldn't. Because she would never let him.
She smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, steadying her thoughts. It didn't matter what fragments stirred in him, what dreams whispered in the edges of his mind. He belonged here, in this small house, across from her at this table.
And she would feed him, comfort him, warm him until he forgot to ever want more.
---
By the time Ryn finished the meal, a faint flush had settled over his cheeks. He set his chopsticks down with a sigh of contentment.
"That was…" He paused, struggling for words. "Amazing. Like always."
Her smile deepened, her chest rising with quiet satisfaction. "I'm glad."
For a moment, silence stretched between them — not awkward, but heavy, full of something unspoken. The kind of silence that made Ryn's skin prickle faintly, though he couldn't explain why.
Then Hestia rose, collecting his empty dishes with unhurried grace. The sunlight caught against her auburn hair again, painting it with a fiery halo.
Ryn found himself staring, lips parting slightly before he quickly turned away.
"School today?" she asked lightly, as though nothing unusual had passed between them.
"Yeah. Don't really feel like it, but…"
Her chuckle was soft, melodic. "Then all the more reason to go. The world outside isn't kind, Ryn. But if you come back to me each evening, I'll make sure you never have to carry that weight for long."
He blinked at her, struck by the phrasing, but she had already turned back toward the sink.
Her hands moved in gentle, practiced motions — washing, rinsing, drying. And yet, for just a heartbeat, he thought he saw it: a faint glow rising from her fingertips, like sparks hidden beneath the skin.
When he blinked again, it was gone.
Probably just the light.
Still, as he went to gather his schoolbag, that warmth lingered on his shoulder where her hand had rested earlier. The touch of her palm, the faint heat that had sunk deeper than skin.
It felt safe. It felt like home.
But deep inside, somewhere buried in memory and flame, a quiet unease coiled — like a hearthfire burning a little too hot.
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