---
The axe was heavier than it look.
Logan turned it over in his hands, testing the weight. His slender fingers gripped the worn handle, the calluses of its past owner long gone. He adjusted his hold, shoulders rolling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Not bad," he muttered. "A little rustic, but I can work with rustic."
The axe head dipped toward the ground, nearly dragging him down with it. He froze, glaring at it as though it had betrayed him.
"…Okay. Maybe calling it rustic is generous. You're more of a medieval dumbbell, aren't you?"
From the porch, his little brother perched on the steps, legs swinging. "You can do it, big brother!"
"Damn right I can," Logan shot back with exaggerated bravado, though his arms shook just holding the axe steady. "I'm about to show this log what true nobility looks like."
His sister, leaning in the doorway with arms crossed, raised an elegant brow. "Nobility doesn't chop wood."
Logan smirked. "Maybe that's why we're fallen—too proud to split firewood."
Her expression flickered—annoyance edged with reluctant amusement—before she turned away.
Logan set the log upright on the block. He lifted the axe, breath hissing through his teeth. His arms trembled. His back protested. The axe came down—
Thunk.
The blade barely bit into the wood, wedging shallow like a child's toy. Silence hung heavy.
"…The log won," he muttered.
The boy clapped his hands over his mouth, muffling laughter. His sister exhaled through her nose, a sound dangerously close to a snort.
[Observation: Muscle mass insufficient. Probability of failure—82%.]
Logan closed his eyes. Thank you, oracle of the obvious.
[Correction: 82.7%.]
He ground his teeth. "Do me a favor, doc. Shut up for five seconds."
"Big brother?" the boy asked cautiously.
Logan sighed, prying the axe free with a wobble. He forced a grin. "All part of the plan, kid. Rope-a-dope. Let the log think it's safe before I finish it off."
The boy giggled. "Ohhh. Like tricking it!"
"Exactly." Logan winked, then raised the axe again. His body screamed, but he brought it down with a ragged shout.
CRACK.
The log split in two, jagged halves tumbling into the dirt.
Logan let the axe fall, bracing his hands on his knees. His breath came in sharp pulls, sweat sliding down his temple. His frail body felt as though it might break as easily as the wood.
The boy cheered. "You did it!"
Logan straightened with mock swagger, hoisting the axe like a trophy. "Told you. The log never stood a chance."
His sister's lips parted, then shut. She shook her head and turned inside, muttering, "Idiot."
Logan smirked. Progress, he thought. One splinter at a time.
[Update: Minor increase in sibling bond detected.]
Logan blinked. Wait, what?
[Note: Observation only.]
He squinted upward. "You better not be grading my family interactions, doc."
The boy tugged his sleeve. "C'mon, big brother! Let's do more!"
Logan crouched, pressing a hand to his knee. His arms still shook, bones ached, lungs burned. But when he saw his brother's eager face, stubbornness dug in.
"More, huh?" He ruffled the boy's hair. "Sure. Why not. I'll take on every log in this yard."
His brother beamed. And though his sister did not turn back, she paused in the doorway just long enough for Logan to notice.
---
The stew was thin. Logan stirred his spoon, watching watery broth ripple. Carrot pieces floated on the surface, pale potato chunks lurking below like half-sunken ships. If there had been meat, it had vanished somewhere between hope and hunger.
He lifted a spoonful, sniffed, and muttered, "Michelin star dining. Truly, a noble's feast."
His brother puffed his cheeks, blowing on his own spoon. "Sister made it!"
Logan grinned sideways. "Oh, I wasn't complaining, champ. I was setting the mood." He slurped loudly, smacking his lips. "Mmm. Flavor: sadness with a hint of dignity."
The boy burst into laughter, nearly spilling his bowl.
Across the table, their sister ate with rigid poise, spoon moving steadily. But Logan noticed the faint flush at her ears.
"You're welcome," she said flatly, her tone taut at the edges.
Logan rested his chin on one hand, spoon dangling from the other. "And I am grateful. Without this culinary masterpiece, I'd have starved—or worse, been forced to cook myself. Imagine the tragedy."
Her gaze flicked up, sharp as a dagger, before dropping back to her bowl.
"Still not smiling," Logan muttered. "Tough crowd."
The boy giggled again, covering his mouth.
"Eat," their sister ordered curtly.
"Yes, ma'am," Logan replied, saluting with his spoon before shoveling another bite. The broth was bland, but his empty stomach clutched the warmth eagerly.
After all, beggars could not be choosers.
---
---
> [Observation: Caloric value below recommended intake. Estimated malnutrition risk: high.]
Logan did not break stride, though the voice's words pricked his thoughts. He stabbed another chunk of potato with deliberate nonchalance. You are killing the mood, doc.
> [Correction: You are killing yourself. Slowly.]
He set his spoon down, rubbing his temple. "What fantastic dinner conversation."
"What?" his sister asked sharply.
Logan blinked, realizing he had spoken aloud. He waved her off. "Nothing. Just complimenting the… seasoning."
Her brow arched, skeptical, but she did not press further.
Cael, oblivious, licked his spoon clean and grinned. "Big brother, after dinner, can you tell us a story?"
Logan tilted his head. "A story, huh? About what?"
"Anything!" Cael said brightly. "Maybe… about knights and dragons!"
"Dragons, huh?" Logan leaned back, stretching. "Let me think… Once upon a time, there was a knight who thought he was the bravest in the land. But really, he was just very, very good at screaming while running away."
The boy erupted into giggles.
Even his sister's lips quirked—just a fraction, barely there.
Logan caught it and smiled, slow and satisfied.
"See?" he said, pointing at her with his spoon. "I am winning."
Selena stiffened instantly. "You are delusional."
"Oh, absolutely," Logan agreed. "But still winning."
For a moment, silence filled the small dining room, broken only by the crackle of the weak fire and the clink of spoons against ceramic.
And beneath it, something heavier.
This family had held itself together with brittle strings—poverty, exhaustion, silent endurance. He could see it in his sister's rigid shoulders, in his brother's overeager smile.
They had been surviving. Not living.
Logan lowered his pale red eyes to the stew again. He felt something curl in his chest—sharp, unsteady.
I suppose it is on me now.
He took another spoonful, washing the thought down with the watery broth.
---
The house creaked like an old man sighing.
Logan moved quietly through the dim corridors, a single candle cupped in his hand. The flame wavered with every draft sneaking through the cracked walls.
The day's exhaustion dragged at his limbs, but sleep refused to come. His body ached, weak bones humming from the effort it had taken to split just a handful of logs. His stomach still clenched around the thin stew, more hunger than satisfaction.
And yet… he felt awake. Sharper than before.
He stopped at the first small room.
Inside, his little brother sprawled across a narrow bed, one arm dangling, mouth open in the careless abandon of deep sleep. His tiny chest rose and fell with steady breaths.
Logan leaned on the doorframe, pale eyes softening.
"Kid could probably sleep through a siege," he muttered, voice barely audible.
The boy's fingers twitched as if reaching for something in a dream. Logan bent down, tugged the thin blanket higher over his shoulders, and smoothed the messy hair from his forehead.
"…You have no idea what kind of world you are stuck in, huh?" Logan whispered. "Guess that makes two of us."
The boy snored softly in reply.
Logan chuckled under his breath and moved on.
The next room was tidier. Too tidy.
His sister lay curled on her side, blanket tucked to her chin with military precision. Even in sleep, her face held the faintest tension—jaw clenched, brow furrowed, as though she could never fully let go.
Logan stood there longer. Watching.
He could see the years carved into her posture already. The weight she had carried alone while he—whoever he had been before—was absent.
His chest tightened.
"…Cold little queen," he murmured softly. "Even in dreams, huh?"
He set the candle down on the floor, crouching to adjust her blanket just slightly, careful not to wake her.
She shifted, lips parting faintly. For a moment, her expression softened, the ice melting into something almost childlike.
Logan froze, staring. Then smiled, faint and tired.
"Thought so," he whispered. "You are not made of stone after all."
He straightened, picked up the candle again, and padded back toward his own room.
The silence pressed in heavier now, walls groaning like they might collapse if someone breathed too hard.
Logan sat on the edge of his bed, candlelight painting shadows across his pale face. He rubbed the back of his neck, hair falling into his eyes.
"…So. That is them." His voice was quiet, but not to himself.
> [Acknowledged.]
The calm voice threaded through the dark, smooth as glass.
"They have been keeping things together, have they not?" Logan asked softly. "While I was… wherever the hell I was."
> [Observation: Survival achieved through routine and restraint. Emotional strain present.]
"Yeah. No surprise there." Logan's smile was humorless.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams above. The candle flickered, shadows stretching like skeletal fingers.
"You planning to give me a mission statement, doc? Some prophecy? Or are you just here to keep tabs while I starve on thin soup and chop logs for fun?"
Silence.
Then—
> [Statement: Trajectory is yours to define. Choices will be binding.]
Logan huffed a laugh. "Cryptic as ever. Guess that is the deal, huh?"
He let the silence linger, candle flame guttering.
Finally, he murmured, almost to himself:
"…Fine. If this body is mine, so are they. The kid, the ice queen. I am not letting them sink with this rotten house."
> [Acknowledged.]
The calm voice carried no warmth. No approval. Just acknowledgment, as though the words had been logged into some invisible record.
Logan smirked up at the ceiling. "I suppose that is as close to encouragement as I will get from you."
The candle burned lower.
And for the first time in this new world, Logan lay down, closed his pale red eyes, and let the dark carry him under.
---
---
The morning found him cold.
Logan stirred under the blanket, blinking blearily as pale dawn light seeped through the cracks in the shutters. His breath came out in a faint mist, curling upward before dissolving into the dim room.
"Lovely," he muttered, rubbing his arms. "Who needs warmth when you've got drafty charm?"
The floor creaked as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Bare feet met wood warped by damp, smoothed by years of weary steps. He winced at the chill before pushing himself upright.
His body still felt fragile, muscles protesting the small stretch of lifting his arms. Black hair fell across pale red eyes, catching the morning glow and giving his reflection in the cracked mirror an eerie, almost unearthly shimmer.
Still me. Still glass bones and paper skin.
The shirt waiting on the chair was thin, patched at the shoulder, frayed at the cuffs. The trousers weren't much better. A noble's heir, dressed like a farmer who'd lost a bet with the weather.
When he pulled the door open, the swollen wood groaned at the joints. The hallway beyond was lined with faded tapestries—lions, roses, swords. Symbols of a house that once thought itself untouchable. Now moths had chewed gaping holes in the fabric, dust dulling the threads. One crest was missing entirely, a jagged scar where pride used to hang.
Logan traced cracks in the plaster as he walked. At a cobwebbed window, he brushed the sill clean and peered out. Beyond it, the gardens lay in ruin: hedges twisted wild, statues toppled, a fountain split and dry.
This place has been bleeding out for years, he thought, pale eyes narrowing. And we're the last ones left holding the corpse.
> [Observation: Structural decay at 67%. Resource scarcity inevitable.]
The calm voice slid into his skull like a scalpel.
Logan exhaled through his nose. 'Good morning to you too, Nexus.
> [Acknowledged.]
He rolled his eyes and pushed on.
---
The smell of thin porridge greeted him before he reached the dining room. Not unpleasant, exactly—just faint, like warmth stretched too far, flavor diluted until it vanished.
Inside, his sister sat rigid, spoon moving with careful precision. Her pale red eyes flicked up as he entered, then dropped again without a word. The boy sat beside her, legs swinging above the floor, his bowl untouched as he waited. His face lit up the moment he spotted Logan.
"Big brother!" he chirped, waving.
Logan smirked, dropping into the chair beside him with exaggerated weariness. "Morning, champ. You guard my seat all night?"
The boy puffed his chest proudly. "Yup!"
"Good man." Logan ruffled his hair, earning a squeak of protest. Then he glanced at the porridge waiting before him.
A thin gray smear clung to the sides of the bowl, steam curling faintly from the surface. He stirred once, raised a brow, and let his voice go dry.
"Well. Look at this gourmet delight. Did we hire a royal chef while I was asleep?"
His sister's spoon clinked against her bowl. "Eat. It's all there is."
Logan grinned sideways. "What, no smile with breakfast? No 'welcome to another glorious morning, brother dearest'? You wound me."
She didn't look up. "I'm sure you'll survive."
The boy giggled into his hands.
Logan slurped a spoonful loudly, smacking his lips. "Mmm. Subtle notes of desperation. A finish of stale grain. Truly, a feast for kings."
This time the boy laughed outright, leaning against the table. His sister's spoon hesitated, hovering midair for the briefest heartbeat before resuming.
Logan noticed. And smiled.
"One crack at a time," he murmured, mostly to himself.
---
The road into town hadn't changed.
Logan walked with his hands shoved into his pockets, head tilted back, eyes tracing the canopy of trees. Sunlight slanted through the branches, dappling the dirt path with shifting patches of gold. Birds sang overhead, though the sound only made the silence between him and his sister feel heavier.
She carried the basket, of course. Plain wicker with a cracked handle, swinging against her hip as if it weighed nothing. Her back was straight, her steps measured, her gaze fixed ahead. She hadn't spoken since breakfast.
Logan sighed dramatically. "You know, in some cultures, walking together without talking is considered rude."
Her answer was simple. "Then you should talk less."
He smirked. She's getting quicker. I'll take that as progress.
The dirt road widened into tilled fields bordered by wooden fences. Farmers bent to their work. The smell of soil and manure thickened, and Logan wrinkled his nose.
"Ah, civilization," he drawled. "Nothing says prosperity like eau de cowshit."
Her mouth twitched. It might have been annoyance. It might have been the faintest hint of amusement.
They passed the last of the fields. Houses rose, timber and stone with smoke curling from chimneys. Beyond them, the noise of the market rolled through the air—shouts, laughter, clatter of hooves and metal.
Logan matched her pace. "So. Bets on how many people spit when they see us today? I'm guessing four. Five, if old man Havers dragged himself out of bed."
She didn't answer.
He tilted his head. "Not even a guess? You're killing the fun."
Her knuckles whitened around the basket's handle, but still she said nothing.
---
The market square was already swelling with bodies. Stalls sprawled across the cobbles, heavy with vegetables, cloth, and butchered meat. Merchants shouted prices, children darted, coins clinked.
Then Logan and his sister stepped inside, and the ripple began.
Not loud. Just small things—conversation dimming, eyes cutting sideways, whispers slipping behind hands.
"That's them…"
"…the fallen house…"
"…look at their clothes…"
Logan felt the stares crawl across his skin. He lifted his chin, plastered on a theatrical smile.
"Ah, the warm embrace of community," he said brightly. "Truly, I feel the love."
A woman tugged her daughter closer. A man muttered about shame. Logan's grin sharpened, though his teeth ached with the pressure of holding it.
His sister didn't so much as blink. She moved like stone—spine straight, face composed, eyes locked ahead. To her, the crowd might as well have been mist.
Logan studied her profile. How many times has she done this? How many mornings of stares and whispers has she swallowed without a flinch?
The thought set his jaw tight.
> [Observation: Host exhibits elevated hostility response.]
Nyx Nexus slid in, cold and clinical.
No shit, Logan snapped silently. You try being the town punchline.
> [Emotional output noted.]
He rolled his eyes. Glad I could make your research paper.
---
At the vegetable stall, the merchant forced a smile. "Good morning, Lady Murphy," he said, eyes flicking to Logan with less warmth. "And… sir."
Logan leaned on the counter, grinning. "Just 'sir'? Not even 'worthless bastard clinging to a dead name'? I'm hurt. Standards are slipping."
The merchant blinked, unsure if it was safe to laugh.
His sister set the basket down with quiet precision. "Carrots. Potatoes. Half a sack of flour."
The merchant nodded quickly and turned to fetch them.
Logan dusted his hands. "See? Flawless charm. I should charge tuition."
His sister ignored him.
"One day," he sighed, "you'll laugh at my jokes, and I'll probably keel over from shock. Then you'll feel guilty."
Something flickered across her face—so faint most would miss it. Logan didn't.
He smirked. One crack at a time.