Someone knocked on the orphanage door that uneventful First Month afternoon. Snow was still falling thick from the sky, layer upon layer burying the street in silence. Soren went to answer.
Officer Bohm stood on the step. The sight of him made Soren's hand still on the knob. He shouldn't have come so soon.
By then Soren knew the man's face well. Bohm had come when Leevi left, and again when Oskar did too. The year had only just turned. Seppo was eighteen now, but the notices always arrived in Second Month, the summons in Third Month. Either Bohm had mistaken the dates, or something was wrong.
"Officer Bohm," Soren greeted, dipping his head and pulling the door wider.
This time Bohm didn't step inside for tea as he usually did. His boots remained planted on the steps. "Soren." He gave a small, strained smile. "Is Marta home?"
Looking closer, Soren saw the difference in the man's face that day. A heaviness around the eyes, a tightness about the mouth.
"She's inside, sir. Resting," Soren said. "Is this about Seppo? It's not even Second Month yet."
"Not yet, Soren," Bohm confirmed. "Still a month away. Marta naps these days?"
"Yes, sir. She needs more rest," Soren said, confusion deepened across Soren's face. "If it isn't about Seppo, then what is it about? I can tell Marta once she wakes."
"Seppo's out hunting?" Bohm asked.
"Yes, sir," Soren said. "He's in the forest. He won't be back until before nightfall."
Bohm looked away briefly, as though weighing whether it was right to entrust a twelve-year-old with the message. At last, his mind seemed made. "Alright then," he said, his tone measured. "Tomorrow morning, at the second bell after sunrise, everyone in this house is required in the town square. Everyone, Soren. Even the little ones. You included."
Soren frowned, trying to guess what matter could summon an entire town, then he let the thought go and simply nodded. "Of course, sir. I'll make sure we're there."
Bohm inclined his head and left soon after, his steps labored yet hurried. There were more doors for him to knock on that day.
The next morning came white and heavy. Soren walked with Seppo beside Marta, the younger children bundled close behind them as they made their way through the snow-choked streets toward the town square.
Snow thickened underfoot, crunching with each step, yet the square was already crowded when they arrived. Mothers drew their children tight against their skirts; old folks hunched into their wool; men stood with arms folded tight, their gazes fixed on the platform ahead.
A stir rippled through the crowd as The Town Master climbed up the platform with heavy steps. The man's face remained just as grim as his usual speeches over delayed grains and cut rations, only that this time, the piece of paper trembled faintly between his fingers as he looked out over the sea of faces. When he spoke, the words carried out over the square—ceremonial, yet strained.
"People of Avendria," he began. "I bring grave news. Yesterday, I received word from the capital. With sorrow beyond measure, I must tell you that our monarchs—King Onin and Queen Arlena—have passed."
The words struck the square like a sudden squall. Silence spread out in its wake. Marta's hands flew to her mouth, stifling the sound that rose in her throat. All around them, the same motion repeated—hands to mouths, hands to hearts.
Soren stood frozen in the midst of it. He had heard the names first spoken when he was little, then many times since, threaded through decrees, rations, taxes, half-remembered talk in the marketplace. The King and Queen had always been distant figures, rulers who seemed as unreachable as myths. Yet in that moment, with the hush pressing over the square, their deaths felt suddenly, sharply real.
A man finally broke the stillness. "Both of them? How could it be both?"
A woman's voice came next, frayed with fear. "What happened to them? Tell us!"
"They were poisoned at a royal banquet two weeks past," The Town Master said, his voice hardened. "The physicians did what they could, but the poison was foreign. It could not be undone. The culprits have been seized. The investigation points to Dravina."
Silence exploded into sound. Murmurs swelled, then snapped into anger.
"Dravina! Vile cowards!"
"They want our Ignium!"
"This cannot stand—we must strike them down!"
"Purge their witches! Purge them all!"
Shouts piled on shouts until the square beat with fury.
The Town Master lifted his hand to calm them. "People—believe me, I share your grief and your fury. Crown Prince Roen and the Princess Rosina mourn as we do. Two weeks of mourning are decreed for all Nivara. We will grieve together. We will remember our King and Queen."
"Then the culprits?" someone called above the din. "What of them?"
The Town Master's eyes swept the crowd. "After the funeral, they will be taken to Ordanne Square in the capital. There they will face justice—before all."
The roar that followed rose from hundreds of throats, yet Soren heard it as if from far away. If the people were this incensed, then the fury must burn even hotter for the living Prince and Princess. What had smoldered as rumor along the western border with Dravina would soon flare into something far larger.
As far as Soren knew, Leevi was still stationed in Kessarine. Oskar had been sent there too, drawn by the constant skirmishes of recent years. Which could only mean that, soon enough, Seppo would be sent to the same front—but this time, not for scattered clashes. What awaited him was open war.
Beside him, Seppo's face had gone pale. His hand found Soren's arm, gripping tight.
"This changes everything," Seppo whispered, so low only Soren could hear.
"In the worst way possible," Soren murmured, trying to steady himself.
The Town Master gave a stiff nod and stepped down, the Guards parting to lead him away. The crowd dispersed slowly.
Soren followed Marta and the others. On the walk back, their breath hung in the air, eyes fixed on the path where boots pressed deep shapes into the white.
One of the younger children finally spoke. "Were the King and Queen good people?"
The question caught Soren off guard. He turned instinctively to Seppo—the eldest now—but Seppo only kept his jaw tight and held his silence.
Marta answered at last. "For as long as I've lived, they've been just. They saw to it that we were fed, even in years when the harvest failed. That is no small thing."
The child nodded, as if Marta's words were enough, though his small face remained troubled.
That evening, after the chores were done and the supper bowls scrubbed clean, the house grew still. The children huddled near the hearth; Marta's knitting needles clicking softly. Soren slipped out into the cold and sat on the bench in the front yard, his breath a pale cloud against the dark. The sky above was a deep vault without stars.
Seppo joined him after a while, drawing his coat tight and leaning back against the bench. "Still thinking about the square?" he asked.
"How could I not?" Soren's eyes stayed fixed on the blank sky. "You can't step back from conscription now, can you?"
"Wouldn't even try." Seppo snorted. "War's coming. You can see it plain."
"You think the Crown Prince will choose it?"
Seppo considered a moment, then asked quietly, "If Marta or the children were poisoned, what would you do?"
Soren's jaw clenched. He stared at Seppo, then his gaze fell away. "I'd hunt them down. Whoever did it. And I'd bury them."
Seppo nodded slowly. "Then you know what the Crown Prince will do."
A bitter smirk touched Soren's mouth. "Do you think they'll send you west?"
"Most likely," Seppo answered shortly. "If it's Dravina, then Kessarine. At least I'll see Leevi there. Can't say I'm looking forward to Oskar, though."
Soren's expression sharpened. "Promise me something," he said, his tone steady. "Don't try to play hero. If it's dangerous—run. Don't fight a fight you can't win."
Seppo gave a dry laugh, reaching over to clap Soren's shoulder. "You're asking your brother to be a coward, little brother."
"I'm asking you to survive," Soren returned without blinking.
The laugh lingered for a moment, then slipped away. Seppo's face sobered. His voice grew softer. "Strange, isn't it? The next King has lost both his parents. Just like us. And so has his sister."
Soren frowned. He knew Seppo was sidestepping, dodging his plea—but he followed his brother anyway. "How old are they?"
"The Princess... two years younger than me. So sixteen now. The Prince—twenty-four, maybe. About Leevi's age."
"Leevi's age," Soren echoed softly, his eyes turning distant. "And a whole kingdom on your back."
Soren was too young to understand what that weight truly meant. Too young to grasp what it demanded of a person. But imagining someone Leevi's age—forced under it made his chest tighten.
"What do you think it's like in the capital?" Soren murmured, watching the fog of his breath vanish into the air. "In Evastra. To live royal?"
Seppo thought long and hard, his gaze lost beyond the forests, rivers, and endless snow. "I don't know," he said at last. "They must live well—with all that power, the luxury. But..." His brow furrowed. "I think it's a tragedy dressed in gold."
Neither spoke after that. They sat in the silence, listening to the creak of frozen branches and the faint cry of some unseen bird. For the first time, Soren felt the future press close.
The weeks of mourning passed in muffled quiet. No fairs, no lanterns, no laughter—only the blunt rhythm of days. Founder's Week that spring came and went beneath a pall. And just as the town began to breathe again, the summons day arrived.
Soren had always known it was coming. Seppo himself had been ready for it. Still, when Seppo stepped into the room in plain uniform, Soren felt a cold, sudden lurch in his gut. The restless spark of boyhood had long faded from Seppo's face, but in that moment, he seemed older, the cut of the uniform making him look more grounded, more severe.
Downstairs, the younger children were already gathered with Marta. Together, they filed out of the orphanage. Soren kept close to Seppo's side while the others skipped ahead, their steps bright and light against the heaviness in his chest.
The moment came too quickly.
"Don't forget me, brother." Seppo bent low, his hands settled on Soren's shoulders, warm and firm.
The words left Soren hollow. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "How could I?" His arms went up around Seppo, holding his brother fast. A sharp prick of tears bit behind his eyes, but he held them back.
Marta cupped a hand to her mouth, the younger children clutching her skirts, their cheeks streaked already with tears. She drew Seppo in next, her arms trembling though her voice stayed firm. "You'll make a fine officer, Seppo."
Seppo kissed her temple, bent to tousle the younger children's hair, tapped their chins, brushed their cheeks. Then the Guard's call cut the air. The boys of that season were ordered into ranks. Seppo gave one last glance over his shoulder—half-grin, half-grimace—and turned away, his step falling in line with the others.
The column moved. Soren watched until Seppo's head blurred into the formation, until the last of him dissolved into the tramp of boots. The square slowly filled again with voices—sighs, chatters, mothers calling their children close—but to Soren it felt dimmed, as if something essential had been lifted from the orphanage itself and set marching down that road.
The days that followed moved with painful slowness, like the weeks after Leevi first left. Only now the emptiness had a sharper edge, carried on the knowledge that the kingdom itself was shifting beneath them.
When Seppo's first letter came, Soren cracked the seal with trembling hands. Relief washed through him at the sight of the familiar script. Seppo had been placed with the Archers, stationed at Feraline Base in Kessarine, just as they had guessed. Whatever waited on that border, he would leave for Seppo's next letter to tell. Yet even as he folded the page closed, a part of him feared how easily letters could stop coming.
Soren was twelve then. He couldn't have known that, months later, Avendria would see strangers arrive. A man with silver hair and eyes like polished emerald, and at his side, a girl of sixteen. Her eyes, blue and light as the open sky, was clouded by a grief deeper than Soren could fathom. They would remain only a month—but that month would tilt the course of his life, forever.