With a warm belly full of food that seemed to fill him down to his very soul, Kael stood quietly as his mother draped a warm fur jacket around his shoulders, tightening it snugly.
She moved carefully, not because the task required it, but because she always did. Her hands adjusted the collar, smoothed the seams, checked the fastenings twice without comment. Each movement carried the confidence of repetition. Clothing was not decoration here. It was protection.
"You make sure to help your daddy, okay?" she said, gently straightening his jacket. Her tone was light, but her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, pressing warmth into him as if she could store it there. "Be good."
She opened the door and paused, resting a hand lightly on his back.
"And make sure you stay close to your father," she added softly.
The words were simple. Ordinary.
They mattered anyway.
Kael nodded, serious in the way only children could be when entrusted with responsibility. He did not understand danger yet, only expectation. He understood that he was being trusted, and that was enough.
The sun had climbed higher now, no longer gentle but bright and honest. Morning had fully claimed the night. Dew clung to the grass, soaking into Kael's thin sandals as he stepped off the porch and onto the yard. Cold crept up through his soles, sharp and pleasant, reminding him that he was awake.
His old swing drifted in the light morning breeze beneath the massive oak tree, creaking softly as it swayed. The sound was slow, steady, familiar. The scent of wet grass and damp soil lingered permanently there, mixed with the earthy smell of old wood and leaves.
The yard was large, larger than most. The oak tree alone was enormous, its trunk at least four times as wide as his father's shoulders. And his father was a robust man, broad-backed from years of labor rather than excess.
Kael's old toys lay scattered across the lawn and cobblestone pathway. All of them were handcrafted from wood by his father—dogs, cats, horses, goats. Each carefully carved, treated, and oiled with goat fat to keep them smooth and lasting. They bore scratches and dents from use, but none were broken.
Broken things were repaired here.
The house itself was the color of earth, light brown and steady, with a thatched roof woven from river straw. Durable. Waterproof. The door was painted green, the same shade as the grass in spring.
This was his home.
"Let's fix the house fence first," his father said casually, almost to himself. His voice carried easily across the yard, grounded and unhurried. "After that, we'll go beyond the inner fence."
His black beard swayed gently in the breeze as he rested a hand on Kael's head, rough palm warm and reassuring.
Kael's eyes widened.
"Really, Dad?" he asked. "Are we really going beyond the fence?"
His father looked down at him, the corners of his eyes creasing slightly. This was not indulgence. This was decision.
"Yes," his father replied calmly.
"Really?" Kael asked again, eyes sparkling, hardly believing it.
"Yes," his father said, smiling.
It was the smile Kael always saw in his dreams—gentle, strong, reassuring. A smile that suggested the world was manageable if approached correctly.
"If you're good," his father added, "you'll get candied honey when we get back."
Kael gasped. "Promise?"
"Yes," his father said firmly. His tone changed then, becoming deliberate. "A promise is meant to be kept. No matter what."
"Remember that, son."
"I know, I know," Kael said quickly, eager to show he understood. "Promise is law. Once you make a promise, you have to stick to it."
His father chuckled softly. "That's the spirit. Come on, let's grab my tools. We'll fix the goat fence first. Then we'll go to the inner fence."
The fence stood where it always had—old wood, slightly crooked, held together more by stubbornness than nails. The eastern side leaned outward, bowing toward the forest as if tempted.
The fence housed the goats and bordered the small shed beside it. Most of the family's resources came from those animals. They had eight goats in total: one male, four females, and three small kids.
As Kael and his father approached, the goats stirred and bleated loudly, stamping their hooves and calling out to be let loose for their daily routine.
His father ignored them.
He crouched beside the fence and pressed a hand against one of the posts. He did not rush. He felt the wood, tested its resistance.
"See this?" he said, pointing between the joints and the frame.
Kael nodded, though he wasn't sure what he was supposed to see.
"It's not broken," his father said. "Just tired."
He sighed softly, as if the words were meant for himself as much as for the fence.
Bracing his shoulder against the post, he shoved. The wood shifted with a dull creak.
"Tired things fail quietly," his father said. "If you don't pay attention."
Kael watched closely. He loved watching his father work. There was a rhythm to it—measure, test, adjust. Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted.
"Why don't we just make a new one?" Kael asked.
His father smiled faintly. "Because this one still remembers its job."
That answer stayed with him.
They worked together. Kael held tools that were too big for his hands and fetched nails from the pouch at his father's waist. When the post was reset and packed firmly with earth, his father stamped it down with his heel.
"That should hold," he said.
Kael looked past the fence.
The land beyond was not forbidden. Not officially.
But it was rarely crossed.
Tall grass swayed in uneven patches. Trees stood farther out, their trunks darker, their leaves thicker. The forest began where village habits ended.
His father followed his gaze.
"Come," he said.
They stepped over the fence.
Nothing happened.
Kael had half-expected something—an invisible line, a sudden weight, a feeling of wrongness. Instead, the world simply continued.
The air smelled different here. Wilder. Less used.
They walked slowly along a narrow path where vegetation had begun to reclaim the ground. This side of the fence lay on the far edge of the village, where homes thinned and fields gave way to trees.
As they walked, his father spoke quietly.
"Remember this, son," he said. "When you walk somewhere unknown, always assume it belongs to someone else. Respect their home. You are only visiting."
Kael nodded.
His father walked ahead, steady and sure.
Then his voice began to fade.
Not suddenly.
Gently.
The trees blurred at their edges. The sounds of insects and wind stretched thin, as if pulled too far. His father's shape softened, losing definition, becoming distant.
"Dad?" Kael called.
No answer.
The forest stood still.
The ground beneath his feet felt lighter. Wrong.
The warmth drained from the air.
Kael gasped and sat upright.
Cold stone pressed against his palms.
The smell of damp earth, old smoke, and unwashed bodies filled his nose. The sounds of quiet breathing, shuffling feet, and distant coughing surrounded him.
The temple.
His heart hammered as he sucked in air, chest tight, the dream still clinging to him like a second skin.
The warmth was gone.
The fence was gone.
His father's voice echoed once more in his mind.
"Promise is law…"
Then it faded into silence.
Kael wiped his teary eyes with the back of his sleeve and forced himself to breathe slowly.
Around him, people sat slumped or sleeping, unaware that anything had happened at all.
The old monk's staff tapped softly against stone somewhere nearby.
Kael stayed seated, staring at his hand.
For a long moment, he did not move.
Because waking up, the hunger returned.
And it hurt more than the dream ever had.