Chapter 5: KAI'S POV
We were playing near the paddock when Anya gathered an audience.
She always did that. She never asked for attention. She simply began speaking, and somehow people listened.
I sat on the low fence with Lior and Tomas, tossing pebbles at a knot in the wood while Anya stood in the grass, hands spread wide as if she were already on a stage. Mila and Coren sat cross-legged in front of her, eyes bright, waiting.
"And then the bard said," Anya declared, lifting her chin, "that the land listens. Like it's alive. Like it remembers everything."
"That's not scary," Coren said. "That's just a story."
Anya shook her head fiercely, her black hair catching the light, a faint chestnut sheen flashing when she moved. "It is scary. Because what if it remembers bad things too?"
Mila gasped. Tomas snorted. I smiled despite myself.
She went on, retelling the market as if she had lived a hundred years instead of eight. The music. The crowd. The way everyone went quiet when the bard spoke about sacrifice and kings who never showed their faces. She spoke with her whole body, spinning, whispering, shouting. I could almost hear the guitar again, even though we were miles from Southreach.
"Let's check the cart," Tomas said suddenly, nudging me with his elbow. "I think i have left what i bought at the market."
Old Gray stood nearby, harness loose, head lowered, calm as ever. He flicked an ear as we approached, watching us without moving.
We climbed onto the cart, the wood warm beneath our hands. It felt strange seeing it empty after the market, like a shell left behind. I stepped toward the front out of habit, then stopped.
Something was tucked beneath the coachman's seat.
At first I thought it was a tool. Then I saw the hilt.
I froze.
It was a sword. Not the kind farmers kept to scare wolves. The grip was worn smooth, wrapped in dark leather, shaped perfectly for a hand that knew it well. The pommel bore an insignia I didn't recognize. Not the Iron Host. Not any merchant mark I had ever seen.
It wasn't decorative. It felt patient. Waiting.
My chest tightened.
Why would my father keep a sword there?
Not hanging in the house. Not displayed. Hidden, but close enough to reach without looking.
Tomas leaned closer. "That's old," he said. "Real old."
I nodded, though my thoughts were already racing.
Old Gray. That was the first thing.
He wasn't just a horse. Anyone with eyes could see that. His build, his calm, the way he moved like the road belonged to him. Even ordinary war horses don't behave like that. Not farm horses. Not cart pullers.
And now this.
A sword with an unknown insignia, kept in the box of the cart where a coachman sits.
I swallowed.
My father never talked about his past. He told stories, yes, but never about himself. Never about where he learned to fight or why he walked like someone always counting exits. Never about the scars I'd seen when he thought no one was looking.
What if he wasn't just a breeder?
What if he had been something else before us?
The thought made my stomach twist.
I didn't want answers. That was the worst part. I didn't want to ask. Questions had weight. Once you picked them up, you had to carry them.
"Hey!" Anya called from behind us. "You're missing the best part!"
I looked back at her. She was smiling, eyes bright, completely unaware of the quiet thing I'd just uncovered. I pushed the seat back carefully, hiding the sword again, and jumped down from the cart.
"Coming," I said.
As I walked away, Old Gray turned his head slightly, one dark eye meeting mine. For a moment, I had the strangest feeling that he knew exactly what I'd seen. That he was waiting to see what I would do with it.
I said nothing.
Anya continued her story, adding details that weren't there, making heroes braver and dangers darker. The other children listened, rapt, hanging on every word.
I sat beside them, nodding at the right moments, laughing when they laughed.
But part of me stayed in the cart.
With the sword. With the questions. With the quiet fear that stories weren't just stories.
Some of them were warnings.
And some of them lived closer to home than I wanted to believe.
I laughed when they laughed.
I clapped when Anya finished another exaggerated retelling and bowed like the bard had. The sound came out right. My face did what it was supposed to do. No one noticed anything wrong.
But my eyes drifted away on their own.
Father was in the far field, guiding the cattle toward fresh grass. He didn't shout. He never did. He walked among them with slow, deliberate steps, one hand resting lightly at his side, the other occasionally brushing a flank or tapping the ground with a short stick. The herd moved as if they shared one mind, spreading out just enough, never straying too far.
There was no tension in him. No rush.
I watched him longer than I meant to.
He stood straight without effort, shoulders relaxed, back easy. Not stiff like men trying to look strong. Not slouched like those who had given up caring. His movements were economical, precise. Nothing wasted. Even when a young bull stamped and snorted, Father only turned his head slightly. The animal calmed almost immediately.
I swallowed.
I thought of the neighbors.
Master Hennick, who wheezed after walking uphill. Rovan, broad-bellied and red-faced, always complaining about his knees. Old Pel, thin as a fence post, hands shaking even when the wind was still.
Then I looked back at my father.
He wasn't large. Not towering. But there was something balanced about him. Like every part of him knew exactly how much strength it needed to carry. The kind of body you didn't notice at first glance, but once you did, you couldn't stop seeing it.
The kind I'd seen on knights.
Not the polished ones in full armor, strutting through Southreach. The off-duty ones. The ones leaning against walls, helmets off, speaking quietly among themselves. Relaxed. Alert. Dangerous without trying to be.
That was the shape Father had.
Not farmer-strong. Not bulky.
Just seems always Ready.
My chest tightened again.
Why did a livestock breeder move like that?
Why did he never flinch when thunder cracked too close, or when wolves howled near the tree line? Why did danger seem to slide past him, like it knew better than to linger?
Anya grabbed my sleeve. "Kai! You're not listening!"
"Sorry," I said quickly. "What part?"
"The part where the White King talks to beasts," she said, eyes shining. "Do you think that's real?"
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
I glanced back at Father once more. He had stopped now, standing still while the cattle grazed. For a moment, he looked straight toward us.
Not at the group.
At me.
I felt it like a hand on my spine.
He smiled. Just a little. The same calm smile he always wore.
I looked away first.
"Stories are stories," I said to Anya, forcing a shrug. "They make things sound bigger than they are."
She pouted. "You never believe in anything fun."
I didn't answer.
Because I was starting to think some stories weren't exaggerations at all.
Some were shadows of the truth, stretched thin so people wouldn't look too closely.
And standing there in the field, surrounded by animals that trusted him without question, my father looked less like a man blending into the world , and more like someone carefully hiding inside it.
Anya's story swelled toward its ending, full of kings and beasts and promises whispered to the land. Mila clapped first. The others followed, laughing, already arguing over which part had been best.
I clapped too.
Then Old Gray snorted.
It wasn't loud. No one else reacted. But Father's head lifted at once.
I saw it because I was already watching him.
One of the younger calves had wandered too close to the fence line near the stream. The ground there dipped sharply, softened by last night's rain. A bad step could mean a broken leg. Or worse.
Father didn't run.
He shifted.
Just one step to the left. His shoulders angled slightly, blocking the calf's line without touching it. He tapped the ground once with his stick—not hard, not sharp.
The calf stopped.
Blinking. Confused.
Then it turned, ambling back toward the herd as if it had never been in danger at all.
The others laughed at something Tomas said. No one looked toward the field. No one noticed that anything had almost gone wrong.
My heart was pounding anyway.
Father resumed walking, calm as before, like the moment had never existed. He didn't look toward us again.
I realized something then.
He hadn't reacted when the calf slipped.
He had reacted before it did.
"Are you coming?" Lior asked, already heading toward the water pump.
"In a bit," I said.
They ran off, voices fading. Anya lingered, plucking grass and humming to herself, lost in whatever story she was building next.
I stayed where I was.
Watching.
Father bent to check the ground near the fence, fingers brushing the mud. He straightened, wiped his hand on his trousers, and adjusted the post slightly. Just enough to change the angle. Just enough to keep it from happening again.
He never looked rushed.
Never looked worried.
He just… corrected the world.
I thought of the sword again.
Hidden. Waiting.
I thought of Old Gray, standing like a statue, ears flicking only when Father moved.
And I thought of how Father always seemed to be standing in the right place before anything happened. Like the world whispered first to him, and only later to everyone else.
"Dad?" I called.
He turned immediately. Not startled. Not surprised.
"Yes, Kai?"
I hesitated. A thousand questions pressed against my teeth.
Instead, I asked, "Can I help with the cattle tomorrow?"
A pause. Small. Measured.
Then he smiled. Not the polite one. The real one.
"Of course," he said. "But watching comes first. Hands later."
I nodded, even though I didn't fully understand.
As he turned back to the herd, I felt something settle in my chest.
Not fear.
Recognition.
I didn't know what my father had been.
I didn't know what he still was.
But I was starting to understand this much:
He wasn't hiding because he was afraid of being seen.
He was hiding because the world wasn't ready to notice him.
And somehow, without meaning to
I already had.