The savory aroma of the simmering root vegetable and beef stew had filled every corner of the Ellis cottage by the time the twilight outside turned a deep, velvet blue. In the kitchen, the heat from the hearth was soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the oppressive.
Lucia stood by the stove, a large wooden spoon in her hand as she lazily stirred the bubbling pot. Her flour-drained apron was tied loosely around her waist, draped over the subtle, unmistakable curve of her belly.
A heavy step echoed in the hallway, followed by the familiar, low creak of the floorboards. Victor stepped into the kitchen, having finally washed the soot and sweat of the forge from his face. He looked massive in the dim light, but the moment his eyes landed on his wife, his posture relaxed. He walked up behind her, wrapping his thick, calloused arms around her waist and leaning down to rest his chin on her shoulder, his eyes dropping to her stomach.
"Smells incredible," Victor rumbled softly, his breath warm against her neck.
"It should. Your son carried over sixty pounds of rye flour on his shoulder today just so I wouldn't have to touch it," Lucia said, a fond, proud smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "He's upstairs resting. I think his afternoon with the trio finally wore him out."
Victor let out a low, rumbling chuckle, but as he stared blankly into the dancing orange flames beneath the pot, his smile slowly faded into something more contemplative. He loosened his grip around her waist, leaning back against the heavy wooden counter.
"Lucia..." Victor started, his voice dropping into a quieter, heavier register. "Do you think he'll stay here? In Velchant? Forever?"
Lucia stopped stirring. She placed the wooden spoon across the rim of the pot and turned around to face him, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at her husband, her sharp mind immediately reading the underlying anxiety in his eyes. "No," she said softly but firmly. "He won't. This village is too small for him, Victor. He has a mind that wants to see what's past the ridges, and a heart that won't let him sit still."
Victor rubbed a heavy hand over his beard, a deep frown carving into his forehead. "But he can't go to Kathelyn, can he? The capital... it isn't like Velchant. Here, people know him. They whisper, sure, but they respect his strength. At the capital, everything runs on the constellations. High-society, the academies, the military watch—it's all built on mana. He's a Hollowborn. If he goes out there into the wider world, who knows what will happen to him? The system will try to crush him."
"Victor," Lucia interrupted, her voice snapping across the kitchen with a quiet, fierce authority. She stepped closer, placing her hands flat against his broad chest. "Look at me. Lif is strong. He is strong with a constellation, and he is strong without one. You said it yourself just yesterday."
She tilted her head, a knowing, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. "Name someone else in this entire village—grown man, guard, or prodigy—who has ever cleanly taken you down in a fight."
Victor froze. He looked down at his wife's stubborn, unyielding expression, then let out a long, defeated sigh. The image of him hitting the forest dirt, completely pinned by his twelve-year-old son's brilliant use of a tree root, flashed vividly in his mind.
"Yeah," Victor muttered, a reluctant but deeply proud grin breaking through his beard. "You're right."
"Like always," Lucia stated smoothly, patting his chest before turning back to the stove.
Victor laughed, the heavy tension in his shoulders finally dissolving. He walked over to the kitchen table, pulling out a wooden chair that groaned under his weight, and sat down. He looked at the empty chairs, his mind drifting from the son upstairs to the new life growing beneath Lucia's apron.
"What about the next one?" Victor asked, his voice softening into a rare, vulnerable tone as he looked at her belly. "What if... what if this one turns out just like Lif?"
He leaned back, a teasing spark returning to his eyes. "I mean, look, I wouldn't mind if it grows up with Lif's heart, or his work ethic. But I swear, I don't want another exact copy of Lif. Otherwise, once this next one hits puberty and gets their strength, my own kids are going to start picking on me in the yard. I have a reputation to maintain, Lucia."
Lucia burst into a loud, clear laugh, shaking her head as she set the lid back onto the stew pot. She walked over to the table and sat across from him, reaching out to rest her hand over his.
"Lif is different, Victor. He is unique," Lucia said, her eyes glowing with a deep, motherly wisdom. "And this future child will be unique, too. Every kid is special in their own way, shaped by their own spirit. They won't be the exact same. If this baby is born with a spark of fire, they'll have to learn their own path. And if they're born like Lif, they'll find their own way to break the world, just like he is."
She squeezed his hand, her smile warm enough to rival the hearth. "You won't have two Lifs running around, Victor. You'll just have two extraordinary children. And yes, they will probably both still find a way to make you stumble."
Victor rumbled with laughter, flipping his hand over to lock his fingers with hers. "As long as you're the one patching me up afterward, I suppose I can live with that."
Upstairs, the floorboards gave a tiny, familiar creak, signaling that their son was finally waking up from his nap, drawn down by the undeniable scent of dinner. Victor and Lucia shared a quiet, synchronized look of absolute peace—a family completely whole, entirely unbothered by the judgment of the stars, ready to face whatever the horizon had in store for them.