I want to know what's going on.
I don't want to know.
The two thoughts tore at each other inside my skull, grinding until my vision blurred. I staggered back, fingers digging into my hair as if I could physically tear the answers out before they reached my mind.
My breath came apart.
Fragments—voices, images, sensations that belonged to my parents—pressed in from every direction.
"Stop…" My knees buckled. "Please—just stop."
I clutched my head in agony.
Help me…
The word didn't leave my mouth at first. It was too fragile, too humiliating. I had survived monsters, blood, and decisions that ended lives. I had never needed help like this.
But the fear crept deeper, colder than pain.
I'm afraid that the truth will break me.
Admitting it would make it real.
A shadow fell over me—not threatening, not loud. Familiar. Steady.
A hand wrapped around my wrist, firm enough to ground me, gentle enough not to hurt. Another rested against my shoulder, anchoring me to the present.
I didn't have to look to know it was her.
"What's wrong, dear?" Mom asked.
"Get Dad…" I whispered. "I'm going down now."
I know how to pry the truth out of them.
"The only way to know the truth," I slipped on my coat. "Is to tell them the very name they are afraid of."
Step.
Step.
"Brother, what's going on?" Ella asked. "Why're you walking so fast—"
I patted her head, "I'm going to ask Papa and Mama something."
I sat at the head of the table, fingers locked so tightly together my knuckles had gone pale.
The air felt wrong—too still.
"Kawa… is something wrong?" Dad asked at last, his chair scraping softly as he sat down to my right.
"I want to go to Celestara to study," I said.
Not loudly.
Not hesitantly.
Firm—final.
Clang.
Metal struck stone.
Mom's pan slipped from her hands and hit the floor, spinning once before falling silent. Her mouth hung open, colour draining from her face.
Dad didn't move.
He only stared at me, his expression darkening into something I had never seen before—something heavy, almost fearful.
I knew it then.
Something was wrong with Celestara.
The city.
The heart of Lucarion.
"Celestara is the city," I pressed on, forcing my voice steady. "Everyone dreams of going there. It's where power, knowledge—everything—converges."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then Dad spoke.
"Kawa," he said slowly, each word weighed with warning, "Celestara isn't as great as you believe."
His eyes hardened.
"It isn't a place you walk into unscathed."
Mom finally found her voice, though it trembled.
"Celestara isn't what it seems," she whispered.
She stepped closer, gripping the edge of the table as if anchoring herself.
"Never," she said, her gaze locking onto mine, unblinking, deadly serious,
"Never trust anyone there."
Her tone crushed my hopes of uncovering anymore information.
I left the table because I didn't know what else to do.
No one told me to go. No one raised their voice or stood up or said my name again. The silence just stretched, thick and awkward, like when a joke didn't land, and everyone pretended it hadn't been said. My chair felt suddenly too big for me, the edge digging into the back of my legs, and I became very aware of how my hands were clenched together on the tabletop. So I stood up, pushed the chair in the way Mom always reminded me to, and walked away as if that was what I'd planned to do all along.
The hallway felt longer than usual. I noticed things I normally didn't — the way the light from the window didn't quite reach the far corner, the faint smell of oil and herbs from the kitchen, the soft creak of the floorboard near the wall that Dad always said he'd fix someday. Behind me, I could feel them still sitting there. I didn't turn around, because if I did, I thought I might see something on their faces that I wouldn't know how to understand. Adults had expressions like that sometimes — tight, serious ones that didn't mean you were in trouble but didn't mean you weren't, either.
Ella was on the rug in the sitting room, exactly where I'd left her before dinner, surrounded by toys she'd dragged out herself. She looked impossibly small, her legs tucked under her in a way that didn't look uncomfortable at all, clutching a wooden block in one hand and a faded cloth animal in the other. When she saw me, her whole face lit up as I'd just returned from somewhere far away instead of the next room.
"Brother," she said, or something close to it, and held the block up like she was offering me something precious.
That made my chest feel lighter in a way I didn't really have words for yet. I knelt across from her and accepted the block solemnly, like it was important. "This is mine?" I asked. She nodded very seriously, then immediately knocked over the pile she'd been building with her free hand. I pretended to gasp in shock, and she laughed — a bright, breathy sound that made her wobble where she sat.
We started a game without really talking about it. The blocks became walls because they were tall enough when stacked, the cloth animal was a monster because Ella made a growling noise at it, and the small wooden knight — missing an arm and most of its paint — was the guard because I said so. Ella liked that part best. She pushed the knight toward the blocks over and over again, knocking them down, then clapped when I rebuilt them slightly taller each time. It wasn't a complicated game, but it didn't need to be. It made sense in the way children's games always did — rules forming as you went, changing whenever someone decided they should.
From the kitchen came the sound of movement — metal touching stone, something being set down a little too fast. I didn't jump, but I did notice. Mom dropped things sometimes. Everyone did. I told myself that as I stacked the blocks again, slower this time, so Ella could watch. She leaned forward, fascinated, and tapped one with her finger, testing whether it would fall.
A sharper sound followed — a clatter, then silence. I hesitated, my hands hovering over the blocks. A second passed. Then I heard Mom moving again, more carefully now. I relaxed, even though I hadn't realised I'd tensed in the first place. It was probably just the pan. Heavy things made loud noises when they fell. That was normal.
Dad walked past the doorway a few minutes later. He glanced in, saw us on the floor, and nodded. I nodded back automatically. He didn't smile, but that wasn't strange. Dad wasn't always smiling. He went to the front door and checked the lock. I watched without really meaning to. He turned it once, paused, then turned it again, listening. Then he tried the handle, just a little, before stepping back.
He checked the window next. Then the second lock. Each one made a small, clear sound — click, slide, soft thud. He stood there longer than usual, his hand resting on the frame like he'd forgotten why he was there. When he finally moved away, he exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet.
"Papa's being careful," I whispered to Ella, even though she hadn't asked. She was busy chewing on the knight's helmet and didn't seem concerned at all. That helped. If Ella wasn't worried, then there probably wasn't anything to worry about.
I scooped her up when she tipped sideways, settling her against my chest. She fit there easily, her head just under my chin, fingers curling into my shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. Holding her always made things feel simpler, like whatever questions I had could wait.
"Myu," Stella yawned as she went back to sleep. She's been sleeping a lot these days.
That was when I noticed the voices.
They weren't loud enough to hear properly — not words, not sentences. Just sounds. Mom's voice was lower than usual, and Dad's replied in short murmurs that made her pause before speaking again. It felt like listening to music through a wall — you couldn't tell what song it was, only whether it was fast or slow, happy or tense. This wasn't happy.
I tilted my head slightly, trying to make sense of it, but the words never came into focus. After a moment, I stopped trying. Adults talked like that sometimes when they thought children weren't paying attention. It didn't mean anything important. Not important enough for me, anyway.
Ella yawned, her body going loose in my arms, and rested her head against my shoulder. I rocked her gently, copying the way Mom did, counting the seconds in my head because that made the motion steady. The whispers faded for a bit. Someone set a cup down. A chair scraped softly.
Mom came into the room not long after, her smile already in place. She knelt beside us and brushed Ella's hair back, her touch gentle and familiar. "Did you keep her busy?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "She's guarding the treasure."
Mom laughed quietly. "That sounds very important."
"It is," I said, because it was.
She stood and went back to the kitchen, and the house settled into its usual evening rhythm — soft sounds, warm light, nothing obviously wrong. Whatever had happened at the table felt far away now, like something that belonged to grown-ups and their complicated worries.
I rested my chin lightly on Ella's head and decided, without really thinking about it, that adults were just strange sometimes. They worried about things that didn't matter yet. They acted tense for no reason. It didn't mean anything bad was going to happen.
Everything was fine.
And if it wasn't, I would figure it out later.
The evening didn't end after that. It stretched.
It always did, but this time I noticed the stretching, the way the hours didn't slide into one another smoothly but seemed to pause at the edges, like they were waiting for something to happen and growing unsure when it didn't. Ella slept in my arms longer than usual, her small weight warm and steady, her breaths slow enough that I could count them if I wanted to. I didn't. Counting made things feel too deliberate, and I didn't want to think about why I was holding her so tightly, why I felt reluctant to move even when my legs started to go numb.
Mom eventually came back to take her, murmuring thanks under her breath, and I let her go because that was what I was supposed to do. Ella stirred, made a small protesting sound, then settled again against Mom's shoulder like nothing had changed. I watched them walk down the hallway toward our room, Mom's steps quiet, careful, as if the floor might crack if she moved too fast. When the door closed, it didn't click shut right away. Mom hesitated, then pressed it closed with her palm until it latched. The sound echoed more than it should have.
I stayed where I was, sitting on the rug surrounded by half-finished walls and toppled blocks, because standing up felt like it would mean admitting the day wasn't normal anymore. My fingers traced the edge of one block absently, following a groove worn smooth by years of use. We'd had these toys as long as I could remember. They were proof that time passed in small, harmless ways. Wood wore down. Paint chipped. Things broke because they were used, not because something was wrong.
Dad came back through the room a little later, carrying a folded cloth and a cup he hadn't finished. He stopped when he saw me still there. "You can head to your room if you want," he said. His voice was even, steady, like it always was when he was giving instructions.
"I'm fine here," I said quickly. Too quickly, maybe. He studied me for a moment, and I wondered if he could hear the way my heart sped up whenever he looked at me like that, like he was measuring something he hadn't decided how to explain yet. But if he noticed, he didn't say anything. He nodded once and continued, disappearing into the back of the house.
I rebuilt the walls on the rug, higher this time, even though Ella wasn't there to knock them down. The knight stood guard in front of them, crooked and missing its arm, and I imagined it was enough. Guards didn't have to be perfect. They just had to stay standing.
From my spot on the floor, I could hear Dad moving around the house. Not wandering—moving with purpose. Each door he passed seemed to get checked. The soft click of locks, the quiet scrape of wood, the almost-silent tap of knuckles against a frame as if he were testing whether it was solid. None of it was loud enough to be alarming on its own. All of it together made a pattern I couldn't quite ignore.
He paused near the storage room longer than anywhere else. I could tell by the silence. It pressed down, thick and heavy, before the door finally shut. When he walked away, his footsteps were slower.
I told myself he was just making sure everything was for the night. Parents did that. They checked the doors. They worried about storms and animals and things children didn't need to think about yet. The fact that I noticed it now didn't mean it was new. It just meant I was paying more attention than usual. That happened sometimes, too.
I stood and gathered the toys, stacking them neatly the way Mom liked. As I did, I became aware of the quiet again—not peaceful, not empty, but tense in a way that made every sound stand out. The tick of the wall clock felt louder than usual. The faint hiss of the lamp. Somewhere, wood popped softly as the house settled.
In the kitchen, Mom moved back and forth, cleaning dishes that were already clean. I could tell by the way she rinsed them longer than necessary, by the careful way she set each one down, if she was afraid it might shatter if she wasn't gentle enough. When I stepped into the doorway, she startled, just slightly, then smoothed it over with a smile.
"You didn't need to clean up," she said.
"I wanted to," I replied. That was true, at least. Doing something felt better than not doing anything.
She watched me dry a plate, her eyes following my hands in a way that made me feel like I was doing something important, even though I wasn't. After a moment, she turned back to the sink. "You were very quiet at dinner," she said lightly, as if it was an observation she'd only just remembered.
"I wasn't hungry," I said. It wasn't a lie. My stomach still felt tight.
She hummed in response, a soft sound that didn't turn into a song. The water ran. Then stopped. Then ran again. I wanted to ask her something—anything—but every question I thought of felt like it would break something fragile between us, so I kept my mouth shut and focused on the plate in my hands.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her flinch when a cup slipped slightly on the counter, knocking against another with a dull clink. She froze, fingers tightening around the edge of the sink, then relaxed when nothing else happened. She laughed, a little breathless. "I'm clumsy today," she said.
"It's okay," I said immediately. "You're tired."
She smiled at me like I'd said the right thing.
Dad joined us not long after, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. He didn't speak at first, just watched us for a moment, his gaze moving from Mom to me and back again. When he did talk, it was about ordinary things—tomorrow's weather, a repair he'd been meaning to do near the fence, how fast Ella was growing. I nodded in the right places, answered when he asked me questions, and even laughed once when he made a small joke that wasn't very funny. It felt important to keep things normal, as if I did my part, everything else would follow.
But even as we talked, his eyes kept drifting toward the windows. Not staring—checking. Each time, just a glance, quick and practised, as if he was making sure something hadn't changed while he wasn't looking.
When the conversation lulled, Dad cleared his throat. "You should get ready for bed," he said. "It's late."
I glanced at the clock. It wasn't that late, but I didn't argue. I dried my hands and headed down the hallway, pausing briefly outside Ella's room. I could hear her breathing through the door, soft and even. That sound loosened something in my chest. Whatever was going on, it hadn't touched her. That mattered.
In my room, I changed slowly, folding my clothes the way Mom taught me. I sat on the edge of the bed afterwards, staring at the floor, listening to the house. Dad made one last round of checks. The same sounds, the same pauses. Mom moved more quietly now, her steps light, careful not to wake Ella.
Lying down didn't bring sleep right away. My mind kept circling back to the dinner table, to the way their voices had changed when I'd spoken, to the wordless understanding that had passed between them like a signal. I tried to picture Cel—no, I stopped myself. Thinking about it made my head feel tight again, like there was a pressure I didn't know how to relieve.
Adults worried about things children couldn't understand yet. That was what I'd always been told. Maybe this was just one of those things. Something that would make sense later, when I was older. When I was ready.
The house creaked softly, a familiar sound, and I let my eyes close. As I drifted toward sleep, I held onto the idea that tomorrow would be normal. That morning would come, and the light would look the same through the windows, and my parents would smile the way they always did.
If something was wrong, they would tell me.
Wouldn't they?
Morning came the way it always did—quiet at first, then all at once.
Light crept through the thin gap in the curtains and settled across the floor in pale stripes, dust motes drifting lazily through it like they had nowhere better to be. For a few seconds after I woke, I didn't remember anything from the night before. There was just the ceiling above me, familiar cracks tracing patterns I'd memorised over the years, and the soft, distant sounds of the house waking up. It felt normal enough that I almost stayed there, letting myself drift back to sleep.
Then I remembered the table.
Not the words—those were already blurring at the edges—but the feeling. The sudden heaviness in the air. The way Mom's hands had gone still. The way Dad's voice had changed, not louder or sharper, just… different. Like he'd stepped into a role he didn't use very often.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and told myself it was silly to think about it now. Morning made everything smaller. Whatever problems existed at night always seemed less important once the sun was up. I dressed quickly and padded down the hallway, following the smell of food toward the kitchen.
Mom was already there. She looked the same as always—hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, moving efficiently between the counter and the stove. If there were dark circles under her eyes, they were faint enough that I could pretend not to see them. She smiled when I entered, and this time it reached her eyes.
"Good morning," she said.
"Morning," I replied, relieved by how ordinary it sounded.
Dad sat at the table, reading something folded neatly in his hands. He looked up when I approached, nodded once, then returned his attention to the paper. I couldn't see what it was from where I stood, only that it wasn't one of the usual things he read. He folded it carefully when he noticed me watching and set it aside.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. That was mostly true.
Ella's chair was pulled up to the table, empty for now, and a bowl waited in front of it. Mom moved to fetch her a moment later, and I listened to her footsteps recede down the hall. The house felt calmer than it had the night before, like it had decided to behave again now that the dark was gone.
When Ella came in, carried on Mom's hip, she looked around with wide eyes like she always did in the mornings, taking everything in as if it might have changed overnight. When she spotted me, she made a small, happy sound and reached out with both hands. I grinned and took her, settling her into her chair with exaggerated care. She thumped her hands on the table once, pleased.
Breakfast passed quietly. Not uncomfortably quiet—just calm. Dad talked about the weather again. Mom reminded me to finish my food. Ella dropped her spoon on the floor twice and laughed both times when I picked it up. If I'd woken up like this every day of my life, I wouldn't have thought anything was strange at all.
But there were small things. Little pauses that didn't quite belong.
Dad checked the window latch again when a breeze rattled it. Mom watched him do it, her mouth tightening for just a second before smoothing out again. When Ella squealed suddenly, knocking her cup over, Mom's shoulders jerked upward before she caught herself and laughed it off. I noticed all of it. I just didn't know what to do with the noticing.
After breakfast, Mom suggested we play outside for a bit. The day was clear, the air cool enough to feel good against my skin. Ella liked being outside. I liked it too. It felt open. Safer, somehow, even if I couldn't explain why.
The yard looked the same as ever. The fence Dad had built still stood straight. The grass was a little uneven in places, worn down where I ran the most. I brought out a few of Ella's toys, setting them on the ground, and she toddled around them with determined enthusiasm. I followed close behind, ready to catch her if she fell, but she stayed upright, proud of herself.
She found a stick near the fence and held it up like it was important. I crouched down and nodded gravely. "That's a key," I told her. "We need it to protect the treasure."
She didn't understand the words, but she understood the tone. She giggled and waved the stick, then marched toward the old tree near the corner of the yard. I followed, already building the story in my head. The tree was the castle. The fence was the wall. The monsters were… well, imaginary, but that was enough.
We played like that for a while. I explained things she couldn't possibly grasp yet, and she responded with delighted noises that fit well enough into the game. It was easy to lose myself in it, to forget about dinner tables and lowered voices and checked locks.
From the porch, Mom watched us, arms folded loosely in front of her. She smiled when Ella laughed, but her eyes kept drifting past us, toward the road beyond the fence. Each time, she seemed to expect something to be there. Each time, there was nothing.
Dad joined her after a bit, standing close enough that their shoulders almost touched. They spoke quietly to each other, words lost to the distance, but I could hear the shape of the conversation. Short sentences. Careful pauses. The kind of talk people had when they didn't want to be overheard, even if there was no one around to listen.
Ella stumbled and fell onto the grass, more surprised than hurt. She made a small noise and looked up at me, eyes wide. I scooped her up immediately, checking her over even though I could already see she was fine. She calmed as soon as she was in my arms, fingers clutching at my shirt.
"It's okay," I said softly. "You're okay."
Mom had stepped off the porch before I finished speaking, already halfway across the yard. She stopped when she saw that Ella wasn't crying, exhaled, and laughed a little too loudly. "She's tougher than she looks," she said.
Dad nodded, but his gaze lingered on the fence, scanning it from one end to the other.
I carried Ella back toward the toys, and we resumed our game, but it felt different now. The monsters I imagined stayed farther away. The walls I built were thicker. The guard never left his post.
At one point, I looked back at my parents and almost asked them something. I didn't know exactly what—only that it hovered on the edge of my mind, heavy and insistent. Why were they so tense? Why did they keep watching the road? Why had everything felt so fragile since last night?
The questions tangled together, and before I could choose one, I remembered Mom's smile at breakfast. Dad's calm voice. The way everything looked normal if you didn't stare too hard.
So I didn't ask.
I turned back to Ella and showed her how to stack the blocks higher, how to make the walls stronger. She clapped, delighted, and for a while, that was enough.
The day moved on, slow and bright, and I told myself—again—that noticing things didn't mean they mattered. Some worries were for adults. Some answers came later.
For now, we were just playing.
The afternoon faded into the evening without anything breaking.
That was the strangest part of it. I kept expecting something to happen—a shout, a knock at the door, a sudden change in the air—but the day simply wore itself down, minute by minute, until the light softened and the shadows stretched long across the floor. If I hadn't been paying attention, I might not have noticed anything at all. And maybe that was the point. Maybe life didn't always announce its problems. Maybe sometimes it just… continued.
Ella grew fussy as the sun dipped lower, the way she always did when she was tired but didn't want to admit it. I carried her inside, bouncing her gently on my hip while Mom prepared dinner. The kitchen smelled warm and familiar, steam curling up from the pot on the stove, herbs floating lazily on the surface. For a while, it was almost peaceful. The kind of scene you remembered later and thought of as proof that things had been fine.
Mom moved carefully, though. I noticed it again—the way she kept her sleeves rolled tight, the way she placed things down instead of dropping them, even lightly. When she reached for a pot lid, and it slipped just a little, knocking against the rim with a dull clack, she froze. Not for long. Barely a heartbeat. But long enough that I saw it.
She laughed immediately after, too quickly. "Honestly," she said, shaking her head. "I keep thinking it's going to fall."
I smiled back, even though I hadn't said anything. "You didn't drop it," I pointed out.
"No," she agreed. "I didn't."
Dad stood near the counter, arms crossed, watching the window. When Mom spoke, his gaze shifted to her instead, like he was checking something off in his head. He nodded once, satisfied, and went to check the back door again. I heard the lock slide into place. Then the second one. Then the brief pause that had become familiar by now.
Ella rested her head against my shoulder, eyelids drooping. I rocked her slowly, humming under my breath because that usually helped. She relaxed almost immediately, trusting, unaware. I envied that. Not because I was scared—at least, I didn't think I was—but because she didn't even have the space in her mind for questions yet. Things simply were.
Dinner was quieter than usual, but not uncomfortable. We ate. Dad asked me about the game we'd played outside. I told him about the treasure and the guard and the monsters that never quite made it past the fence. He listened closely, nodding in the right places, and even smiled when Ella slapped her hands together in excitement at the sound of her name.
Mom reached out and wiped a bit of food from Ella's cheek, her touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary. "You're growing too fast," she murmured.
Dad's smile faded slightly. "They always do."
After we finished, Mom carried Ella off to bed while Dad cleared the table. I helped where I could, stacking plates, carrying cups, pretending not to notice the way Dad paused when the house creaked, his head lifting slightly like he was listening for something else beneath the sound. The wind picked up outside, rattling the shutters softly. Dad's jaw tightened, then relaxed when the noise passed.
"She's asleep," Mom said when she returned, her voice low. "Out cold."
"That's good," Dad replied. "She needs rest."
So did I, apparently, because not long after, Dad told me to get ready for bed. I didn't argue. The day felt heavy now, like I'd been holding something up without realising it and was finally being allowed to put it down.
In my room, I changed slowly, folding my clothes with care. I could hear my parents talking in the kitchen again, their voices low, blurred by distance and walls. Still no words. Just tone. Concern. Something careful and contained. I sat on the edge of my bed and listened for a moment, then stopped. Trying to understand without context just made my head feel tight, like I was pressing on something that wasn't meant to be opened yet.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks with my eyes. They'd been there for years. They hadn't grown. They hadn't fallen apart. They were just… there. Proof that something could be imperfect and still hold.
The house settled around me, wood popping softly as the temperature dropped. Dad made one final round of checks. The locks clicked into place. The sounds were predictable now. Comforting, in a strange way. When his footsteps finally faded, I knew the house was as secure as it was going to get.
Mom peeked into my room before turning in, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. "Good night," she whispered.
"Good night," I replied.
She lingered for a moment, like she wanted to say something else, then smiled and closed the door.
Alone in the quiet, my thoughts drifted back to the dinner table, to the way their expressions had changed when I spoke, to the unasked questions that still hovered just out of reach. I could have pushed. I could have demanded answers. But looking back on the day—the games, the meals, Ella's laughter—it all seemed unnecessary. Whatever they were worried about hadn't touched us. Not really.
Adults worry about things ahead of time. They imagined problems before they arrived. That was probably all this was. Some distant concern that didn't matter yet.
I rolled onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin, and decided—firmly, deliberately—that I wouldn't think about it anymore.
Adults were just weird sometimes.
And normal life… went on.