Morning in the Lan household began not with alarms or scolding voices but with the comforting clang of metal on metal and the scent of freshly baked bread wafting through wooden beams.
Zhen stirred beneath a thick blanket, his small body cocooned in warmth. He blinked at the soft flickering of golden light dancing on the wooden ceiling. No shouting. No harsh glares. No whispered curses. Just… silence. Peaceful, living silence.
His fingers curled gently into the blanket as he listened—first to the quiet bubbling of a pot, then the rhythmic clang… hiss… clang echoing from outside.
The sounds didn't make him anxious.
They made him curious.
He slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The soreness in his limbs had faded, replaced by a weightless calm, like floating in warm water.
He slid from the bed and tiptoed through the hallway.
The kitchen was already alive. Lan Xin stood by the fire, humming softly, her hair tied up in a loose bun. Her apron was dusted with flour, and in her hands, a wooden spoon stirred something fragrant and golden.
"Ah, Zhen!" she exclaimed, looking over her shoulder. "Good morning, sweetheart!"
Zhen blinked, caught mid-step.
"Good… morning," he said, voice still hoarse with sleep.
Lan Xin wiped her hands and walked over to him, kneeling to his level. "Did you sleep well?"
He nodded shyly.
She smiled, brushing his messy hair from his face. "There's some warm water in the basin. You can wash up. Then I'll have breakfast ready. Or… if you're curious, your father's already in the forge."
Zhen hesitated. The word lingered in his head.
Father.
It felt strange on his tongue. It had weight. Depth. But not the kind that crushed.
It… glowed.
Lan Xin chuckled softly. "He'd be thrilled if you visited. Go on, little one. Just stay clear of the fire."
Zhen turned, hesitated once more, then nodded and stepped toward the back door, sunlight spilling across the wooden planks as he pushed it open.
—
The forge was alive.
It hummed with power—heat and metal singing in harmony.
Lan Hai stood tall, shirtless beneath his leather apron, arms taut and glistening with sweat. He moved with a grace that came from years of work—measured, strong, and steady.
Zhen approached slowly, the warmth of the fire making his skin prickle.
Lan Hai noticed him, his face lighting up. "Well now, if it isn't the little wanderer! Slept like a rock, I hope?"
Zhen nodded silently.
"Good. Come on, don't just stand there like a ghost. Step closer."
Zhen inched forward, eyes wide with wonder. Sparks burst in tiny flares with every hammer blow. The anvil rang like a bell.
"This," Lan Hai said, gesturing toward the glowing metal, "isn't just work. It's art. Discipline. Patience. And a bit of muscle, of course."
He picked up a smaller hammer and handed it to Zhen.
"Try it. Just a tap."
Zhen stared at the hammer. Then the glowing steel.
"Will it break?"
Lan Hai laughed heartily. "Not a chance. Just be gentle."
Zhen nodded, both hands gripping the wooden handle tightly. He stepped closer, raised it above his head—just barely—and gave a soft tap.
—Ting.
The sound rang like a chime.
Zhen's eyes widened.
"It sang," he whispered.
Lan Hai smiled. "Exactly. That's how you know it's listening."
For the next hour, they stood side by side. Lan Hai explained the tools, showed him how to pump the bellows, and let him use tongs to turn the cooling blade. Zhen asked quiet questions. Some silly, some thoughtful.
Lan Hai never laughed at him. Never scolded him.
Only encouraged.
Eventually, when sweat beaded on Zhen's forehead and soot dusted his cheeks, Lan Hai offered him a damp cloth.
"Hard work, huh?"
Zhen wiped his face. "I like it."
Lan Hai chuckled and ruffled his hair. "That's my boy."
—
Back in the kitchen, Lan Xin had set the table with hot bread, thick soup, and a small jar of honey.
Zhen stared at the meal, almost unsure if it was truly for him.
"Eat up," she said. "You'll need your strength. That forge isn't kind to lazy arms."
Zhen smiled slightly and took a bite. The bread was soft and sweet. The soup—flavored with root vegetables and a dash of spice—made his stomach sigh in relief.
As he ate, Lan Hai sat down and began fixing the handle of a worn dagger, while Lan Xin picked herbs nearby, chatting softly about the market coming to town next week.
"Maybe we'll take you with us, Zhen," she said. "You'll get to see real street performers and taste honey-candied apples."
Zhen's eyes sparkled.
"I've never been to a market…"
Lan Xin leaned over and gently touched his cheek. "Then we'll make it your first."
—
Later that day, they sat together on the porch as dusk painted the sky in gold and violet.
Lan Hai whittled a wooden bird, while Lan Xin worked on sewing a little tunic from blue linen. Zhen lay stretched on the steps, watching birds dip and flutter above the trees.
"Mother," he said suddenly.
Lan Xin looked up. "Yes?"
Zhen sat up slowly. "Can I… call you that? Really?"
She smiled. "You can call me anything you like. But yes, I would be honored."
He turned to Lan Hai. "And you… Father?"
Lan Hai grinned wide. "Of course."
Zhen lowered his head. His fingers clenched into fists on his lap.
"I've never had a family."
"You do now," Lan Xin whispered.
Lan Hai nodded. "We may not be bound by blood, but we are bound by choice. By care. And that's more powerful than anything else."
Zhen swallowed. "I'll try to be good. I'll help. I'll learn. I promise."
Lan Xin set her sewing down and walked to him, kneeling.
"You don't have to earn our love, Zhen. You already have it."
And then, with arms soft and warm, she hugged him close again. Not out of pity. Not out of charity.
Out of love.
Lan Hai stood and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You are Lan Zhen, now and always. Our son. Our pride."
Zhen whispered the name under his breath. "Lan… Zhen…"
The wind outside shifted.
The trees swayed softly.
And deep, deep within the earth—beneath the sealed stone and slumbering scale—something stirred at the sound of that name. A beat. A pulse. Faint, ancient, waiting.
But for now, Zhen didn't know of it.
He only knew the beating of his own heart.
Steady.
Safe.
Home.