It had been a day since the mage healed my arm.
Fully recovered now, thankfully — I sat in the familiar quiet of my study room. Late morning sunlight spilled through the window, painting the pages of my open book in gold.
"So..." I hummed under my breath, "Pour mana, huh?"
Damian's words echoed in my mind.
He poured mana into my arm...?
I could still remember the feeling. That... tingling warmth, like sunlight beneath the skin. I knew that sensation. Maybe... just maybe, I could replicate it.
I stretched my arm forward and steadied my breath.
Then, as confidently as a four-year-old could, I raised my hand and began to recite:
"Oh verdant winds and whispers of the woods, heed my call and answer with growth, Verdant To—!"
BAM!
The door slammed open with a loud kick. I jolted so hard I nearly fell out of the chair, a bead of sweat trailing down my temple.
Standing in the doorway was Lyra, arms crossed, face shadowed by the kind of simmering glare only a big sister can summon as her long sky-blue hair caught the light.
"Father's calling you downstairs," she snapped.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked off.
I let out a sigh, shoulders sagging. "Damn kid," I muttered.
The audacity, I thought. After nearly killing me, she struts around like I owe her something? Crazy.
Still muttering, I closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf, brushing the dust from my shirt as I headed downstairs.
Waiting at the foot of the stairs was Father. His blue hair caught the light, and his rose-colored eyes. Those were calm, steady, always warm, and eventually, that gaze looked up at me.
"Want to come outside with Papa?" he asked. "I'll be buying some gear and tools for the new barn construction."
I froze mid-step.
Outside...?
Even after four years in this world, the thought of being among strangers still made my gut tighten. I remembered crowds. Airports. Cold sidewalks and passing cars. I remembered fear—quiet, creeping, ever-present.
Yesterday, when the mage healed my arm, I didn't even think about it. I'd been too focused, entranced by the idea of magic, of possibility. The excitement had drowned the fear.
But now, in the still air of home, the weight of going out there again returned.
My lips parted to answer but before I could say a word, Lyra's voice cut through the air like a thrown dagger.
"Kyro's being a wuss," she said smugly. "I'll go with you instead!" She threw up her hand like she'd just volunteered for a quest.
Before either Father or I could say a word, the kitchen door banged open.
Reyna marched out, apron dusted with flour and a large ladle gripped tightly in one hand like a club.
"No you're not, young lady!" she barked.
Lyra flinched, taking an unconscious step back. I smirked, vindicated.
Then Father moved gently between them, placing a calming hand on Reyna's shoulder.
"It's okay, Rey," he said, voice low and soothing. "I can bring Lyra."
Reyna frowned, uncertainty clouding her sharp golden eyes. "But... Lyra's grounded. Aren't we supposed to be punishing her? She nearly got Kyro killed. What happens if she hurts him again while you're out?"
Thorskil chuckled, brushing a stray lock of blue hair behind his ear. "She still isn't allowed to eat sweets, remember? Besides, they've got me. Nothing's gonna happen."
"I—" Reyna began, clearly wanting to protest more... but when her eyes met his—those calm, rose-tinted eyes—her resistance melted away.
"Fine," she said softly. "Just... be careful out there."
"I always am." He smiled, then leaned in and kissed her gently.
Both Lyra and I let out simultaneous groans.
"Ugh," Lyra muttered, recoiling. "Can you not?"
I winced, but for a different reason. My sister's disgust was rooted in typical sibling cringe, but for me... for me, it triggered something deeper. A cascade of old memories. The sterile loneliness of my past life. The weight of isolation. The kind of silence that love never touched.
And now, here I was. With parents who held each other without shame. Who loved openly, loudly, and genuinely.
My father and mother from my past life used to be like that..
I looked away, brushing invisible dust from my sleeve. "Let's just... go already."
***
We rode along the outer path of Ytval Village—the quiet little place we called home, tucked away near the kingdom's borders.
What was I thinking..? I thought bitterly, I could've just declined the trip—arghhh! Too late for that, I'm already out here..
I sat at the very front of the horse, feeling every shift of its weight beneath me. Behind me, Lyra rode at the rear, humming to herself, clearly delighted to be outside again. With every gentle step the horse took, her mood seemed to brighten even more.
"Thank you, Papa," she said, wrapping her arms tighter around Thorskil's waist.
He didn't respond with words, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was quiet, subtle—genuine.
As for me, I stayed silent, pulling the cloth tighter over my head and across my face—acting like a hood. One hand gripped the edge, making sure it stayed in place. I didn't want to be seen—not fully. I feared the stares, the whispers, the judgment in strangers' eyes. Even if no one was actually looking... the fear lingered.
What would they think of me?
What would they see?
I wasn't ready to find out.
***[1]
The soft clop of hooves echoed along the dirt path, mingling with birdsong and the rustling wind weaving through the tall trees. It should've been peaceful—was peaceful, on the surface. But something in the air tugged at Thorskil's senses. Something beneath the quiet.
His nose twitched subtly. A sharp, bitter trace hung in the wind—thin, but unmistakable.
Fear.
Not wild, primal fear. Not the kind stirred by beasts or distant danger.
This was human. Close. Familiar.
His brow furrowed as he shifted his gaze forward, letting instinct guide him. Then he saw it.
Kyro.
The boy sat at the front of the saddle, posture rigid, hands clenched on reins he wasn't even holding correctly. A cloth wrapped tightly around his head and face, hiding everything but his wary eyes. He looked small. Smaller than usual. Like he was trying to vanish beneath the fabric.
"Kyro?" Thorskil's voice cut gently through the hush.
Kyro flinched. "Y-yeah?"
"Are you alright?" Thorskil asked, his tone even, carrying no judgment—only quiet concern.
There was a pause. Kyro didn't turn around.
"I'm fine," he said too quickly. "It's just... it's sunny. And dusty. I didn't wanna sneeze or anything..."
Thorskil hummed low in his throat, neither affirming nor denying. He let the silence breathe, the horse's steady rhythm filling the space.
Then, softly: "You know... fear has a scent, Kyro. Stronger than dust. Wilder than sunlight."
Kyro froze.
Thorskil leaned forward slightly, calm and unhurried, his voice seasoned with wisdom. "It's alright to be afraid. The world beyond familiar walls can feel enormous. Loud. Too much, even. I've felt it too."
Kyro's grip slackened, if only a little.
"I used to freeze up just crossing city gates," Thorskil continued with a faint smile. "Didn't matter how tall I stood or how heavy the sword on my back was. Fear isn't impressed by strength. It just wants to turn you around."
He reached out, large, calloused fingers resting gently on Kyro's shoulder. "But you don't have to face it alone. You've got me. And you've got Lyra, even if she's a little chaos in a dress."
"I heard that!" came Lyra's chirp from behind, her voice indignant but edged with a giggle.
Kyro didn't respond. But he loosened the cloth just enough to catch a glimpse of the world. Fields of green wheat stretched from the path's edge, still unripened but waving proudly under the sun. A pair of farmers stood nearby, their chatter faint on the wind.
Thorskil raised a hand in greeting. "Good morning!"
"Good morning, Mr. Thorskil!" the farmer called back cheerfully.
Kyro watched the brief exchange, the warmth in the farmer's smile, the casual trust in his tone. That kind of welcome... it was foreign. But oddly comforting.
Then Lyra tilted her head. "Is Kyro afraid?" she asked innocently.
Before Thorskil could answer, she leaned out to peek at her brother. "Why are you so scared? There's literally nothing to be afraid of."
Kyro didn't answer. Not like she'd understand anyway.
"What a wuss," she muttered, arms crossing with a huff.
"Lyra," Thorskil said, his voice now gently firm, "don't treat your younger brother like that."
"But—"
"No buts." His tone didn't rise, but it didn't need to. "He's your brother. You're supposed to watch each other's backs, not poke holes in them."
Lyra shifted in the saddle, grumbling under her breath. "But Papa, he's weird! You and Mama always told me how much I cried when I was a baby! But Kyro? He never cried. He's always just... staring. Quiet. Now he's acting in character again—he won't even talk."
She pointed at him, leaning forward.
"Lyra." Thorskil's voice turned sharper, no longer soft.
She pouted, muttering something incomprehensible.
Kyro didn't move.
Didn't speak.
*Kyro*
I kept my head forward.
The cloth still clung to my skin, damp from breath, warm against my cheeks—but it felt colder after what she said.
Weird.
That word. Again.
I wasn't surprised she said it. Lyra always said things without thinking. But that didn't stop it from settling deep in my chest like a stone dropped in a quiet lake.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was weird.
I remembered crying. Not as a baby—I didn't even know if I did. But I remembered the want to cry. So many nights, in my old life. In that gray room. Behind locked bathroom doors. Classrooms. Hallways full of people who didn't see me. Or worse, did.
Back then, I cried quietly too.
I didn't want people looking at me. I didn't want their eyes. Their thoughts. Their judgment.
They always had something to say—even when they said nothing at all.
I still remembered the reunion.
That one time my stepfather forced me to attend, just to get me out of the house for a few hours. "It'll be good for you," he said. It wasn't. Not for me.
He's just pretending to care In front of mom. But I know he really dislikes me. Harsh when it's just us.
Everyone else from my old class had something. A glowing career, a happy family, kids with bright eyes and messy hair. Some had three children. Others four. Smiles all around, full of stories and pictures and laughter.
And me?
What could I say?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
No wife. No kids. No job. Not even a dream left intact.
I told them — stammered, really — that I hadn't landed that chemistry job I used to talk about. The one I swore I'd chase. I remembered their silence. The way eyes drifted. How no one knew what to say next.
Or worse... they did.
I remembered their stares. Pity, confusion, a twinge of embarrassment — for me or themselves, I couldn't tell.
In that room, surrounded by lives that kept moving forward, I felt like I'd stopped. Or maybe I'd never really started.
I felt like the weird one there.
And now, here, another life, another name — I thought I'd escaped that.
But it followed me. Even in this new skin.
My fingers curled tighter around the edge of the saddle. I didn't look back. I didn't want Lyra to see whatever was on my face. Whatever I couldn't hide fast enough.
He's in character again.
What's that even supposed to mean? Was that what I was? A role to play?
Maybe I was pretending. Pretending to be normal. Pretending I belonged. But I didn't feel brave. Or strong. Or like a kid with a future.
I felt like someone borrowed, something fragile tucked inside a body that wasn't mine.
But then I felt it — Thorskil's hand, still resting on my shoulder.
Warm. Steady.
He didn't pull it away.
He didn't speak, either.
But that silence... it wasn't cold like the others.
It told me I didn't have to explain.
***
The sound of hooves shifted from dirt to stone as the city gates of Fritz came into view, tall and gray against the mid-morning light. The open road narrowed into organized lines. Wooden carts loaded with sacks, merchants guiding donkeys, peasants with tool-laden shoulders. A slow trickle of life bottlenecked at the entryway, buzzing with the low murmur of business.
Thorskil slowed their horse to a casual pace, letting the cart ahead clear the gate before approaching. His eyes scanned the city's high stone arch, the weathered iron spikes lining the top like a warning rather than protection.
"Fritz," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Same as always."
Kyro looked up from under his cloth, peeking at the guards as they waved people through one by one. Two soldiers in reinforced gambeson stood at attention, both carrying long pikes and short swords at their hips. They looked more bored than strict, but their eyes still flicked over every face, every cart.
The city beyond the gates looked tightly packed — stalls close together, rooftops leaning in over cobbled alleys, buildings old but solid. The colors were muted, earthy, with splashes of worn paint where shopkeepers tried to stand out.
A guard stepped forward. "Name? Business?"
"Thorskil Samsworth. Ytval," he answered calmly, handing over a folded parchment. "Just here for trade. Tools and gear. No overnight stay."
The guard barely glanced at the paper before waving them in. "Gate tax waived for today. Festival week. Try not to clog the middle lane."
Thorskil gave a nod and clicked his tongue for the horse to move forward again. As they passed beneath the archway, the light shifted to shadow for a moment. It was cooler, quieter and then opened into the noise of the city proper.
The market stretched ahead like a coiled snake — vendors on either side, shouting prices over one another, kids weaving through legs, smells of spiced oil, sawdust, and roasted corn wafting thick in the air.
Kyro blinked at it all, the colors and motion making his chest tighten slightly.
"So noisy," Lyra muttered, her hands over her ears.
"Cities are like that," Thorskil replied.
His tone, though calm, held the edge of something else — relief. Quiet, buried, but there. He reached out briefly and rested a hand on Kyro's shoulder, then shifted in his saddle as if adjusting the posture but it wasn't discomfort that made him move.
It was thought.
Had it not been for Damian passing through Ytval at the right time with his travel satchel of rare salves and that quiet knowledge of healing magic, then Kyro's arm might still be in a sling. Broken. Maybe worse.
And here, in Fritz?
Thorskil glanced down one of the side streets. He spotted a healer's symbol carved into stone above a narrow door. The kind of place where they didn't ask if you were hurt, but asked how much you could pay.
A basic bone setting in Fritz cost more than a month's harvest. A dose of Regen elixir could pay for a new wagon wheel and a winter's worth of grain. Even painkillers were overpriced, sealed in waxed paper and sold like luxuries.
He knew the look healers gave when you walked in with a wounded child but a poor purse. He'd seen it before.
They would've had to choose between healing Kyro... or staying fed.
Thorskil said nothing of it aloud. Just kept guiding the horse down the wide street, weaving past other carts and foot traffic, eyes sharp for a decent place to stop.
Then, the horse made a slow halt near a tucked-away shop just off the cobbled main street. Its wooden sign swung gently with the breeze, faded letters spelling GEAR & GRIND, it was an old tools-and-supplies merchant Thorskil had known for years.
He dismounted with practiced ease, landing with a soft grunt. Lyra slid down after him, humming as she stretched her arms toward the bright city sky. The street bustled with morning traffic — traders, farmers, children darting past with bundles of bread or bolts of fabric.
Kyro remained on the horse, his posture tight, head still lightly wrapped. His golden eyes scanned the street warily beneath the cloth.
Thorskil gave him a glance but said nothing yet. Instead, he led Lyra into the shop.
A bell above the door jingled as they entered. The air inside smelled like old iron, sawdust, and something faintly bitter — alchemical oils maybe. A stout man with soot-stained fingers and a beard like braided rope looked up from behind the counter. When his eyes landed on Thorskil, his whole face lit up.
"Well, burn my boots! If it isn't Thorskil Samsworth himself!" the merchant bellowed, spreading his arms wide. "Been a minute, eh?"
Thorskil chuckled, offering a handshake that turned into a hearty shoulder-clap. "A good minute, Marn. Still breathing, still swinging."
"And still dragging that whirlwind around with you," Marn said, ruffling Lyra's hair as she giggled and swatted his hand away. "Little miss Samsworth getting taller by the month."
Lyra puffed her chest. "I'm helping papa buy tools today. I'm practically an adult."
"I don't doubt it," Marn said with a wink. Then his eyes drifted toward the open door and paused. "Say... who's the little guy still on the horse out there?"
Thorskil followed his gaze, then sighed through his nose.
"That's Kyro," he said. "My son."
Marn blinked, eyebrows lifting in clear surprise. "Your son? Well I'll be... I didn't even know you had another one. Never seen him before."
Thorskil gave a small nod, his expression unreadable for a beat. "He's... not much for going out. Doesn't like crowds. Big places make him uncomfortable."
Marn scratched at his cheek, glancing back through the window. "Quiet kid, huh?"
"Quiet doesn't mean lacking," Thorskil replied softly, but with a certainty that made the merchant pause mid-scribble. "He's got a storm inside. Just takes a little longer to find the wind."
Lyra tilted her head, her expression thoughtful as she followed her father's gaze to the boy still perched on the horse outside.
"Storm inside?" she echoed curiously.
Thorskil didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to the counter and began listing what they came for — rope, whetstones, some basic gear upgrades. But even as he spoke, his eyes lingered through the open doorway, watching Kyro's silhouette. The boy sat stiffly, still clutching the reins as if unsure whether to hold on or let go. Like a leaf caught in a wind he didn't yet trust.
As they left the shop, Thorskil's concern only deepened. Each minute on the road chipped away at Kyro's posture. He wasn't slouched from fatigue but he was shrinking, curling inward, as if folding into himself with every passing glance from a stranger.
Thorskil glanced at Lyra, then back at Kyro. A thought sparked.
Maybe... maybe food would help. The father of two thought.
He smiled.
Eventually, they pulled to a stop in front of a modest restaurant nestled between a blacksmith and a fletcher's shop. The wooden sign above the door swung lazily in the breeze.
Thorskil and Lyra dismounted.
"Oooh! We're eating?" Lyra grinned wide behind her father. "I want the big ground steak, Papa!"
Thorskil chuckled. "Say the magic word."
"Please~!" she begged with exaggerated puppy eyes.
He laughed. "Fine, fine. You'll have your steak."
Then he turned to Kyro, who still sat atop the horse, one hand clutching his hood tightly around his head.
"Kyro, would you mount off Kelsey?" Thorskil asked gently. "I want you and your sister to find us a seat inside while I set Kelsey[2] out here, alright?"
Kyro hesitated. His fingers twitched slightly around the fabric, then let go.
"Y-yeah. No problem, Dad," he replied, voice soft.
He slid off the horse named Kelsey, careful, slow and still kept the cloth draped over the upper half of his face.
Thorskil nodded and turned to lead Kelsey toward a small nearby stable, trusting his children to go ahead. But before Kyro could secure his hood again—
"C'mon, slowpoke!" Lyra chirped, grabbing his hand and yanking.
Kyro stumbled forward. The cloth slipped from his fingers.
"W-wait—!" he gasped, reaching down.
Too late.
It fluttered to the ground behind him, forgotten as Lyra pulled him eagerly toward the restaurant door.
*Kyro*
The inside was warm. Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere.
Wooden beams lined the ceiling, casting long shadows over the stone hearth. Iron chandeliers hung low, flickering with candlelight. The floor was uneven in places and aged wood polished smooth by hundreds of boots. It smelled like roasted meat, garlic, fresh bread, and spilled ale.
But there were people.
So many people.
I froze just a few steps in. The noise, the bodies, the gazes... Even if no one was looking at me, I felt like they were.
And my cloth was gone. My one layer of protection, left outside on the ground.
I swallowed hard, lowering my head as far as I could without hunching like a weirdo. I focused on Lyra's boots. They were scuffed leather with a knotted lace she refused to retie and I followed her like a shadow.
"Fooood~!" she sighed, practically drooling at the smell as we walked past tables. Her eyes sparkled as she scanned the room.
I stayed close. Focused on her, on her energy. It was easier than looking anywhere else.
She spotted a table tucked into the far corner — a perfect spot. Tucked away, slightly isolated. I could finally breathe if we got there.
She sped up. I did too.
But just as we reached the edge of the table — chairs scraped.
No.
Four adventurers dropped into the seats like vultures claiming a carcass. Three humans in mismatched armor, and one towering Beastfolk orc with olive-green skin and arms like tree trunks.
They laughed and slapped the table, already calling for drinks.
Lyra stopped, dead in her tracks.
Her hands clenched into fists.
"HEY!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise like a thrown dagger. "That's our seat! Get outta here, chumps!"
All four turned to look at her. One raised a brow. Another chuckled.
The orc leaned back in his chair, tusks catching the candlelight like ivory daggers. "Didn't see your name on it, little miss," he rumbled, voice like gravel.
Beside him, the tallest human smirked lazily.
"Maybe you should've sat faster."
Lyra's nostrils flared. Her fists clenched. And with a dramatic huff, she yanked up her sleeve like she was getting ready to throw down in the middle of a restaurant.
"I saw it first!" she snapped.
My chest started to tighten again. I tugged at her sleeve, trying to ground myself and her.
"Lyra... it's fine," I murmured. "Let's just find another table."
She turned to me, brows furrowing in confusion, and then without warning, smacked the back of my head.
"Don't be a coward," she said, puffing up her chest. "Come on, let's beat them up!"
...Huh?!
Even I was stunned — snapping me out of my anxiety.
The audacity of this little gremlin!
Before I could protest, she marched toward the adventurers like a pint-sized barbarian queen, dragging me along by the wrist. I dug my heels in, trying to stop her, but she was absurdly strong.
Damn barbarian genes! I cursed internally, half-resigned to our doom.
But just as she reached the edge of the table, a large hand swooped in, like plucking her clean off the floor like a turnip. I stumbled back, blinking.
What the—?
We both looked up.
It was Thorskil.
Of course it was Thorskil.
He held Lyra under one arm like a squirming potato sack, his expression calm and courteous as ever.
"Forgive my daughter's behavior," he said smoothly, nodding at the startled adventurers. "Please, excuse us."
The entire table went pale.
A bead of sweat rolled down the orc's temple.
"N-No problem at all, Mr. Thorskil!" one of the men stammered.
Another chimed in immediately, "Didn't know they were your kids, sir! Please, take our seats instead— really, we insist!"
Thorskil tilted his head slightly. Then smiled.
"That so?" he said casually. "Well then. Thank you."
"Th-The pleasure's ours," the orc replied, standing so quickly his chair nearly tipped.
The four of them practically fled to another table, offering awkward bows and avoiding eye contact as they went. Lyra and I watched them shuffle away in silence, both of us blinking like we'd just witnessed a small miracle.
Thorskil sat down without a care, gently setting Lyra beside him like a grumpy kitten and pulling out his coin pouch.
I took the seat across from them, still reeling.
Silence lingered.
Thorskil didn't seem fazed in the slightest. He calmly counted his coins, as if this kind of thing happened all the time.
Eventually, someone had to say it.
"That was amazing!" Lyra exploded, bouncing in her seat. "What did you do, Papa?! You didn't even fight them!"
Thorskil sighed softly as he glanced at the few remaining coins in his hand. Then, with a faint smile, he looked up at her.
"Well," he said, "Papa's pretty well-known around adventurer circles."
Lyra gasped. "Really?! Like a legend?! What kind of stuff did you do? Tell meee!"
Even I leaned forward, curious despite myself. "Does it have something to do with your rank, Dad?" I asked, tilting my head.
Thorskil chuckled, pocketing the coins.
"Maybe. Maybe not," Thorskil said with a wink. "Let's just say... Papa's name carries a little weight around the kingdom." His voice was casual — like he was commenting on the weather, not confessing to being semi-famous.
"Woaaah~!" Lyra's eyes sparkled like twin suns. "More!"
Thorskil chuckled. "Alright, alright. But first, let's get something in our bellies, yeah?"
"Mmh!" Lyra nodded so hard she nearly bounced out of her seat.
I let out a dry chuckle at her antics. Honestly, it was kind of cute watching her go full fangirl over our own dad.
A few minutes passed. The food arrived — hot, rich, and smelling like comfort. We ate quietly at first. I picked at my ground beef while Lyra absolutely demolished hers, chewing like she hadn't eaten in weeks.
Then, as expected, the silence didn't last long.
"Tell us more, Papa!" Lyra demanded, bits of steak still in her cheeks like a squirrel storing nuts.
Thorskil sighed, setting down his utensils with exaggerated patience.
"Fine, fine. You really wanna know?"
"Yuh-huh!" she replied, mouth full.
He leaned back a little. "Alright then. When it comes to swordsmen, there are about seven formal titles folks can earn."
Lyra sat up straight, eyes wide.
"There's Sword Noob — don't laugh, it's real — Sword Intermediate, Sword Advanced, Sword Apprentice, Sword Saint, Sword King, Sword God, and the rarest of all... Sword Titan."
"Woaahhh!" Lyra was so impressed she accidentally stabbed her steak and launched a small piece across the table.
I blinked. "So... which one are you?"
"Sword God," Thorskil said simply, lifting his cup for a sip. "There's only two of us in the world."
My fork paused mid-air.
"Wait... two? Then who's the Sword Titan?"
Thorskil set his cup down, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
"That'd be the Blade God."
"Another god?" I said, brows raised. "What, do we just collect gods like trading cards now?"
Thorskil chuckled. "Haha—funny. But Blade God isn't a title. It's a real god. The original swordsman. The one who created swordsmanship itself. If the rest of us are masters, he's the blueprint."
"Then why don't you become one too?" Lyra asked, dramatically pounding her fist into the table. "You're my dad! You should be the strongest ever!"
He laughed lightly. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, sweetie, but titles like that aren't handed out with dessert. Besides, I'm doing just fine as a 'God,' in my rank, thank you very much."
I chewed slowly, still processing all of it.
Sword God. Only two in the world. And he acted like it was nothing.
I took a sip of water, still reeling.
Then curiosity nudged at me.
"So... just how many gods are there?" I asked, glancing between them.
Thorskil raised a brow. "You mean like real gods, title gods, or people who call themselves gods at taverns after five pints?"
I blinked. "...Let's start with real ones."
Thorskil grinned. "Alright. Then we're gonna need dessert."
As if summoned by the promise of storytelling, our plates were quickly swapped out for sweet treats — honey-glazed berry tarts for Lyra and me, and a modest custard pudding for Thorskil.
Thorskil was so into the moment, he forgot about Lyra's punishment for sweets. The moment her tart hit the table, Lyra practically face-planted into it. "S-so gooood!" she squealed, mouth half-full.
I snorted a laugh. "Try chewing before it ends up in your nose."
Thorskil chuckled, leaned back in his seat, and steepled his fingers.
"Now then... as promised. The gods."
He looked up for a moment, as if counting them off in his head.
"There are seven true gods in our world — each one powerful, each one tied to something deeper than magic."
Lyra froze mid-bite, crumbs around her mouth. I sat forward instinctively.
Thorskil began, his tone thoughtful but clear:
"First, the Blade God."
He looked at me directly.
"The original creator of swordsmanship. The reason people like me even exist. Every technique, every style — they're all just imitations of his movements. He's more legend than man at this point... no one's seen him in thousands of years."
My eyes widened. I pictured a man whose sword strokes could split mountains. "So... he's real?" I asked quietly.
"Oh, he's real." Thorskil nodded. "But you won't find him sipping tea at a guild hall, that's for sure."
"Next, the Wind God." He gestured toward the open window where a breeze fluttered the curtain. "Goddess of flight and freedom. Beloved by birds, skyfolk, and certain winged species. If you feel wanderlust, chances are, she's whispering to you."
Lyra gasped. "Maybe that's why I want to climb roofs!"
Thorskil gave her a flat look.
"No, that's called being a menace."
I chuckled which gained Lyra's attention—I immediately shut up.
"Then we have the Shield God." His tone grew soft. "The god of humans, and of protection. He's the reason humans can use Aura, and why we're so... persistent."
Lyra then spoke. "Aura is his doing." Simply stating the facts.
"Yup. Think of him as the patron of stubborn survival. He's not flashy, but he's the reason we're still standing." Thorskil finished.
"The Nature God comes next," Thorskil continued, "Goddess of elves and plants. Graceful, nurturing — but do not anger her."
Lyra nodded solemnly. "Nature moms are scary."
"Truer words never spoken."
"Now, the Flame God." His brows lifted slightly. "God of dragons, darkons,[3] and fury. He's... intense. Fire incarnate. Burned half a continent once during a lovers' quarrel."
I choked on my water. "Wait, what?"
"Yup. Dragons still haven't forgiven him. But to be fair, he did apologize... by raining meteor-fire roses on the region for a month."
Lyra looked dreamy. "Aww~ Romantic. Disgusting."
"Then comes the Demon God," he said, the air shifting a little. "Protector of the wild ones — Orcs, Ogres, Trolls. Let's just say most Beastkins and Beastfolks worship him. And Demons too, obviously. Often misunderstood, but he values strength, loyalty, and unity."
He glanced toward where the adventurers had been sitting earlier.
Then a short sniff, he concluded something.
"Most of those lads worship him, whether they admit it or not."
"And finally—" Thorskil tapped his fork lightly against his plate.
"The Lightning God."
The air seemed to buzz slightly.
"God of doom, storms, and prophecy. He's said to strike down tyrants and raise heroes. His followers don't ask for mercy — they ask for purpose."
A short silence followed as we processed it all.
Lyra blinked, licking the last bit of tart off her fingers. "Sooo... what if someone worships all of them?"
Thorskil chuckled. "Then they must have a lot of holidays to keep track of."
I leaned back in my chair, dazed. "That's... a lot to take in. Seven gods. Each with their own legacy."
He nodded. "Exactly. And sometimes... sometimes they pick champions. People who carry a little spark of their power."
Lyra gasped. "Like you?"
Thorskil gave a tiny smile. "No. I walk my own path. But maybe one day... one of you will catch a god's eyes."
The silence after that wasn't awkward. It was warm. Thoughtful.
I stared down at my empty plate, something flickering quietly inside me.
A storm, maybe.
One still waiting for wind.
***
It was late afternoon as we left the city behind. The stone walls and busy streets faded into a blur of green and gold, the sounds of town life replaced by the steady clop of hooves on dirt.
I still felt awkward being out in the open, but the talk at the restaurant earlier... it did something. It softened something. For a moment, I'd felt close to them, to my father, to Lyra. Like maybe I belonged.
But that fragile connection didn't stop the anxiety from creeping back in.
The cloth I'd used to cover my face earlier was gone and now, with nothing to hide behind, I hunched low at the front of the saddle, hoping to shrink into myself.
Even the way I sat was different. Rigid. Guarded.
And Father noticed. Of course he did.
He hadn't said anything yet, but I could feel his eyes glance my way every so often. Maybe it was the sudden change in my posture. Maybe it was the silence that followed my earlier laughter.
The warmth of the sun touched our backs as we rode along the winding road home. It should've been comforting. But I just felt exposed.
Then I heard him speak.
"Kyro."
My head jerked slightly at the sound of his voice. "Y-yeah?"
There was a pause.
"Why are you scared?"
I stiffened. My breath caught in my throat.
I didn't want to answer. Didn't want to be seen like this.
Especially not by him.
"I... I'm not scared—" I mumbled.
"Nah," he said lightly, "you're definitely scared."
His tone was teasing, but not unkind. Still, I flinched and hunched further down. I didn't want to be laughed at.
He must've sensed it, because he quickly added,
"Ah— sorry. Thought a little teasing might help. I didn't mean to make it worse. I'm sorry, Kyro."
...Huh.
He read me that easily.
"It's okay..." I replied softly.
For a while, the only sound was the steady rhythm of hooves on the dirt path.
I noticed Lyra had gone unusually quiet. Then I heard a tiny snore escape from behind me.
She's asleep. Finally. The loudmouth zips. Peace at last. I let out a dry, almost invisible chuckle.
And then Father spoke again, and this time, with a weight in his voice.
"Kyro... I won't judge you. For anything. Not ever."
I swallowed hard — then suddenly, my mouth spoke.
"How could I possibly know that?" I snapped back a little too quickly, my words sharper than I meant.
There was a beat of silence.
Then his hand reached out and gently ruffled my hair.
"Because I'm your father," he said simply. "And I'll always be your number one supporter. No matter what. Whatever's on your mind, whatever's weighing you down — you can tell me. You don't have to carry it alone."
His words hit me like a wave. Not because they were dramatic or grand. But because they were real.
And they came without condition. Without pressure.
Suddenly, something inside me cracked. Not in a painful way.. More like the quiet, gentle shift of a wall being lowered.
I sniffled before I could stop myself. One tear slid down my cheek. Then another.
I didn't sob. I didn't break down. I just... let it out.
"I hate being outside," I whispered.
"Everyone stares. I feel like I don't belong anywhere but the corner of a room. Like if they see me, they'll laugh... or worse."
Thorskil didn't interrupt. He didn't rush me.
So I kept going.
"I know it's dumb. I know it doesn't make sense. But every time someone looks at me, my chest gets tight. My skin itches. I want to hide. And I hate it. I hate how scared I am all the time."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was safe.
Then I felt his hand again — this time resting gently on my back, steady and warm.
"That doesn't sound dumb at all," he said softly. "It sounds like something you've been carrying for quite some time now. I'm glad you told me."
I looked down at my hands, blinking back another tear.
"Do you think I'm broken?"
"No," he said without hesitation.
"I think you're human. And a very, very brave one."
I sniffled again and wiped my face with the sleeve of my tunic. The motion was clumsy, but I didn't care. A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips — weak, unsure, but real.
For a moment, we rode in quiet, the rhythmic sway of the horse a gentle lull. The late afternoon sun bathed the path in gold. I was still scared. But the fear didn't feel so suffocating anymore.
Then I noticed Thorskil glance ahead. A faint grin crept across his face.
He's planning something.
"I know you don't like being stared at," he began, voice calm but full of that subtle fatherly wisdom he pulled out when you least expected it,
"but... what if we tried a little something to help you open up to people?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "What kind of something...?"
He nodded toward the road ahead, where a man was tending to a cart piled with hay—a farmer, maybe, returning from the market.
"See that farmer up ahead?" Thorskil asked. "How about... we just tell him 'Good afternoon.'"
My stomach twisted. I looked back at my father, unsure.
He raised both hands lightly.
"Only if you want to. I won't force you. But when you grow up, life's going to hit you with all sorts of punches. You'll need strength, yes, but confidence too. And confidence..." he smiled, "starts small."
I didn't answer right away.
The idea felt... terrifying. Like peeling back a layer of armor I'd stitched around myself. Saying hello shouldn't be hard, but it was.
And yet...
There was something in Father's tone. He wasn't judging. He wasn't testing me. He was giving me a choice and believing I could do it.
I took a breath.
One.
Two.
"O-okay..." I whispered. "I'll try."
He grinned and gave my back a gentle pat. "That's my boy."
As we neared the farmer, my heart pounded in my chest. I hunched a little, then sat up straighter. Then hunched again.
I was already imagining it —
The way the farmer might look at me. That disgusted face. The awkward silence. The mocking smile.
I nearly bailed. My mouth went dry.
But then—
"Good afternoon, sir!" Thorskil called out warmly.
The farmer looked up, squinting against the sunlight.
My heart leapt into my throat.
I hesitated, but then, barely above a whisper, I added: "...Good afternoon."
The man blinked. His face didn't twist in confusion. He didn't scowl.
Instead, he smiled. A kind, simple smile.
"Good afternoon to you, too," the farmer said with a nod, tipping his hat politely before going back to his cart.
...That was it?
No stare? No whisper? No disgust?
A breath I didn't realize I was holding escaped from my chest.
And just like that, something inside me lightened. Just a little. Like a knot untied.
I looked down at my hands.
Maybe... not everyone is going to hurt me.
I didn't say anything right away. But Father must've seen it — the slight lift of my shoulders, the way my grip loosened on the saddle horn.
He didn't say "I told you so."
He just smiled. A quiet, proud smile that said everything without a single word.
And so, as we continued down the sunlit path toward home, more villagers appeared along the way. Some were walking with baskets, tending fields, riding carts. Ordinary people going about their day.
Each time we passed someone, my father offered a warm greeting. And each time, I followed. At first, just a whisper. Then a mumble. Then a soft, steady voice.
"Good afternoon!"
And one by one, they smiled back. Some waved. Some nodded. One even complimented Kelsey.
With each returned smile, something small and invisible inside me stitched itself back together.
Like tiny cracks being sealed.
Like shadows slowly pulling away from the light.
I didn't even realize when the tension in my shoulders had eased.
Or when I had started sitting up straighter.
Or when the fear had become... manageable.
Piece by piece, greeting by greeting, I found a little more courage. Not all at once. But enough to breathe easier. Enough to believe — maybe I could belong out here too.
By the time we neared home, I wasn't hiding behind my father's back.
I was beside him. Smiling.
And this time, it felt real.
"...Thanks, Dad," I whispered, my voice barely above the breeze.
He chuckled softly.
"Anytime, son."
Behind us, Lyra stirred in her sleep, mumbling something completely incoherent, probably about cake or punching a tree. Or both.
I stifled a laugh, the kind that bubbles up without permission, light and warm in the chest.
As we reached the front of our home, my father and I dismounted from the horse. He moved with practiced ease, swinging Lyra into his arms like a sack of potatoes. One hand holding her, the other balancing a hefty sack of tools slung over his shoulder.
And so, side by side, we walked in unison to our front door, just a father, a son, and a snoring sister, under the warm light of the setting sun.
For the first time in a long time, my heart felt light. Not because the world had changed... but because I had taken one brave little step into it.
[End]
[1] I'm putting this to 3rd Person, and just a heads up, some parts of the novel are like this.
[2] The name of the horse.
[3] A Beastkin - Looks like humans, but they have a dragon tail, and some have horns and some don't.