The sound of a stone grinder turning was the first thing Noa heard that morning.
A soft, repetitive scrape and crunch, coming from the hearth.
He stirred beneath a woven reed blanket, yawned, then sat up slowly. The early light filtered through the gaps in the wooden shutters, casting pale orange rays on the packed earth floor. The cottage smelled of warm root oil, hearthgrain flour, and smoke from the cookstove.
"Morning, sleepy mossling."
Seri, his mother, didn't look up as she ground down a bowl of dried hearthgrain—a small, nutty grain common in their region. She wore a simple tunic and apron, her long black hair tied in a looped braid. Her almond-shaped eyes were alert even at dawn, and her small hands worked quickly, efficiently.
Noa rubbed his eyes and stretched. "Good morning, Mama."
She smiled at him, then passed him a strip of woven cloth. "Wipe your face. You drooled again."
He wiped and grinned sheepishly.
Their small house had one room for sleeping, one for cooking, and a loft above the storage space that Lio had claimed as his own. The walls were made of packed clay and straw brick, reinforced with wooden beams. Their thatched roof leaked a little in spring but held firm in the wind.
Noa loved this place. It was warm. Simple. Alive.
Soon enough, Tomir returned from the fields, brushing dirt from his trousers. His roughspun shirt clung to his sweat-soaked chest, and his dark hair was tied back in a thick cord. His eyes, usually stern, softened when he saw Noa.
"How's our little sunleaf this morning?" he asked, lifting Noa briefly into the air before setting him on a stool.
"Awake before Lio," Noa beamed.
"Impossible," came a groggy voice from above. Lio, his older brother by four years, leaned over the loft railing with a mop of black hair covering half his face.
"You only pretend to be asleep so you can skip chores," Noa teased.
"Chores are a curse. I'm saving my energy for more important things," Lio declared, then yawned loudly.
"Like eating breakfast," Seri said, smirking. "Which you'll miss if you don't hurry."
Breakfast was a thick hearthgrain mash with shredded sunroot and a dash of salt from the mountain trade roads. It had a warm, nutty taste with a soft texture—bland but filling.
Noa savored every bite. It reminded him of oatmeal, but earthier.
"Papa," he asked between mouthfuls, "how many houses are in Redleaf Hollow?"
Tomir raised an eyebrow. "Counting the Ferrens' new shed? Fifty-three."
"Fifty-four," Seri corrected. "The basket-weaver's niece built her own place behind the spring."
"Ah, right. See? You should ask your mother."
"I just wanted to count population density," Noa muttered under his breath.
"What's that?" Lio blinked.
"Never mind."
After breakfast, chores began.
Noa helped Seri with the sunleaf herbs, separating stems from petals to dry for medicine. Seri explained each one as they worked: which healed cuts, which soothed fevers, and which were best kept away from the goats.
Her explanations were simple, but full of care.
"I used to carry these in a pouch on the road," she said, holding up a sprig of green.
"When you were an apothecary apprentice?" Noa asked.
She nodded. "Before I met your father. Traveled far north, where the trees turn blue in winter. Helped deliver a baby during a storm once. That was my proudest day."
Noa listened with wide eyes. "Do you miss it?"
Seri thought for a moment. Then smiled.
"Not when I get to raise clever mosslings like you."
Later, he followed Tomir to the shed, where his father worked on patching a snapped yoke.
Tomir's hands were massive—scarred, calloused, and practiced. He showed Noa how to shape wood with a rasp and how to bind weak joints with cord and pitch.
"You don't need magic to fix things," he said. "Just attention. And patience."
Noa nodded seriously. "But magic helps."
Tomir snorted. "You'll learn to help yourself before you start hoping fire falls from your fingers."
The rest of the day passed in quiet rhythm.
Noa and Lio took a basket to the creek to catch reedclaws—small, snapping crustaceans often used in stew. Lio had the enthusiasm, Noa had the precision. Together, they caught nine before the sun reached its peak.
Lio's cheeks flushed with pride. "Bet the other boys only got six!"
"Because the other boys scare them away by shouting," Noa said with a smirk.
Lio stuck out his tongue, then burst into laughter.
That evening, Seri cooked reedclaw root stew with flat graincakes baked over hot stones. They ate on woven mats around the fire, the light dancing against the clay walls.
Tomir told a story about the time he accidentally knocked over a wasp hive as a boy. Lio nearly choked from laughing. Seri shook her head but smiled. Noa sat quietly, soaking in every detail.
He looked at each of them in turn:
Seri, the healer with quiet strength, whose laughter was rare but genuine
Tomir, the builder with wisdom etched into every scar
Lio, the reckless joy of their family, always running ahead, always laughing
They're not my birth family.
But they are my family.
And I will protect this life.
After dinner, while the others dozed near the fire, Noa slipped outside.
The stars were out—brighter than they had ever been on Earth.
He didn't know the constellations here. The sky was different. The laws were different.
But slowly, with time, he would chart it. Understand it.
One rule, one pattern at a time.