Chapter Six: Bram Morgan
Bram woke early, same as always. Before the sun crested the ridge, before the birds started making noise. He dressed in silence—wool shirt, old leather belt, boots stiff at the ankles—and stepped out onto the porch with a shovel slung over one shoulder.
He didn't eat until after the first two hours of work. That was his rule. You earn your breakfast. He'd told Niall that when they were younger. Niall ignored it, but Bram kept doing it anyway. Routine wasn't about comfort—it was about order. You keep order in your day, and the rest stays steady.
He crossed the field without a word to anyone. The grass was damp. The morning chill sat low in the air. He didn't mind it.
He checked the fence along the eastern side. One board had loosened again near the third post. He set the shovel down and went back to get nails and a hammer. His hands worked fast. By the time the sun peeked out, he'd already finished three small jobs and started clearing the overgrowth near the grain shed.
By midday, he was covered in dirt, sweat drying on his arms. He sat on an overturned bucket and drank water from a clay jug.
He thought about Eli.
Not in a dramatic way. Just a quiet, lingering thought.
The sparring had surprised him. At first, he thought Eli was just watching too much. Trying too hard to impress someone. But after the second day, Bram had seen it—the way Eli's stance had shifted. The way he timed his blocks. The way he moved when he thought no one was watching.
It wasn't mimicry. It was real learning. Fast learning.
And Bram wasn't sure how to feel about that.
---
Bram didn't hate the idea of Soul Traits. He didn't envy them, either. You got what you were given. You worked with it, or you didn't. He never awakened, and maybe he never would. That was fine. Some people didn't.
He still believed in strength the old way—earned through repetition, sweat, and time.
But watching Eli shift and move in ways Bram had spent years to build... it made something twist in his gut. Not anger. Just a strange tension he didn't have a name for.
Still, he respected the work Eli put in.
A lot of awakened kids thought power was enough. They flared their energy and acted like rank alone made them better. Eli didn't act like that. He showed up early. Listened. Practiced after dinner.
That mattered.
---
Later that afternoon, Bram helped Lysa gather firewood behind the house. She handed him bundles of sticks, and he tied them with twine. Neither of them spoke much. They didn't need to.
She looked over once. "You alright with him going?"
Bram kept his eyes on the rope. "It's not my call."
"That's not what I asked."
He tightened the knot, then set the bundle aside. "He should go. He'll learn more out there."
Lysa paused. "But?"
Bram shrugged. "Feels fast. Like one day he's swinging wide and the next he's moving like I do."
"That's his gift, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Just strange to see it happen that quick."
She smiled faintly. "You taught him more than you think."
Bram didn't answer. He picked up the next bundle.
---
In the evening, Bram sat behind the barn alone. No sparring today. Eli had stayed inside after speaking with their father the night before. Bram hadn't asked what was said—he already knew.
He leaned the staff against the barn wall and sat in the dirt.
He stared at the ground, ran his thumb over a smooth stone near his boot, and thought about the kind of fighter he had become.
Steady. Practical. Grounded.
He didn't use tricks. He didn't overreach. Every movement had a reason.
That's what he believed in. Control.
Anyone could swing fast or loud. But control? That took discipline. That took time.
He hoped Eli would learn that from him. Not just the stances. Not just the movements.
But the restraint.
The patience.
---
Bram believed a person should hold their weight—on the field, in the house, or in a fight. You carry your own burden. You don't pass it off. He learned that from Garrick, though the old man never said it out loud.
Words weren't how lessons were taught in their house. You learned by watching. By doing.
And that's why Eli had surprised him.
He thought Eli wasn't paying attention all those years. But maybe he was watching closer than anyone.
That was fine.
Bram didn't need to be the strongest. He just wanted to know that what he built—his technique, his steadiness—meant something to someone.
And now it did.
Even if Eli left.
---
When the sun started setting, Bram stood, picked up the staff, and returned it to the wall.
He went inside, washed up, and sat down for dinner with the rest.
Eli didn't say much. Neither did he.
But before the meal ended, Bram looked over once and gave a small nod.
Eli returned it.
Nothing more needed to be said.
—