Chapter 7 : When Nothing Seemed Wrong
If anyone had asked me later, I would have said that day was ordinary.
That was the lie it hid behind.
The morning came clean and pale, the kind that felt as if it had been washed overnight. Mist clung low to the ground, turning the fields soft and unreal. Father was already awake when I stepped outside, tightening straps on the wagon with the same careful attention he gave everything. Old Gray stood harnessed and patient, breath steaming gently in the cold air.
"You're up early," Father said without looking back.
"So are you," I replied.
He smiled faintly. "Habit."
I helped where I could, handing him tools, checking the wheel rims the way he had taught me. Nothing felt rushed, but everything felt deliberate. He inspected the harness twice. Then a third time, as if the leather might change its mind when he was not looking.
I noticed.
I just did not know why.
The wagon itself was plain, reinforced joints, clean wood, no markings. But Father ran his hand along its side as if memorizing the grain. When he climbed onto the driver's seat, he paused longer than usual, eyes following the road ahead.
Not anxious.
Alert.
"You're heading out today?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Just a short run. I will be back before dark."
Not will.
Should.
The difference settled somewhere uncomfortable.
By midmorning, travelers passed through again.
Not many.
A pair of merchants heading south. A lone rider who did not stop.
A small group of pilgrims who asked for water and left quietly.
Father watched them all with the same calm politeness, offering directions, answering questions, never asking any of his own.
I realized then that he never asked strangers questions.
He listened.
Master Hennick stopped by near noon, leaning heavily on his stick.
"You're running the wagon again?" he asked. "Busy season."
"Seems so," Father replied.
Hennick squinted at Old Gray. "That horse could pull a house if you asked him to."
Father smiled faintly. "I never have."
Hennick laughed and moved on, already complaining about his knees to Rovan, who stood nearby pretending not to limp.
Everything sounded the way it always did.
That should have comforted me.
It did not.
That evening, Old Gray grew restless.
He stamped once in the stable. Then again. Not loud. Not frantic. Just enough to be noticed. Father came immediately, laid a hand against the horse's neck, murmured something too low for me to hear.
The stamping stopped.
I had never seen Old Gray unsettled before.
"Animals feel changes before we do," Father said when he noticed me watching.
"In the weather?" I asked.
"In many things," he replied.
That night, I woke up to the sound of movement.
I reached the window just in time to see Father guiding Old Gray a short distance down the road, lantern hooded, steps careful and quiet. He adjusted a strap, checked the harness once more, then turned the horse back toward the barn.
Preparation.
Not departure.
He did not look back.
The next day passed quietly.
Father repaired a fence post that did not need fixing. Asked me to fetch water. Then asked me again, even though the bucket was already full enough.
Small things.
Responsibilities.
I felt proud of them.
Later, I would understand they were instructions.
On the third day, a seal appeared.
Red wax pressed deep and clean on a crate Father unloaded near the barn. He told me not to open it, not sharply, not unkindly. He did not need to.
I had seen seals like that once before on official notices nailed in Southreach. This one was different.
Simpler.
Heavier.
I did not touch it.
Father watched until he was certain I would not.
That night, Coren suggested sneaking out to the hill to watch the stars. Tomas argued we would get caught. Lior said the constellations were clearer this time of year. Mila waited to see what I would say.
"I think I'll stay home," I told them.
They teased me for it.
I let them.
Old Gray did not sleep.
Neither did Father.
I knew because the barn light stayed on long after the house went dark. I did not go to him. Something in me understood, whatever he was doing, he did not need help.
He needed space.
The final preparations took the whole afternoon.
This time, there was no pretense.
Father laid out supplies for a long road, dried meat, hard bread, spare tools, a second waterskin tied beneath the seat.
"Six days," he said when I asked.
Six days there.
Six days back.
The war horse stood apart from Old Gray, tall and dark-coated, muscle held in disciplined stillness. It watched everything with calm, measuring eyes. Father had trained it well. Too well, some might have said. Even as villagers passed, it did not flinch.
It was the horse personally raised by my father to deliver to the noble who sold it.
"That one's worth more than this whole field," Tomas muttered from the fence.
Father pretended not to hear.
By sunset, everyone had gathered.
Master Hennick leaned on his stick near the gate.
Rovan stood with his arms folded, squinting at the sky.
Anya was there too, quieter than usual, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
And my mother, stood beside me.
She had packed the last bundle herself, tied with the knot only she used. When Father took it, their hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
"You're certain it won't take longer?" she asked.
"The roads are clear," Father said. "I'll ride hard where I can."
She smoothed the front of his coat, as she always did.
"Come back in one piece."
"I always do."
I did not like how carefully he said it.
Father mounted the wagon as the light softened into gold. The war horse snorted once, eager but restrained. Old Gray shifted patiently in place.
Father looked down at me.
"Six days," he said again, as if repetition could make it solid. "Listen to your mother. Help where you're told."
"I will."
He hesitated, then added quietly, "You're doing well, Kai."
That stayed with me.
Anya waved. "Bring something boring back," she called. "So we know you're safe."
Father laughed. A real laugh, and tipped his head.
"I'll see what I can do."
Then the wagon rolled forward.
We watched until it crested the rise and disappeared from view.
No one spoke.
At last, Master Hennick cleared his throat. "Six days goes quick," he said, mostly to himself.
Mother nodded, though her eyes stayed on the road.
I told myself the same thing.
Six days was nothing.
At the time, it truly felt that way.
The sun dipped below the horizon. Chores waited. Supper needed cooking. Life resumed its familiar shape.
Nothing was wrong.
Nothing at all.
And that was why none of us understood, standing there together, that this was the last moment before waiting became something else entirely.