Night settled heavily over the village.
The wind had not calmed. It pressed against the house in steady breaths, testing every weakness, every poorly fitted plank. Inside, the hearth burned lower than before, its light casting long shadows across the walls.
Aric sat on the edge of the wooden bench, the sword resting across his knees.
Lyra watched him in silence. The way his fingers traced the worn leather grip told her he was not merely holding steel he was holding memory.
"My grandfather used to say," Aric began, voice low, "that a sword doesn't protect a family because it's sharp."
Lyra shifted closer, pulling her shawl tighter around herself. "Then why does it?"
"Because someone is willing to stand in front of others and not step aside."
He lifted the sword slightly, examining the small nicks along the blade. Each mark was shallow, uneven, earned not through glory but survival.
"This sword never cut down monsters," he continued. "It scared them away. Bandits, beasts, hunger… sometimes even despair."
Lyra smiled faintly. "You make it sound heavier than it is."
Aric exhaled softly. "It is heavier."
He leaned the sword carefully back against the wall, returning it to its hooks. The metal gave a quiet sound as it settled, as if acknowledging its place.
Lyra's hand returned to her belly. The child stirred faintly, a small reminder of the future pressing against the present.
"I worry," she said after a moment. "About raising him here. About the cold. The dungeon roads. The people who think survival is something only the strong deserve."
Aric looked at her, his expression steady but tired. "This village isn't cruel," he said. "It's indifferent. That's worse."
Lyra nodded. She had healed men who bled beside her and ignored her once they stood again. She had seen gratitude fade faster than wounds.
"Will he suffer?" she asked quietly.
Aric did not answer immediately.
He walked to the door, pressing his palm against the warped wood. Cold seeped through instantly.
"He will," he said at last. "But he won't break."
Lyra searched his face. "How can you be sure?"
Aric turned back to her. "Because he'll be born here. Into nothing. And people who grow up with nothing learn how to hold onto what matters."
The fire shifted, sparks rising briefly before fading.
"Our family didn't survive because we were blessed," Aric continued. "We survived because we didn't let go. Of work. Of each other. Of that sword."
Lyra closed her eyes for a moment, breathing slowly. "Then promise me something."
Aric knelt beside her.
"Promise you won't force the sword onto him," she said. "Let him choose it. Let him decide what it means."
Aric hesitated then nodded. "I promise."
Silence followed, filled only by the wind and the quiet crackle of embers.
Somewhere beyond the village, snow fell across empty fields. Somewhere beneath Lyra's heart, a child slept unaware of legacy, unaware of hardship, unaware of the weight waiting for him.
But one day, he would stand before that sword.
And whether he carried it or not
The resolve it represented would already be in his hands.