Spring arrived slowly, bringing the weak warmth of the sun over the frost-streaked village.
Kairo was barely five years old, but even at that age, he noticed the world in ways others did not. His small hands gripped the edge of the table as he watched his father return from the dungeon road.
Aric's coat was torn, his boots caked with mud. Cuts and bruises marked his arms and face. Each movement was careful, deliberate hiding exhaustion as best he could. In his hands, he carried a small pouch of coins, clinking softly, almost embarrassed by the meager sound.
"Father…" Kairo whispered, unable to stop his small voice.
Aric offered a faint smile as he stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders.
"Not much today," he said quietly, setting the coins on the table. "A few extra bags for the guild, some ore… nothing that matters to anyone but us."
Lyra moved immediately to his side, her hands gentle but firm as she examined the cuts, washed the blood, and dressed each wound. She hummed softly, a tune that made Kairo feel both comforted and sad at the same time.
Kairo's small eyes observed everything. the reddened skin, the trembling muscles, the way his mother's hands never stopped until each pain was soothed.
And he understood, in that quiet moment, the weight his parents carried.
He did not understand money yet. He did not care for treasure. But he understood pain, endurance, and sacrifice.
He watched his father carefully lift the worn sword from its hook, checking its edge, tracing the familiar nicks along the blade. Kairo remembered the stories. He remembered the whispered words his father had spoken years ago: "It fed us when words failed. Protected us when walls couldn't."
Even now, it did not shine. It did not glow. It was just steel. Yet, in Aric's hands, it seemed to hum with quiet promise.
Kairo clenched his tiny fists.
One day… one day I will make them happy.
One day, we will leave this place.
One day, they will never have to endure hunger or cold again.
No words left his lips. No sound escaped. But the vow settled deep inside him, heavier than any sword, stronger than any winter wind.
Aric looked up from the blade, catching his son's gaze. Kairo's eyes young but sharp, bright despite the harsh life held something that made Aric pause. Something unspoken.
"You watch carefully," Aric said softly, almost to himself. "That's good. Observation will keep you alive long before strength does."
Kairo nodded silently. His small chest puffed with determination.
The wind howled beyond the broken walls. Snow and frost lingered where they could not reach. The village continued its indifferent rhythm.
Inside the little house, however, something had shifted.
A child had made his first silent promise:
He would carry his family's burdens, and one day, he would repay their sacrifice not with words, but with action.
And the sword on the wall ordinary, worn, enduring would witness it all.