Joren flopped down on the bench, running his thumb over the seal. “It’s not war. Practice drills, nothing dangerous. Just a border post, nothing ever happens there.”
Thessa sat next to him. “Then why do they need you at all?”
He glanced at her, the grin faltering, but only for a second. “Because someone’s got to go. And it’s better this than…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. They both knew the answer was her.
Their mother had been growing more paranoid with every passing day, whispering about signs, doors that should never be left unbarred. Sera’s fever grew worse by the day, and her small frame seemed to shrink.
She took him in fully—blond curls damp with rain, green eyes that betrayed every thought, the same sun-warmed complexion their father had worn like a crest.
He was still a boy.
Her throat tightened. “And what if you don’t come back?”
He gave her a softer smile this time, one that made him look like the brother she remembered chasing through fields, not the one with a conscription notice in his hands. “Then you’ll just have to be twice as stubborn without me.”
Thessa’s eyes drifted to their youngest sister. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted quietly.
Joren’s grin faltered. He followed her gaze to Sera, curled small on the cot by the wall. He was silent for a long moment, jaw tight, worry shadowing his face.
“I asked everywhere,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Where she might get better. There’s nothing.”
“Someone told me to get a last blessing,” Thessa said quietly.
“And what about you?” he pressed.
“Me?”
“You’re exhausted, Thes. Working all the time, barely sleeping. You’re bringing in extra coin, but is it worth it?”
Tessa grabbed a shirt from the basket of dry laundry to keep her hands occupied. “And you think going to the border is?”
He stared at her, then shook his head. “What are you doing, truly?”
Thessa was silent. She had no idea how to answer. What she did—it was a mystery even to her. One thing was clear: they needed her body. Not in the way she feared, but in no kinder way either. She was being spent, piece by piece, and there was no stopping it.
Joren rubbed his face, voice low and sharp. “Look around, Thes. Fires in the lower quarters, someone tried to kill the princess… it’s not just bad luck anymore. The crown doesn’t give a shit. They can’t even protect themselves, let alone us.”
The words sank into the silence, heavy as stone.
Joren sighed and moved toward Sera. He crouched beside her, forcing a crooked smile. “Don’t tell me you’re going to let me leave without saying goodbye? I’ll come back with stories. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
But Sera didn’t stir.
It was as if she hadn’t heard him at all anymore.
Thessa swallowed hard, clutching a half-folded shirt in her hands. It was getting harder to look at her little sister, without feeling like it might be her last day.
Their mother sat at the table with her sewing kit open, the thread quivering between needle and cloth. She repeated the same stitch again and again along the border of a frayed piece of linen—red thread, steady hands, turning what was broken into something whole.
When she finished, she pressed it into his palm.
“For luck,” she said. Her voice was steadier than her eyes.
A month ago, her mother would have pleaded with him to stay, blocking the door, insisting there was another way. Now she only nodded. In the end, what else could they do? The least they could offer him was a quiet goodbye.
He left the next morning.
There was no ceremony. Just the two of them standing in the weak light of dawn, breath fogging in the cold. He slung his small pack over his shoulder, the red-thread charm tucked inside his collar like it might protect him from arrows, or hunger, or the things they didn’t name.
