It was another chaotic but oddly warm day in the House of the Hearth.
The halls echoed with laughter and mischief—children dashing through corridors with blankets for capes, wooden swords clashing, music echoing faintly from a distant wing. Mother Goose, a flurry of feathers and exasperated joy, was trying in vain to gather a group of five particularly slippery toddlers for story hour, one of whom had decided the curtains made excellent camouflage.
"No, no, no! You do not ride the banister while holding jam, Horace!"
The house pulsed with life. But Father Hearth, walking silently through it all, felt something else beneath the surface.
A wrongness.
He didn't speak. He simply turned, quiet as breath, and walked to his office—a room lined with old wood, thick books, and a hearth that burned low and constant, as if it too had a heartbeat. He shut the door behind him.
And then, as he turned toward his desk—
The air shifted. Not like magic. Like nothingness entering something.
A man was already standing there.
Clad in white. Pale and silent. His face was smooth, emotionless. His eyes like dead glass. He made no sound, as though the world itself was reluctant to acknowledge his presence.
"I am Guernica," he said, voice flat and cold as carved stone. "I come on behalf of my companions. We seek safe passage through the city."
Father Hearth stood still, gaze unreadable.
Guernica continued. "We are descendants of gods. Chosen. Elevated. The city's gates will open to us eventually. But you... are an obstacle."
And Father Hearth understood then. He knew who these people were.
Not gods.
Pretenders. Mortals dressed in the ego of divinity, clinging to faded myths to justify cruelty, corruption, and conquest. He had heard of the group they called themselves—"the Progenitors." The ones who walked like saints but reeked of rot.
He turned his back and calmly walked behind his desk.
"No," Father Hearth said, his voice level.
Guernica's head tilted slightly. "You would deny the divine?"
"I would deny worms pretending to be fire."
Guernica's fingers twitched slightly. "You may regret this choice. Your house is... fragile. Filled with soft things. Precious things. Children who don't yet know fear. I wonder how long—"
He didn't finish.
Because suddenly, the hearth behind Father Hearth roared to life.
The room darkened—not from shadow, but from heat. The temperature spiked in an instant. The books on the shelves began to tremble. The wood beneath their feet groaned. The very air screamed with pressure.
And Father Hearth...
Was no longer merely a calm guardian.
His eyes blazed like two open furnaces. His voice was thunder coated in iron.
"You do not threaten this house."
Guernica flinched for the first time.
"You do not threaten my children."
The flame behind him turned white-hot. The very walls of the office seemed to pulse, and every portrait, every relic, every ancient sigil etched into the wood glowed with unearthly warmth. Somewhere far away, even the fire in the main hearth of the house flared—just for a moment—causing Mother Goose to pause mid-rant, sensing it.
"You came to my door with poison behind your smile," Father Hearth said. "Now take it with you when you leave."
For a long, tense moment, Guernica said nothing. Then, quietly, he stepped back.
He did not bow. He did not speak. He simply turned, and as suddenly as he had appeared—he was gone.
The fire in the hearth calmed.
The books stopped trembling.
Father Hearth closed his eyes for a breath... then opened them slowly, as the last embers died down.
Outside the office, the House remained vibrant, unaware—children laughing, Mother Goose finally gathering the toddlers, dragging one by the back of his collar.
But somewhere deep in the stone and flame of the House of the Hearth, something stirred awake. A reminder of what it truly meant to be under the protection of Father Hearth.
And what a foolish thing it was... to threaten what he called home.