The memory of that night was still vivid in my mind—the first time my father, Torin Aluden, had read to me about the chronicles of the Sword Saint.
He sat beside the fireplace, a worn leather-bound tome resting open in his hands. I remember the crackle of the flames as he cleared his throat and began to read.
"The dragon feared the man whose power kept growing and growing. No army could stop him, no fortress could withstand his blade. So the dragon descended from his mountain of flame and challenged the Sword Saint himself."
Father glanced down at me, a small smile tugging at his lips before continuing.
"They say their battle split valleys and shook the skies. And in the end... the dragon lost. But the Sword Saint did not walk away."
"One of his own—a disciple who had sworn loyalty—struck him in that final moment, hoping to take the credit for himself."
My hands clenched the edge of my blanket. "That's not fair."
"No," my father said gently, ruffling my hair, "but that's why we remember him. Not just for his strength… but for the heart that carried it all."
I hesitated, then looked up at him. "Dad… did you want to be like the Sword Saint? I mean, look at him! He's strong, he's cool, and he probably had a lot of ladies chasing him."
Father let out a warm chuckle, shaking his head. "Of course I did. When I was your age, I swung a wooden sword every day like I was destined for legend. But eventually… I realized no one can reach that kind of strength through training alone."
My smile faltered. "So does that mean… I can't be like the Sword Saint?"
He leaned in and tapped a finger against my chest. "You can, Luë. You don't have to be an exact copy of him. But you can have the same kind heart."
My face lit up with excitement. "You're saying I can be like him?"
Father chuckled, tucking the blanket around me tighter. "Of course, my son—but even strong heroes like the Sword Saint need sleep."
The fire cracked softly, its light casting gentle shadows along the walls. My eyelids grew heavier as his words lingered in my thoughts.
And just like that, with a final glance at my father's quiet smile, I drifted off to sleep—dreaming of dragons, betrayal... and a sword too great for anyone else to carry.
Now, sitting alone in my room at Aunt Clara's house, the memories from that night played over in my mind like a distant melody. The warmth of the fire, my father's voice reading the story of the Sword Saint—it all felt like a lifetime ago.
Sometimes, when the world outside grew too loud, I found myself drifting back to those moments. The image of the dragon, the betrayal, and the courage of a hero who carried a heart stronger than any blade.
Even after all that happened—after my father was gone and I was left in Clara's care—those memories remained a quiet strength within me.
She had never tried to replace him, but over time, her presence had filled the silence he left behind. Patient, kind, and steady in a way I didn't realize I needed—somewhere along the way, she became something more.
Not just a guardian— She was my mom now. And yet, that night's story—his story—never stopped echoing inside me.
As I stared out the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon, I wondered if I could ever live up to that legacy.
The scent of roasted vegetables and spice-filled stew filled the kitchen as I stepped in, the soft clatter of bowls and spoons already laid out on the table. Clara moved about with her usual ease, a loose braid swinging behind her as she ladled soup into two bowls.
"There you are," she said with a warm smile, setting the pot aside. "Thought I'd have to come up and carry you down like when you were little."
I sat down quietly, offering her a faint smile in return. "I was just... thinking."
She gave me a knowing glance as she took her seat across from me. "You've been doing that a lot lately."
We ate in silence for a while, the sound of the spoon tapping gently against the bowl the only thing breaking the stillness. I stared into the stew, watching the steam curl and vanish into the air.
"Mom," I said at last, "do you remember what my real mother was like?"
She paused, spoon halfway to her lips. Her gaze softened as she lowered it gently into the bowl.
"I do," she said, voice quieter now. "She was fierce. Not the kind of fierce that roared... more like fire beneath snow. Gentle on the outside, but you never doubted the strength in her."
I looked up at her. "What happened to her... really?"
Her lips pressed together, and for a moment, she didn't answer. Then, slowly, she reached across the table, resting her hand over mine.
"There are some things no one really understands, baby. That day... what happened to her, what happened to the kingdom—it wasn't war. It wasn't bandits. It was something else entirely."
She looked out the window, toward the darkening horizon.
"Some folks call it an omen. A punishment. Others say the skies cracked open and the world bled. I just know that... she was brave until the end. And she loved you more than anything."
My gaze dropped to the floor. I nodded slowly, not trusting my voice.
"You've got her strength, baby," Clara said, squeezing my hand. "And his heart."
She gave me a soft smile, then stood and started clearing the table.
"You've got a long day tomorrow," she added, glancing over her shoulder. "The carriage from Grace Academy will be here at sunrise, so I need you to get some sleep for me. No staying up staring at the stars again, alright?"
I gave a small nod and let out a soft chuckle as I stood. "Alright."
Clara passed by and gently ruffled my hair, her voice warm with affection. "Thank you, baby."
I smiled up at her, eyes a little tired but grateful. "Good night, Mom. Sleep well."