Comfort did not arrive all at once.
It crept in quietly, like the tide does when you aren't watching—slow, patient, undeniable.
At first, it was small things.
Ma no longer sighed every time the roof creaked during heavy rain. Pa replaced loose boards instead of muttering that they'd "hold one more season." The pantry stayed fuller longer, jars lined neatly instead of stacked with hopeful gaps between them.
And for the first time Euryale could remember, no one argued with winter.
The house felt… settled.
That unsettled Euryale more than he expected.
Mornings changed.
Not dramatically. Just enough to notice.
Pa still rose early, but he didn't leave before sunrise anymore. He drank his tea slowly, actually sitting down, watching the horizon like the sea wasn't going anywhere without him.
Ma hummed more. Not tired humming. The soft, aimless kind that wandered from tune to tune. She baked because she wanted to, not because flour needed to turn into meals before it went bad.
Silas noticed first.
"This bread tastes like happiness," he declared one morning, chewing thoughtfully.
"It tastes like bread," Lyra said.
"No," Silas insisted. "Happy bread."
Ma smiled into her apron.
Euryale watched quietly.
Comfort had a sound. A smell. A weight.
It was the absence of fear.
___________________________
Training became… easier.
Not the magic. The space around it.
Euryale trained alone most mornings, rising before the others while the sea still wore its mist like a shawl. He practiced balance now—not strength. Velin's voice still echoed in his head.
Ask. Don't pull.
So he did.
"Just a little," he'd murmur, palms open.
The water listened. Sometimes.
Other times, it splashed him like a child proving a point.
"Very funny," Euryale muttered, soaked to the knees.
Still—he was learning. Slowly. Safely.
And when he failed, he no longer panicked.
That mattered.
The village adjusted, the way villages always do.
Suspicion faded into curiosity, then into routine acceptance. The rumors softened.
"They're doing well," people said instead of Where did it come from?
Pa donated better nets to the communal shed. Ma brought extra bread to gatherings without explanation. Gold was never flashed. Comfort was never bragged about.
Euryale insisted on that.
"We don't owe anyone answers," he told Silas firmly. "But we don't invite questions either."
Silas squinted at him. "You sound like Pa."
"That's alarming."
Lyra nodded solemnly. "You even sigh like him now."
Euryale groaned. "I'm thirteen."
"Exactly," Lyra said wisely.
There were changes, though.
Good ones.
Pa started teaching Silas properly—knots, tides, patience. Not shouting instructions, but showing. Silas struggled with quiet at first.
"How long do I have to wait?"
Pa smiled. "Until the sea calm."
Silas frowned at the water. "It's rude."
Lyra took to reading. Real books now, not just picture scraps. She sprawled in the sun, muttering words under her breath, determined to sound them all out.
Euryale noticed she gravitated toward old stories.
Sea myths. Tide spirits. Songs without endings.
She never said why.
Comfort also meant time.
Time to argue.
Time to laugh.
Time to be ridiculous.
One afternoon, Silas convinced Lyra they could train too.
"I'm gonna awaken my core early," Silas declared, standing heroically on a rock.
"You're eight," Euryale said.
"So?"
"So sit down before you fall."
Silas spread his arms. "WATER! OBEY ME!"
The sea responded by knocking him flat.
Lyra laughed so hard she fell over too.
Euryale didn't even try to help them up.
"Respect," he said mildly. "Remember the word."
Silas, dripping and offended, pointed accusingly. "You told it to do that!"
"I absolutely did not."
The water lapped once against the shore.
It felt suspiciously smug.
At night, comfort settled deepest.
The fire burned steady. The roof didn't leak. The world felt… held.
Euryale lay awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling, listening to his siblings breathe. To Pa's low voice murmuring to Ma in the other room. To the sea's distant hush.
This—this—was what he feared losing.
The Academy lingered at the edge of his thoughts like a letter unopened.
Fifteen.
Velin's parting words echoed.
If you get in.
Euryale clenched his fists beneath the blanket.
What if comfort made him weak?
What if leaving was necessary?
What if staying was selfish?
The questions didn't answer themselves.
But the sea kept coming back.
___________________________
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the waves copper, Pa joined Euryale on the shore.
"You're thinking loudly," Pa said.
Euryale startled. "Was it that obvious?"
Pa chuckled. "You kick sand when you're worried."
Euryale looked down. His foot had made a small trench without him noticing.
"I don't want to lose this," he admitted quietly.
Pa was silent for a long moment.
"Comfort isn't something you protect by holding it too tight," he said at last. "It's something you honor by growing strong enough to return to."
Euryale swallowed.
"And if I don't come back the same?"
Pa looked at him fully then. "Then we'll get to know who you become."
___________________________
That night, Kaelen wrote again.
Subject stable.Environment supportive.Comfort increasing.
He paused.
Comfort may become anchor—or chain.
He closed the book.