The wind slipped through the cracks in the walls as if the house itself were breathing its last.
Aric Veyra pressed his shoulder against the wooden beam, forcing it back into place with a dull groan. The beam had been straight once years ago but time, rot, and neglect had bent it like an old man's spine. Snow clung to the gaps in the walls, melting slowly as it reached the dim warmth inside, dripping onto the dirt floor below.
The house stood at the edge of the village, where no one bothered to repair roads or replace broken fences. Its roof sagged unevenly, patched with mismatched planks and scraps of cloth. In winter, cold crept in like a silent enemy. In summer, heat pressed down until the air itself felt heavy enough to choke.
Lyra sat near the small hearth, her hands resting gently on her swollen belly. The fire crackled weakly, fed by damp wood scavenged from the forest outskirts. Her breath came slow and measured, not from weakness, but from patience learned through years of hardship.
"You should rest," she said softly, watching Aric struggle with the beam.
Aric shook his head. "If this wall gives out, the cold will take the house before the night does."
Lyra did not argue. She knew that tone the quiet stubbornness of a man who had learned that survival did not wait for comfort.
Outside, the village bustled faintly. Voices carried, laughter echoed, but none of it reached the Veyra home. The world beyond their walls moved forward, while this house remained stuck between collapse and endurance.
Aric finally stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cold. His hands were rough, scarred from years of labor and dungeon work. He flexed his fingers, wincing slightly.
"I'll fetch water," he said.
Lyra nodded. "Be careful."
Aric grabbed the worn bucket near the door and stepped outside, boots crunching against frozen ground. The path to the well was long, and the bucket always felt heavier on the return trip. Still, he walked it every day. Because if he didn't, no one would.
When he returned, Lyra had risen and was slowly sweeping melted snow away from the hearth.
"You shouldn't be standing," Aric said.
"And you shouldn't be carrying more than your body can take," Lyra replied with a faint smile.
Their eyes met, sharing a silent understanding born of years spent facing the same struggles.
Against the far wall hung a sword.
It was not ornate. No jewels adorned its hilt. The blade was scratched, dulled in places, its leather grip worn smooth by generations of hands. To any passerby, it would look like scrap an old weapon long past its worth.
Aric noticed Lyra's gaze drift toward it.
He walked over and carefully took the sword from its hooks. The metal was cold, familiar. He held it with reverence, not pride.
"This sword," he said quietly, "has been with our family longer than the house."
Lyra smiled faintly. She had heard the story before, but never tired of it.
"My father carried it," Aric continued. "And his father before him. Not because it was special… but because it endured."
He ran his thumb along the blade's edge. "It fed us when words failed. Protected us when walls couldn't. It's not magic. Not blessed. Just steel."
Lyra placed a hand over her belly. "Will you give it to him?"
Aric nodded. "Someday. When he's strong enough to understand what it means."
The fire crackled again, struggling against the cold. Outside, the wind howled, shaking the weak walls.
Within the crumbling home, a poor family endured armed with nothing but worn hands, quiet resolve, and an ordinary sword that had survived where many men had not.
And soon, a child would be born into this world of hardship.
Unaware that his life would begin with nothing
And grow into something far greater.