Chapter Text
The first light of morning slanted through the narrow window, turning the drifting dust motes golden. Henry stirred in his straw-filled mattress, hair sticking out in a wild tawny halo. Beneath the quiet of the house, he could already hear it: the clang…clang…clang of Pa’s hammer at the forge, steady as a heartbeat.
“Henry! Breakfast,” his mother called, warm and welcoming all at once. “Come and eat before the day gets away from you.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The smell of fresh bread and the stew simmering on the hearth tugged at his stomach, but the forge tugged harder. That sound. That bright, ringing sound. It filled the morning like birdsong.
He padded across the packed earth floor, taking advantage of his mother’s turned back, and eased the door latch up with both hands. The hinge betrayed him at once with a long, treacherous creak. He winced, then bolted.
“Henry!” His mother protested behind him.
“Just checking on Pa!” Henry called back, already halfway across the yard.
The forge glowed like a small sunrise. Heat brushed his cheeks as he neared it. Pa looked up, a grin already forming beneath a face lined with work and soot.
“So, the little shadow returns,” Pa said, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Come on then. You can help – but carefully, now.”
He handed Henry a small brush, the wooden handle worn smooth by years of hands. It felt feather-light compared to the hammer Henry had once secretly lifted when his father’s back was turned. Still, he clutched it with fierce purpose and set to sweeping the iron fillings from the workbench. Pa chuckled and resumed his work. Sparks leapt and skittered from the anvil with every strike, tiny stars that vanished before they touched the ground. Henry’s eyes kept drifting to them, wide with awe.
His mother arrived a moment later, breath a little quick, her expression softening as she crouched beside him. She pressed a warm roll into his hands.
“You rascal,” she scolded softly. “I don’t know when you got so fast. At least eat something, you’ll need your strength for all that hard work.”
Her fingers smoothed his hair, pushing the unruly strands off his forehead. Henry bit absently into the bread – soft and warm inside, crisp outside – though his gaze never left the glow of the metal Pa was shaping. The forge smelled of hot iron and burning charcoal, a scent that clung to everything here.
“It’s alright, Jana,” Pa said, accepting a roll of his own and giving her cheek a quick kiss that left a smudge of soot. She swatted him with a pretend huff, though she was smiling. “The lad’s got sharp eyes and steady hands. My little apprentice.”
Henry froze for a beat. Apprentice. The word hit him square in the chest and warmth bloomed there, glowing brighter than the crackling fire of the forge. He brushed more diligently, crumbs falling unnoticed around his feet, the world narrowing to the glow of metal, the rhythm of the hammer. Sparks leapt up like fireflies each time Pa’s hammer struck, ringing against the iron with a bright, musical clang.
It always felt like magic to him, watching his father command the metal. In Matthias’s stories, powerful wizards bent the elements to their will with a flourish of a staff. Pa did it with a hammer and his two strong hands.
“See here,” Pa said, lowering his voice as if the lesson were a secret. “You don’t strike too hard at first. The iron needs a gentle touch or it’ll crack.”
Henry nodded seriously and tried to mimic the movement with his little brush, sweeping in exaggerated arcs that barely disturbed the iron fillings. His eyes stayed fixed on the iron glowing golden on the anvil.
Pa let out a chuckle as he shook his head. “I know that look. I’ve shown you the same thing a hundred times already, haven’t I?”
Henry looked up at him and gave a small, sheepish grin. “I’m watching Pa. Really, I am.”
Pa’s big hand landed on Henry’s shoulder. “Aye, I know you are. You’ll understand it proper when you’re older. For now, just keep your eyes open.”
Henry leaned closer without realising it, the fillings forgotten. The hammer swung again and he watched the metal shift shape under each strike. He imagined the feeling of it – lifting the hammer, guiding the blow, turning a lump of iron into something strong and useful. His fingers twitched, itching to touch it.
Was it as soft as it looked? If he were to press into it, would he feel it give beneath his hand?
Before he could reach further, Pa’s hand closed around his wrist in a gentle but firm grip. “Easy there, Hal,” he warned. “Not yet. The metal’s too hot to touch, it’ll burn straight through your skin.”
Henry blinked, surprised. His fingers curled instinctively around Pa’s rough knuckles. “But it looks so soft,” he whispered.
“Aye, it looks it, doesn’t it? That’s how it tricks you,” Pa said wisely. “It’s more dangerous than you think, it’ll bite if you’re careless. Best you leave this to me for now.” He nudged Henry away from the anvil, turning his small body toward the cottage. “Go on, then. Your Ma will be wanting you.”
Henry’s face crumpled into a protesting frown, lip wobbling with disappointment, but Pa only ruffled his hair fondly before turning back to his work. The hammer rose again, fiery light blooming with each strike.
Defeated, Henry trudged toward his mother, who stood waiting with a basket of linens propped against her hip. She held out a hand, her expression softening when she saw the pout he tried to hide.
“Come along,” she said. “If you’re good and don’t splash too much, I’ll let you wade a little in the stream while I do the laundry.”
The rain had settled into one of those steady, fine drizzles that didn’t quite justify a hood, but dusted everything in a mist of damp. The road from Rovna back to Skalitz shone with wet, puddles catching the flat grey like dull pieces of pewter. The air rich with the scent of wet earth, sheep’s wool, and the faint sweetness of damp hay. Henry swung his mother’s hand as they walked, splashing carelessly in the shallow ruts.
“Mind the puddles,” she said, but there was no real scolding in it. Henry stepped in the next one anyway, just lightly enough to test her reaction.
“Henry…”
He grinned up at her. She tried to look stern, failed, and shook her head with a soft laugh.
“I like it when it rains,” he announced, kicking a pebble forward. “It makes everything smell like it’s just been washed.”
“Mmm, until you track half the mud of Bohemia into our house.” She nudged him gently with her hip. “Your Pa will grumble.”
Henry didn’t mind the idea. Pa’s grumbles were warm things, like the rumble of the hearth or the puff of breath when he lifted Henry onto his shoulders. “Will he be finished with work when we get home?”
“Perhaps a little later. He might need a hand. Sir Radzig’s soldiers will want their gear mended before the week is out.” Her tone held that mix of pride and concern she always carried when speaking of Pa’s work. “The iron should have been delivered by now. Martin will be buried to his elbows in it.”
Henry pictured his father elbow-deep in clumps of iron, like it was a pond he waded into. He frowned thoughtfully. “Is that why he didn’t come to church? Because of the iron?”
“Aye. It came late, and your Pa promised Captain Petr it would all be ready.” She adjusted the shawl over her shoulders, then glanced down at him and smiled, pinching his freckled cheek. “But we don’t mind, do we?”
Henry laughed and tore himself away. Her fingers smelled of lavender water and bread dough. He squeezed her hand tighter.
The drizzle thickened for a moment, pattering on the leaves overhead. A wagon creaked past them on the road, pulled by a pair of sleepy nags and driven by a villager Henry didn’t know well. His mother offered a polite greeting; Henry raised a hand in shy imitation.
“Ma?” He asked after a beat. “Do you think Sir Radzig ever walks in the rain?”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “What a question. Why wouldn’t he?”
“He’s important. A lord,” Henry said, attempting solemnity.
“That’s nonsense and you know it.” She brushed her thumb over his knuckles. “Even lords have to walk in the rain sometimes.”
Henry thought about that, brow furrowing as he considered Sir Radzig hurrying in a drizzle just like they were. The image pleased him more than he could say. It made the lord seem slightly less like a figure carved of distant stone and more like someone who might have once jumped in puddles too.
The rain eased as they slipped into a sheltered bend of the path, where the trees grew close and the branches knitted together overhead. It felt oddly still there, as if the weather couldn’t reach them.
Henry tugged lightly on his mother’s hand, ready to race the last stretch home, but she stopped short.
“Ma?”
Her fingers tightened around his in that quiet, instinctive way grown-ups do when something inside them goes alert. Henry followed her gaze.
Three men stood ahead on the path where it curved out of sight, half-shadows in the dim light. They weren’t villagers; their clothes were muddied leathers, travel-worn, and the way they carried themselves made Henry’s stomach twist. Hard eyes. Too still. One had a faint bruise blooming along his jaw, old enough to have faded to yellow.
Rain began again, falling soft on the leaves.
The tallest stepped forward. “Afternoon,” he said, a voice too pleasant, as if he’d borrowed the word rather than meant it. His eyes flicked to Henry, his attention like a hand pressing between his shoulder blades. Henry moved closer to his mother without realising it.
“Out from Skalitz are you?” The man asked. “Heading back?”
It wasn’t a strange question by itself, but he didn’t look at Henry’s mother when he asked it. He watched Henry, weighing something.
“We’re from Rovna,” his mother lied evenly. Henry shot her an accusing look. “On our way to the market there.”
Her hand slid to the small of Henry’s back, guiding him slightly behind her skirts. The gesture was casual, but Henry felt the tension in her.
Another of the men stepped sideways, pretending to inspect the ditch that ran beside the road, closing off the path behind them.
“Fine day for a walk,” the first man drawled.
Henry’s heart began to thud. He didn’t know why. The world was rapidly changing shape before him, the sheltered path turning dark with deep shadows, the men surrounding them tall and sharp and dangerous.
The man crouched slightly, bringing himself nearer to Henry’s height. His eyes were the colour of the frost that edged the river in deep winter and bore a thin silver scar over the bridge of his crooked nose. “What’s your name, lad?”
Henry’s mouth felt made of cotton. He opened it, but his mother’s hand squeezed his shoulder in unmistakable warning.
“The boy is shy. We need to be on our way.”
The man’s smile held no warmth. “Fair enough.” He straightened, but his gaze lingering just a fraction too long. “Times are dangerous. Never know what manner of man you’ll meet on the roads.”
His mother shifted him gently, without drawing attention, edging him closer to the treeline. The forest leaned over the road, undergrowth spilling loose in a tangle of nettles and wet leaves. A place someone small could disappear quickly.
The tall man stopped pretending at friendliness altogether. The bearded one shifted his weight. The other he’d lost sight of – somewhere behind them now, invisible and prowling.
“Strong looking lad for his age,” the tall man went on. “Must have someone important watching over him, eh?”
Henry felt his mother go very still.
Before she could stop him, the answer leapt out of him in a surge of courage and pride. “Sir Radzig watches over us.”
The men exchanged a glance so brief Henry might have missed it if his skin hadn’t prickled all at once. It was as though a curtain had been drawn around them, separating them from the rest of the world. No rain. No breeze. Only a tense, weighted stillness.
A hand shoved his shoulder, not a warning now, a command.
“Run!”
The tall man with the shaved head closed his hand around the knife at his belt.
Henry didn’t see the flash of the blade. He stumbled toward the undergrowth, rain-slick leaves slapping his legs. Behind him, boots ground against gravel, steel whispering free of its sheath. A flash of his mother’s skirts as she stepped sideward, blocking a blow he couldn’t see.
He hit the treeline hard, branches clawing at his sleeves, and ran because she told him to, because everything in her voice screamed danger.
The quiet of the afternoon collapsed into shouting and the wet thud of a struggle, swallowed quickly by the forest. The drizzle kept falling, hitting him like tiny sharp blades of ice against his skin. His heartbeat was a frantic drum as he plunged deeper into the trees, small enough to slip between trunks where grown men would snag and swear.
Shouted orders came fast and angry behind him.
“Little rat – get back here!”
“Split! Circle him!”
They crashed after him in a violent and uncoordinated scramble. Henry’s breath tore in and out in sharp little gasps. His mother’s touch still burned where it had landed on his shoulders.
A sound broke through the chaos – a scream, raw and anguished.
It cut off suddenly, smothered by the dense quiet, but he would carry the shape of it like a bruise behind his ribs. He didn’t turn back. The men’s shouting spiked again, closer now, followed by the sound of someone crashing through brush in pursuit.
“I saw him – move!”
Henry ducked, forcing himself between two saplings, their trunks slick with damp moss. Twigs snapped underfoot like embers of a fire. He crawled, scrambled, pushed, anything to stay ahead. The forest alive around him, branches tugging at his sleeves, roots rising up to trip him, leaves striking his face.
He veered sharply, remembering the crooked deer path he’d found when playing hunt with Matthew and Fritz once, a divot in the dense brush half-hidden by a fallen log. He scrambled over, nearly slipping, scraping his palms on the bark. The earth dropped from beneath him, tumbling into a burrow and swallowed by ferns.
A man thundered past above him, his drawn blade catching the light in a fierce flash. His footsteps crashed ahead, fading but not gone.
Henry stayed curled there, his chest heaving, every muscle trembling from cold and terror. He couldn’t cry yet. The shock was too new. He was trapped in that stasis, his world in the middle of breaking, the edges splitting apart.
When he finally crawled out, he took to running again. The men’s footsteps had faded but the memory wasn’t, he could still feel them, like shadows leaning toward him through the rain-wet trees. The forest stretched ahead, shedding slow drips through its thick canopy. He had no direction to follow, only the instinct to keep going, to get away.
He stumbled over a root and landed hard on his hands. Mud splashed his sleeves. The sting brought a sob up his throat, but he swallowed it down and forced himself upright again. He kept moving until his lungs burned.
Then, he spotted a fox’s den, or what might have once been. A little hollow where the earth had slumped beneath an old oak, its roots crooked like a giants’ fingers gripping the soil. Ferns crowded the entrance, a tangle of vines draped low, almost like a small, hidden door.
Henry dropped to his knees and crawled inside.
It smelled of damp earth and old leaves. The hollow was just big enough for him to curl into a ball. Roots crossed the ceiling like ribs overhead. Rain pattered faintly outside, softened by soil. Inside was dim, close, almost warm. He tucked himself tight, knees to his chest.
The moment the stillness settled, he unravelled. Wet tracks smeared through the dirt on his cheeks. He tried to be quiet but fear broke through him violently. Soft sobs wracked through him, muffled by the crook of his arm.
Ma’s scream looped in his head, each replay sharper than the last. He pressed his hands over his ears but nothing stifled it. Her voice rang in the empty spaces cored within him
The vines shifted slightly with the breeze, making faint rustles that sounded too much like footsteps. Henry flinched at each one, trembling so hard his teeth clacked together. He stayed like that, curled, shivering, crying into his sleeves, until the exhaustion blunted the edge of terror.
The world narrowed to the close, safe dark of the burrow. Earth beneath his palms. Roots holding him close. Eventually his cries faded to hiccupping sniffles, but the tears kept sliding down, soaking into the dirt.
Henry drifted into sleep slowly, fitfully, never fully letting go. His small body exhausted enough to drag him under despite the terror humming in his bones.
He dreamt of footsteps on the road. His mother’s hand slipping from his. Shadows that stretched too long and moved without bodies. He heard his name whispered from somewhere out of sight, whispered in the wrong voice, wrong tone, wrong everything. He tried to run but the trees kept folding in on themselves, endless and identical.
He gasped awake, breath clouding faintly in the chill of night. Everything was dark – deep forest dark, moon smothered by low clouds and thicker branches, the world reduced to black shapes and cold shadows. The damp cold had crept into his clothes; his fingers stiff and numb.
A voice called through the trees, ringing under the canopy.
He froze. The voices of his pursuers echoed in his memory – men shouting as they chased him, promising something awful in the growl of their tone. His mind tangled the sounds together. His heart hammered against his ribs so sharply he felt sick.
More voices joined the first. Calling his name. He couldn’t tell how many. He couldn’t tell who.
He clamped a hand over his mouth, breath spilling warm between his fingers.
A branch snapped somewhere to his left. He curled into himself tighter, pressing into the curve of the burrow. The forest felt alive with movement, each sound thickened with nighttime dread. He shook so hard the roots above him trembled with each small jerk of his body.
“Henry!”
The voice was closer. Warmer. Cracked at the edges from shouting too long, but familiar. Henry knew that voice like he knew the clank of the forge bellows and the smell of charcoal in the morning. He’d never heard it so taut with fear before.
Pa.
Tears sprang again, sudden and hot, spilling before he could stop them. A choked little cry slipped out of him. The night held its breath, revealing in its stillness. Leaves shifted. Boots on wet earth. Someone pushed through the undergrowth with none of the heavy, hunting intent of violence.
“Henry?”
Henry’s limbs unfurled on instinct, his small body drawn to the sound. He crawled toward the curtain of leaves at the burrow’s mouth, his breathing trembling in soft, broken gasps. He parted the vines, revealing a lantern glow spilling through the dark, a haloed figure stumbling toward him.
“Henry- by God-“ Pa dropped to his knee so fast the lantern swung wildly, throwing jagged shadows over the trees. His face was pale beneath soot, eyes blown wide with terror and relief twined together. “There you are. There you are, lad.”
Henry broke. He launched into his Pa’s arms with a sob, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, burying his wet face against him as if the world might disappear if he let go. Pa wrapped both arms around him at once, pressing Henry’s head to his shoulder.
“It’s alright,” Pa murmured, voice hoarse. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
He was lifted without hesitation, the sure strength of a man who has spent years hauling anvils and hammering steel. Henry curled against his chest, small fists bunching in Pa’s tunic, burrowing into the warm spot beneath his collarbone. Pa stood slowly, cradling Henry’s head to keep it from knocking against his shoulder. The lantern swung from his other hand, its flame casting a trembling pool of gold across darkened trees.
The walk back through the forest unfolded in a series of blurred impressions. Henry was aware of the movement, of Pa’s steady heart thudding under his ear, the sway of each step, the cool brush of branches catching their clothes. He heard voices now and then, urgent, relieved, but fading in and out as though muffled from beyond a heavy blanket.
Somewhere along the way, more figures gathered beside them. Torches warming against the dark. Someone said, “Thank God,” and another murmured, “Poor lad, he’s shaking like a lamb,” but Henry didn’t lift his head.
The damp black night yawned above them as they reached the edge of the village. Lanterns bobbed at doorways. A few neighbours hurried toward them, concern written plain across their faces.
“Is he hurt?”
“Let me see the boy.”
A woman reached out, but Pa only tightened his hold, gently shifting Henry so her hands could check what she needed to without taking him away. She brushed mud from his cheek, checked his wrists, his scratched ankles, lifting a brow in approval when she found nothing broken.
“He’s chilled through, but whole,” she said softly. “Get him warm.”
Pa nodded once. “Aye.”
He carried Henry straight through the forge yard and into the house, kicking the door shut behind him. The fire was banked low, enough to fill the modest cottage with a glow that promised safety after the black maw of the forest.
Pa stood in the centre of the room, breathing hard, his hand still splayed protectively across Henry’s back. Only when he shifted with exhaustion did he lower him down onto his cot. Blankets and furs were tucked around him, layering softness until Henry was swaddled in warmth. His eyes could hardly stay open, his lashes trembling.
Pots clattered softly as Pa fumbled to warm a basin of water, returning to Henry’s side to gently sponge away the dirt that covered him. One hand smoothed damp hair back from Henry’s forehead.
“You’re safe now,” Pa murmured, a promise.
Henry had noticed the stillness of the house, the absence. He knew the answer before he asked, but he couldn’t help himself.
“…Where’s Ma?”
Grief soured the fragile peace of Pa’s expression, his eyes watering, mouth crumpling. Pa gave a desperate shake of his head, but nothing else. There were no words that could ever be enough. Nothing that could cover the hole that had been torn through the tapestry of their home, their family. A void had opened in the space where his mother had been.
Henry sank deeper into the covers, his Pa at his side in quiet vigil.
Time thinned into weightlessness. Henry drifted in and out of sleep, barely aware of the warm cocoon around him or the faint sting of dried salt on his cheeks. The fire had burned lower, the room dim and honey soft.
Voices. Low, outside the house, the hushed tones of adults when they don’t want to be overheard by young ears. Henry pressed closer to the window, eyes half-open beneath heavy lids, listening.
“You said they’d be safe. You gave your word.” It was Pa’s voice, sharp with anger.
A pause. Then a velvety tone, edged with an educated diction. A voice Henry didn’t recognise. “They were meant to be. There had been reports – carts held up on the road to Talmberg, travellers jostled, but no one hurt. I misjudged-“
“You think it were just bandits? A stroke of poor luck?” Pa gave a sound between a scoff and a wounded exhale. “Come off it. You can’t believe that. Mikulás says there were men asking questions at the inn just last week. Rough-looking men poking their noses in. And now-“ His voice broke; he swallowed it back with a ragged breath. “Jana was struck down like a dog on the road. While she was walking back from church, Henry in tow. A child.”
The man answered slowly, like each word cost him something. “I know.”
“You don’t,” Pa snaps. “If you did, you wouldn’t be talking like that. You wouldn’t be keeping your voice calm, you wouldn’t-“
“Martin.” The stranger’s tone wasn’t commanding or cold but almost pleading. “I saw her. I went to her myself. You think I don’t carry that weight already? God help me, I wish I’d taken that blow in her stead.”
Silence. The shifting of boots on damp earth, the creak of leather. A man pacing, or turning away.
Pa spoke again, his voice thin as spider’s silk. “She deserved better than that. She shouldn’t have had to put herself between him and a blade.”
The man answered with a grief so tightly reined it trembled. “She protected him. That’s what she would have wanted. He’s safe.”
“And that makes it right?” Pa asked bitterly, but the heat had gone from his voice. Just tired, furious at the world, at fate, at himself for not being there.
A long quiet followed, settling between them like frost. Weight shifted, a blur of footsteps and rustling fabric, a murmur shared too low for Henry to catch. Soon the voices faded and the door creaked open. Soft footfalls carried across the threshold.
Henry squeezed his eyes shut and stayed nestled in furs, feigning sleep. His heart felt too big for his ribs.
Sound and colour bled from the world. It reminded Henry of a clay jar that had cracked at its base – one he’d watched slowly empty itself across the shelf, the molasses turning sour as it seeped out. That same quiet leaking was happening inside him, sweetness draining away through a break he couldn’t see but felt everywhere.
The forge was never quiet but it reached him now as if through water. The clang of Pa’s hammer, usually so certain and rhythmic, came in distant pulses. The quenching trough hissed like rain behind a shuttered window. Even the glow of hot iron had lost its sting, dull in a world sapped of its colour.
Henry had curled himself into a small wedge between the firewood and the old cart, knees hugged tight, Ma’s shawl wrapped around him. It still smelled of her, blossoms and honey and that soft spring morning air she carried with her. He kept his cheek pressed to it because if he didn’t, panic would start creeping up the back of his throat again. The awful reality that everything had changed.
He watched Pa at the anvil. The slow rise and fall of his shoulders. The way he wiped the sweat from his brows the same way he had every day of Henry’s life. Familiar movements wearing the shape of a stranger. Pa had always seemed so large, so unshakeable, but now he moved like a man walking on a frozen lake, careful where he set his feet.
At one point, he lowered the hammer. The ring of metal still echoed when he glanced over.
“You can go out and play, lad,” he said gently, rubbing soot from his cheek. “Jakub’s boy was asking after you. Sun’s low but you’ve still time.”
Henry didn’t answer. He only hugged the shawl tighter, breathed her in deeper. Leaving Pa’s sight felt like disappearing down into the cold earth of that burrow again.
Pa hesitated. Henry could feel his gaze like sunlight on his hair. “A day or two more here with me is fine,” he murmured, the words meant for Henry but spoken like he was half-convincing himself.
The hammer struck iron again. The sound rang clear and sharp – splintering straight through Henry’s ribs. Tears pricked hot in his eyes before he could blink them away. There was no reason this blow, out of all the others, should be the one that broke him. Maybe it was the normalcy of it. The clean, practiced swing as though this were any ordinary day. As though Ma could appear at the forge’s edge, smile bright on her face, and call her boys away from the work for supper.
Pa noticed. He always noticed.
The hammer stilled. He set the work piece aside and crouched down, wiping his hands on his apron. He didn’t reach for Henry first, never one to force touch.
“Hal…”
Henry scrambled out of the nook so quickly he stumbled. Pa caught him, lifting him into his arms in one smooth motion, as if Henry weighed nothing at all. The leather of his apron was warm from the forge, carrying the ghost of smoke and iron. Pa’s heartbeat thrummed steady beneath it, a rhythm Henry could anchor to, a place to set all the shaking in his body.
When the sobs finally broke loose, soft hiccupping breaths he couldn’t swallow, Pa’s own breath caught. Henry heard it. A low, torn sound, like metal pushed one strain past its limit.
“You stay as long as you need,” Pa murmured into his hair. “It’s alright, son. I’m right here.”
Henry pressed his face harder against him and nodded. He didn’t have words big enough for what he felt – fear like a shadow with teeth, grief too heavy for a boy to lift, and that desperate pull toward the only person left who felt like home.
The forge cooled, untended, the fire settling into dull embers. The unfinished axe head lay forgotten on the anvil. Henry stayed wrapped in Pa’s arms until night pressed close around them, and though Pa’s chest trembled under the weight of everything, Henry pretended not to notice.
Piece by piece, things began to disappear into crates and sacks. Neatened, tidied away, never to be seen again. Over days, weeks, the little house Henry had shared with his parents was stripped. Henry hadn’t noticed it until only the bones remained.
He watched from his cot, his arms wrapped tight around his knees, Ma’s shawl draped over his shoulders, as Pa folded a tunic, then a pair of worn hose. A leather wrap of tools he was rarely without.
“Are we… going somewhere?” Henry asked, giving voice to the nagging fears haunting his thoughts for the last few days.
Pa paused with his back to him. “Something like that.”
That didn’t mean anything. Henry didn’t like it.
By noon, the sun crept through the shutters in dusty stripes. Pa turned from the small pile forming on the table and looked at Henry as if memorising him. Then he lowered to a crouch, hands on his knees.
“Lad,” he said quietly, “come here.”
Henry came forward at once, dread curling in his stomach. Pa caught him by his shoulders, brushed a smudge from his cheek with his thumb, combed through his hair like he was preparing him for church.
“There’s something I need to tell you. Something I should’ve said sooner, but… we’ve ran out of time.”
Henry blinked up at him. Pa’s face was soft and pained all at once, like he wanted to smile but couldn’t manage it.
“You know Sir Radzig,” Pa began. “You’ve known him all your life. He’s a good man. A fair one.”
Henry nodded, confused. Sir Radzig was the lord of Skalitz, a distant figure on a horse.
Pa swallowed visibly. “He’s… he’s your father, Henry.”
Henry stared. “But… you’re-“ His voice snagged. “You’re my pa.”
Pa’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “I raised you. From the moment your mother placed you in my arms. None of that changes, not ever.” His breath trembled. “You’re my son in every way that matters. I’d have kept you by my side till my dying day, if the world allowed it.”
Panic split through him in one, hot rush. “Don’t leave. Please don’t-“
Pa hauled him into his arms so fiercely that Henry gasped. The hug crushed them together, Henry’s cheek pressed against Pa’s collar, the rough fabric of his tunic scratching his skin. Pa smelled of smoke and iron and safety, the only home Henry had ever known.
“If I stay,” Pa whispered into his hair, “I’ll break. This house… every corner has Jana in it. Every memory trips me. I can’t breathe here anymore.” He stroked Henry’s back, trying to settle him even as Pa’s own voice frayed. “But I would’ve stayed for you. I would have. Until I realised that staying means failing you.”
Henry shook his head, not understanding, not wanting to understand. “No. No I don’t want-“
“You’ll be safe with Sir Radzig. Safer than I could keep you.” He cupped the back of Henry’s head, holding him like he was the only real thing left in the world. “He’ll look after you. He’s wanted to your whole life.”
Henry fisted Pa’s tunic in both hands, the fabric damp beneath his cheek. Pa’s shoulders shuddered once before he pressed his cheek to Henry’s hair, breathing in long and deep like he was trying to remember the scent forever.
A knock broke the raw quiet.
Pa stiffened. Henry felt it like a jolt – the way Pa’s arms tightened, then slowly, reluctantly loosened.
“Stay here, lad,” he murmured. “Just for a moment.”
Henry clung harder. “Please-“
“Henry.” Pa’s voice gentled, but there was no give in it. It was an ending. A fast-approaching cliff edge. Henry didn’t know if his heart could take the inevitable fall.
A second knock followed the first. A gentle rap of knuckles, soft with the hesitation of someone who knew they were walking into grief. Pa drew a sharp, steadying breath and rose to his feet. Henry didn’t let go. He clung to Pa’s sleeve until Pa carefully pried his fingers free.
“It’s all right, lad,” Pa said. Another lie said with love.
Pa opened the door only a crack. Henry couldn’t see the visitor just heard the low, formal voice of a man.
“Master Menshi, my lord asked me to come for the boy. He thought it best… not to trouble you himself.” The voice softened. “I understand you may wish for more time. If you’d rather bring him up to the keep, the gates will be open for you.”
“No,” Pa said, too quickly. “No, I can’t walk him there. I’ll fetch him. Just… give us a moment.”
The door closed. Pa stood with his back against it, eyes screwed shut, breath shaking. When he opened them again, he looked at Henry with a grief so deep it felt ancient.
“Henry…” Pa whispered.
Henry went to him; the last place on earth that felt safe. Pa lifted him, finally, helplessly, and held him close one last time. His heartbeat thudded hard, as if the act of letting go was tearing something inside him.
“I’ll be good,” Henry choked out. Once he started, the words kept coming, tumbling over each other wild and breathless. “I’ll be better. I won’t fight with Matthew and Fritz anymore, and I’ll do all my chores, help in the smithy, and I won’t get in the way. I’ll do anything. Just don’t make me go. Please, Pa. Please don’t let them take me.”
Pa froze like he’d been shot.
“I’ll be good, I promise.” Henry swore, the words cracking apart in his throat.
Pa pulled back, his face twisted. He cupped Henry’s cheeks with a kind of frantic tenderness. “Listen to me,” he said, thumbs wiping tears even as his own eyes shone. “You were never trouble. Never. Don’t you think for a moment this is a punishment.”
Henry shook his head. “Then don’t make me go.”
“I can’t keep you safe,” Pa said, no longer trying to hide the cracks in his voice. “And I’d rather you hate me and live, than love me and be taken too.”
Henry clung to him again, desperate, but Pa held him less tightly than before, as if he hugged any harder, he wouldn’t be able to let go.
Their time was up. The steward was at the door, waiting.
Pa closed his eyes and touched his forehead to Henry’s. “I’m sorry, lad. I’m so, so sorry.”
And then, with hands that trembled, he gently pried Henry’s fingers free.
None of it felt real. The coat that was pulled close around him, the satchel hooked over his shoulder a weight he barely felt. The sympathy in the steward’s face when he took Henry’s hand. One foot followed the other, leaving soft prints in mud wet from rain. Henry only looked back once, at the edge of the yard. The empty forge, the little herb garden, the low boughs of the linden tree, the cottage that sat quiet and still, door shut and shutters drawn.
There was no figure in the doorway watching him go. No final glimpse of the man who had raised him, who had been there for every scraped knee, every tear shed, every nightmare. The absence landed hard. Henry’s breath fumbled but he tried to swallow it down. He’d promised to be good, to do better. He wouldn’t make things harder. He could be brave.
The steward noticed the tremor in his hand and slowed without comment. “You’ll like the castle,” he murmured, tone as warm as a blanket left by the fire. “It’s a fine place for a boy to grow, and Sir Radzig will see you’re well cared for.”
Henry nodded absently and wiped his face with his sleeve, skin still remembering Pa’s comforting touch.
Unfamiliar hands fussed over him. Henry sat rigid on the little stool while a maid dabbed at his face with a damp cloth. She smelled faintly of lavender and hearth smoke, her hands brisk but not unkind, tilting his chin this way and that as though he were a scuffed cup needing a shine. He tried to keep still. His legs wanted to swing; he pressed his heels hard to the floorboard to stop them.
“Hold your arms up, sweetling,” she murmured.
He obeyed. His tunic lifted away, the cooler air wrapped around his bare skin, raising a shiver. A clean linen shirt slipped over his head, the fabric softer than anything he’d worn before. New grey hose replaced his patched pair. Then a warm woollen doublet in Skalitz red, stitched hurriedly but neatly at the seams. It hung a little loose in the shoulders. Someone tied a belt around his waist. Another smoothed down his hair and made a faint sound of defeat when the light brown waves refused to obey.
Henry didn’t know where to put his hands. Adults crowded the little chamber, flicking him brief looks, some pitying, some merely curious. Their voices stayed soft and careful as they guided his arms, steadied his elbows, buttoned and tugged, but there was a strange hush under it all, as if no one knew quite what to say to him. It made him feel like a doll; handled, arranged.
Ma’s hands had been softer, gentler, always finding the small places that hurt and eased them. Pa would scoop him up when fear rose, letting Henry hide against his neck. Now both were gone from his world and these new, careful hands never lingered long enough to be comforting.
The maid stepped back and crouched to meet his eyes. “There now,” she said, giving him a quick smile. “Just keep close to Sir Radzig, aye? Stand still, speak only when spoken to, address the lord’s as ‘sir’, and you’ll do well.”
Henry nodded. The knot in his chest didn’t budge.
A guard appeared in the doorway. “They’re ready.”
The maid took Henry’s hand and guided him down the corridor.
Torches flickered in their sconces, sending shadows leaping over painted plaster. Stone walls pressed close around him, colder and heavier than the timbered rooms he knew. Woven rugs softened his footsteps, swallowing sound. He followed the maid toward the great hall, small and uncertain, feeling hopelessly out of place. These hallways weren’t meant for the ragged sons of blacksmiths, motherless little boys plucked from the village green.
He heard the hall before he saw it: rolling laughter, the clatter of metal plates and goblets. The noise a reminder that important men lived their lives loudly. He gave the maid a pleading glance, his stomach tight in dread.
She paid him no mind, led by duty. They stepped through the arch.
The room opened around him. Candlelight trembled on iron plinths, dancing over walls painted in knotted vine-like patterns, smoke blurring the air. At the long table sat three lords, flanked by men in dull armour, the kind of hardened faces he usually glimpsed only from behind his mother’s skirts. He recognised Captain Petr. A few guards who sometimes slipped him sugared almonds when his mother wasn’t looking.
Sir Radzig, Lord of Skalitz, rose from his seat.
Henry stopped in his tracks.
The man was straight-backed, dressed in a dark doublet edged in burgundy. Serious hazel eyes met his, mouth drawn in a thoughtful, assessing line. His father. The word clanged in Henry’s mind like a bell he wasn’t supposed to ring.
The maid nudged him gently. “Go on, Henry.”
He stumbled forward, his legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. His gaze snagged on the brooch at Sir Radzig’s lapel, a small, bright metal that caught the candlelight, when looking any higher made his throat tighten.
Sir Radzig met him halfway. He didn’t kneel; he was a man who looked like he hadn’t knelt for anything in years, but he stopped close enough that Henry could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of leather and smoke.
“You’ve grown since we last met, though you may have been too young to remember.” His voice was low, careful.
Henry swallowed. He knew Sir Radzig – everyone in Skalitz did. He’d learned to keep his eyes lowered when he passed in the market; he wasn’t to gawk, not to pester. He was a distant figure of authority; someone Henry had pointed out to his friends with a breathless sort of admiration before darting back to their play. Now Radzig was close enough that Henry could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. His voice was soft in a way Henry hadn’t expected. Too soft for the man he’d only ever glimpsed from a balcony or on horseback.
He didn’t know what he was meant to feel. Reverence? Respect? Fear? All he could offer was a stiff, uncertain: “Yes, sir.”
Something flickered across Sir Radzig’s face then, a thinning of the sternness, the ghost of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. It vanished almost at once, like breath fading from glass.
A loud sigh from one of the lords jarred Henry back into the brightness of the hall. “Well, out with it, Radzig. You gathered us here to tell us something, now don’t keep us in suspense.”
The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a face carved in soft, but proud lines. A little boy sat perched on his knee, fair-haired and restless, his wide blue eyes locked on Henry as though he were the most interesting thing in the room. A pudgy hand thrust a gilded rattle in his direction, waving it in sticky-fingered triumph before dropping it squarely on the table. The clang rang through the hall like a cheerful challenge.
The older lord to the right of Sir Radzig’s vacant seat chuckled indulgently. “Hanush, it seems your ward is in agreement.”
Sir Hanush snorted. “If that were true, it’d be the first time in his life. Hans is as stubborn as his father ever was.” Yet he plucked up the rattle and returned it to the delighted boy with a weary sort of fondness.
Their easy exchange washed around Henry without touching him. He stood very still, unsure whether he was meant to smile at the child or keep his face a mask like the guards lining the walls.
Sir Radzig cleared his throat. His hand came down on Henry’s shoulder – heavy, steadying, a weight that said stay. “Friends,” he said, voice carrying cleanly across the hall, “this is Henry. My son.”
The words fell over Henry like a cloak too large, swallowing him whole. A warmth rushed to his face. His arms hovered uselessly at his sides – was he supposed to bow? Speak? He didn’t know the rules here. All he knew was that half the room was staring at him as though he’d been thrust out from behind a curtain.
Sir Divish blinked, taken aback. His gaze sharpened with new interest, a measuring sort of curiosity. “Your son?” He echoed, tasting the words. “Forgive me, Radzig. I wasn’t aware you had any children.”
Radzig’s fingers tightened briefly, anchoring Henry when every instinct urged him to shrink away. “It was never a matter for the court,” Radzig said. “He was raised by the blacksmith, Martin. A good man and friend. He and Henry’s mother cared for him, while I offered what support I could from a distance.”
Henry bit the inside of his cheek. They were speaking about him – about Ma and Pa – around him as though he were no more than a parcel delivered before them. His vision pricked hot at the edges. He kept his eyes fixed on the flagstones, grounding himself in their steadiness.
“The blacksmith…?” Divish murmured. “There was talk of bandits-“
“Yes.” Radzig’s interruption was sharp but quiet, the single syllable flattening the air in the hall. Conversation stilled.
Divish bowed his head. “God rest her soul.”
The boy on Sir Hanush’s knee shook his rattle again, cheerful as birdsong, oblivious to the hush that had settled over the room. Hanush murmured something to him and shifted him higher on his lap. The child gurgled in answer, a small sunbeam in a hall of long shadows and stone. Henry’s eyes clung to him for a moment. That simple brightness tugged at something in his chest – memories of warm grass and running feet and the easy laughter of summer days.
Radzig’s voice steadied the air again. He spoke with a careful patience that reminded Henry of how Matthias’s Pa handled frightened horses. “Henry has lost enough. I won’t have his safety left to chance again. He’ll stay here, under my protection.”
Hanush nodded, rocking his ward absently. “A wise choice. These are hard days for little ones without strong walls around them.”
Radzig breathed out, almost a sigh, as though he had braced for an argument that hadn’t come. Then he lowered himself into a crouch, bringing his face level with Henry’s. The gesture alone startled Henry more than anything said so far. Lords didn’t kneel. Lords didn’t lower themselves for ragged boys like him.
“Henry.” Radzig waited until Henry’s gaze lifted. The man’s eyes were stern. A soldier’s eyes shaped by years of command and hard decisions, softened now by something Henry didn’t understand.
“You’re safe here, son,” he said softly enough that only Henry would hear. “No one will harm you. You’ll learn your letters, your sums, how to ride. You’ll have the chance to choose your own path when you’re grown. Your mother would want that for you.”
Harm. The word pricked like a thorn. A gust of memory shoved itself into Henry’s mind – grey morning, glint of steel, his mother’s sharp whisper as she pushed him toward the trees. The hall wobbled for an instant, stone blurring at the edges. Safety sounded like a story told to younger children, like adults promising the storm would listen to polite requests to quiet in relentless nights. But Radzig’s hand settled on his shoulder again, a point of warmth that pulled him back into the present.
“I know this is strange,” Radzig said. “But in time, this place will feel like home.”
Henry blinked fast, fighting the tremble in his throat. “Yes, sir.”
“The lad shows good manners, at least,” Sir Divish said, a mild smile tugging at his mouth.
Hanush barked a laugh. “Imagine that – a child that listens!”
Their laughter eased the air a little. Henry stood in the centre of it all, stiff as a spear shaft, not sure where to rest his gaze. Radzig’s hand stayed firm on his shoulder. That steady weight kept Henry from drifting too far into the dizzy unease tightening his ribs.
Every moment since letting go of his mother’s hand on the road had felt like freefall. The world whipping past him as fast as the thickets that had scratched at his cheeks and tangled in his clothes as he’d run, tumbled, and plummeted through nightmare after nightmare. Radzig held him steady, let him catch his breath, and he felt the faintest sense of something solid returning beneath him.
A wail shattered the thin solemnity. “Down!”
Hans, round-cheeked and woolly-haired, had wriggled halfway out of Hanush’s distracted arms. He jabbed a finger in Henry’s direction with absolute certainty. His legs kicked like he meant to launch himself across the table.
The adults startled, stifling amused snorts.
Hanush heaved a theatrical sigh. “See that? The little menace has taken a shine to him already. Might be young Henry’s first duty – keeping this blighter in line before he tears down the tapestries.”
Radzig’s stern mouth twitched at the corner. “Sir Hans has been terrorising half the region the moment he found his voice.”
Hans babbled something thunderous and incomprehensible. Hanush relented and set him down. The boy shot forward with heroic purpose, his arms out and face alight. He hit Henry square in the stomach with enough force to rock him back on his heels. Henry’s hands shot out, catching small shoulders before either of them toppled.
Hans squeaked in delight, as if this rescue had been precisely the outcome he’d hoped for. The sound struck Henry like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. A laugh escaped him, quick and startled but real. Hans beamed up at him as though they’d been friends all their short lives.
Hanush clapped a hand to his knee. “Well, Radzig, looks like your boy’s been claimed.”
“God help poor Henry,” Divish said warmly.
The adults’ voices were soft, their eyes warm with affection. Everything in the room seemed to lean subtly towards the young boy clinging to Henry, as though Hans were a hearth in winter and the whole room instinctively sought his warmth. Henry felt it too, a faint easing of the frost that had crept into him over the last few weeks. Not gone, but gentled. Still, he stood awkwardly beneath the onslaught of Hans’ enthusiasm, painfully aware of every speck of forge soot still stubbornly lodged under his nails despite the maids’ relentless scrubbing.
Hans’ little hand latched onto Henry’s tunic, bunching the fabric in a tight, drool-damp fist. His babbling rose to an urgent pitch, clumsy syllables that sounded like a demand to be lifted. Henry hesitated. Did boys like him pick up noble infants? Was he allowed? He glanced at Radzig helplessly, searching instinctively for permission.
Radzig, returned to the head of the table, gave a small, steadying nod. The kind given to a horse midway through learning a new gait – encouraging, appraising, gently expectant.
So Henry bent, hooked his arms under Hans’ arms, and hoisted. Little hands found purchase on Henry’s tunic with the instincts of a squirrel scaling a tree. Hans curled an arm around Henry’s neck and pressed his cheek to Henry’s shoulder with the complete, unthinking trust of a child who has never doubted the world meant well by him. Henry locked in place at the contact. With the entire hall watching, dropping the heir of Rattay felt like grounds for exile. He held Hans tighter.
Laughter drifted over them, rich, easy, the sound of people utterly at home in their lives. Henry barely caught their words; talk of futures, of possibilities, of these two young boys whose paths were already being woven. None of it meant anything to Hans. He leaned back in Henry’s arms with surprisingly steadiness, studying Henry with an open, curious softness.
Then Hans cupped Henry’s cheeks in both small, warm hands and pressed his forehead to Henry’s with fierce, uncomplicated affection.
Henry froze. For a moment, the hall blurred, all sound thinning into distance – the laughter, the clink of goblets, the rustle of silk. There was only the child in his arms, bright and brave and utterly untroubled by rank or blood or the jagged social edges Henry was so afraid of cutting himself on. Henry let his forehead rest against Hans’, a breath loosening from somewhere deep and tight inside him. No one had touched him like that in what felt like a lifetime.
It was only a brief, fragile moment. A passing servant carrying a pitcher of wine became distracted by the visiting young lord, who turned his head to follow her in expectation. The maid cooed at him, pinching his cheek which earned a delighted shriek. When her gaze slid to Henry, the smile held, but changed subtly, uncertainty wavering at the corners. She gestured him toward a place at the long table. Henry obeyed, grateful for the direction and lowering Hans in the process.
Hans toddled after him, clutching at the hem of Henry’s tunic. The moment Henry sat, the child was lifted easily into the neighbouring chair, piled high with plush pillows, by Hanush.
The lords exchanged amused looks. A faint shift breathed through the room, warm as a draft from a bakery door. Everyone adored Hans. They had from the moment he arrived squalling into the world. The little sun the whole region orbited.
Hanush leaned in, steadying Hans with one broad hand as the boy’s wriggling nearly toppled him from his throne of pillows. “Easy there, little bird, or you’ll tumble off your perch.”
Hans response was to wriggle with more ferocity, giggling like it was a challenge. Hanush snorted, then in a mock-whisper loud enough to be heard across the table, “Sit like a fine lord for five breaths, and I’ll have the cook bring you those ginger biscuits you love after your milk.”
Hans gasped, genuinely awestruck by the magnitude of the promise. At once he arranged himself upright, legs swinging, looking up at Henry with a pride so bright it was almost blinding.
Henry let out a breath of startled laughter. “Does he always listen like that?”
“When it suits him,” Hanush said. “Which, thank the saints, is often enough to spare my hair turning grey.”
Hans leaned into Hanush’s arm with the same casual trust he’d shown Henry. Without thinking, Hanush pressed a kiss to the top of the boy’s head. The gesture was so natural it tightened something warm and achingly deep in Henry’s chest.
Radzig raised his goblet, signalling something unspoken but understood among the adults, and servants drifted forward like a tide to lay out the evening meal. Platters of roasted meat, warm bread, honeyed carrots arranged on polished dishes. A small wooden cup was set before him, wine diluted with water until it blushed faintly pink. Henry stared at it, at the careful arrangement of plates and silver, at the banners that hung above the table. None of it felt real. It was like stepping behind a tapestry and discovered another world hidden on the other side.
He glanced down the table toward Radzig, trying to imitate how he held his cup, which of the platters he reached for first, how he nodded at the servants in a way that suggested he’d been doing so forever. Radzig’s composure seemed carved out of something older than the hall itself, steady and contained in the way of men who expected the whole room to obey.
Henry watched him with a tight, uncertain yearning. He wondered whether Radzig would ever lean down and kiss his head the way Hanush had kissed Hans. Whether those ringed hands could ever rest on Henry’s shoulders the way Pa’s had, full of a love that never needed to be spoken to be understood.
Would Radzig ever look at him the way a father looks at a son?
The thought knotted sharply in his chest. Radzig was a stranger who shared his blood. A great lord who spoke kindly but carefully, who felt more like a story told to him than a man seated across the table. Henry couldn’t imagine Radzig lifting him the way Pa had or gathering him after a nightmare. Radzig was polished armour and measured words. He belonged to this world of banners and long tables and servants who moved like part of a well-rehearsed dance.
Hans belonged here too, so easily, so naturally. The little lord perched beside Henry was already being coaxed into taking neat bites of softened carrot, Hanush steadying him every time he wriggled too enthusiastically. When Hans reached out for a piece of bread on Henry’s plate instead of his own, the adults only laughed. The indulgence was effortless.
Henry passed the bread to him without thinking.
Radzig noticed. His eyes flicked toward his son, and something softened around the edges of his stern expression, faint as a change in the wind.
It was enough to make Henry’s cheeks burn. He sat a little straighter, the diluted wine cupped carefully between his palms as though holding something important. For a moment, he let himself imagine what it might feel like to belong in a hall like this.