Dear Jade,
How are you doing? I hope you never find this letter. But if you do, it means I'm no longer around.
I never meant to hide this secret from you. That was never my hope.
It just wasn't worth letting everyone suffer for my sake. That burden... it's not something I was strong enough to carry.
When I'm gone, I wonder—will you start learning how to read, just to understand my last words?
But if you don't, I just hope you keep this letter with you.
Love,Your —
****
Autumn's breath lingered over Harrowood. Warm gold bled into cold silver as the forest waited for winter, its leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Smoke curled from distant chimneys, thick with wood and ash.
High in an ancient oak, Reed crouched in the shadows. The tree's limbs cradled him like an old friend, bark rough beneath his fingers. Below, the clearing spread out—a patch of compacted dirt littered with fallen leaves, and the faint imprint of combat.
A boy, no older than Reed, moved awkwardly across the space. His stance was off, his swings too wide, but his eyes burned with determination. Beside him, a man corrected, guided, watched. His voice was calm but firm, a blade honed by years.
Reed watched. And wrote. His pencil scratched across parchment in short, fast strokes. He didn't push the fringe of dark blue hair from his eyes; he didn't need to see everything to understand it. He was listening, feeling.
The fighters below remained oblivious to his presence, just as Reed preferred. It was his secret method of understanding something he believed he shouldn't really concern himself with.
Above, His sister lounged against the oak's trunk, her long legs carelessly dangling off a branch. Her braid swayed gently in the breeze, and her keen eyes observed Reed with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Clad in a simple tunic softened by many washes, her relaxed posture radiated an effortless grace.
"What do you think of his technique, Reed?" she asked playfully.
Reed paused, his pencil halting mid-sentence as he glanced briefly at her before returning to his notes. "It's not very powerful," he murmured, "but it's efficient. His movements are precise, and his style suits his small frame."
His sister smirked, crossing her arms. "Since when did you care about swordsmanship?"
He shrugged and closed his notebook for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe it's a new interest."
Crouching on her branch and leaning in closer, her teasing tone softened. "Reed, I'm your sister. I know you better than anyone. You've always dreamed of being a scholar, not a fighter. You're not cut out for swinging a sword around. Are you alright?"
Reed didn't reply immediately—instead, he fixated on the sparring match below, his grip tightening on his notebook. His sister tilted her head, studying him for a long moment before sighing and adding, "Why don't you ask Dad to train you? He's a hunter, and if you're truly interested in fighting, he'd be happy to help."
Reed's hold slackened as he looked down at his feet. In a barely audible voice he said, "It's fine. I don't want to bother him. I'm not trying to fight—I just want to understand it."
His sister didn't press the matter further. Instead, she patted his shoulder lightly. "Don't be silly. You're never a bother, Reed. You should talk to him. Anyway, I need to get back and help Mom with dinner. You coming?"
"No," Reed replied softly. "Not yet."
His sister gave him one final searching glance before standing and stretching. "Suit yourself. Just don't stay out too long, okay?"
"Okay," he murmured, and then he was alone.
As the forest quieted, the sounds of the sparring match receded into the background. Reed eased his tension, leaning back against the tree as he watched the older man correct the boy's stance with a firm yet kind voice. The boy nodded, a flushed effort painting his face, and resumed his practice.
Then something shifted.
The boy's movements faltered as his sword slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the ground. He doubled over, clutching his chest, his face contorting in pain as a soft groan escaped him.
At that very moment, a sharp, pulsing pain burst in Reed's own chest. Clutching his tunic so tightly his knuckles turned white, he fought silently to endure the familiar yet intensifying pain.
Below, the older man hurried to the boy's side, his stern look giving way to concern. "Easy, easy," he soothed, placing a supportive hand on the boy's shoulder. "Breathe through it. It'll pass."
The boy nodded, his ragged breaths gradually steadying under the man's guidance. After a moment, the pain seemed to diminish, and the boy straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow as the older man murmured something Reed couldn't catch. A weak laugh from the boy, followed by another nod, marked the lull in the episode.
Reed continued watching, his chest still ablaze with pain and his fingers trembling. Alone with his suffering, he glanced down to see a faint yellow glow pulsing just beneath his tunic—a subtle but undeniable sign that something was very wrong.
***
The warmth from the makeshift fireplace embraced the cramped room, its flickering flames casting playful, shifting silhouettes on the timeworn, cracked walls.
A family of four sat huddled on the cold, uneven wooden floor, their modest meal artfully arranged on a rough-hewn crate that doubled as a table. The air was thick with the savory aroma of mutton stew, its rich steam curling upwards from chipped ceramic bowls, mingling with the inviting scent of crusty, rustic bread.
Reed's mother, her hands bearing the callouses, passed a bowl to Reed's sister with a gentle, reassuring smile. "I heard they finally found an artifact for Cassie Grace!" she exclaimed, her voice sparkling with relief as it cut through the quiet space.
Reed's father reached for his bread and inquired, "What grade did she get?" His tone mingled curiosity with the weariness of a hard-lived life.
"A red grade," his mother replied, shaking her head slowly as if mourning the value of what was offered. "And it cost them 10 whole silver."
A low whistle escaped Reed's father, laden with disbelief and a touch of ironic humor. "10 silver? For a red grade artifact?" he murmured, his voice heavy with incredulity.
"Being poor really is a sin." In their harsh reality, a single silver coin would suffice to feed Reed's entire family for two months, yet even that was a scarce luxury as they struggled to meet the ever-mounting rent.
Softening his tone, he turned to the children with a tender note, "Thank the lord neither of you is marked." In an instant, he scooped both Reed and his daughter into a giant, enveloping bear hug, his sturdy arms wrapping around their small shoulders.
"Dad! Ew!" Reed's sister burst out, wriggling free with a giggle. "You're so sweaty!" she teased, stepping back and playfully glaring at him as she adjusted the worn fabric of her tunic.
Reed's laughter bubbled up quietly, unable to subdue a smile as he watched his sister's exaggerated reaction. His father's hearty laughter rumbled deeply through the room like a cherished melody, and soon their mother joined in, shaking her head with affectionate amusement as she stirred the simmering stew.
The room filled with laughter, a rare and fleeting joy that seemed to lift the burden of their daily struggles, making the biting chill outside feel like a distant, forgotten memory.
Yet, as Reed surveyed the faces illuminated by the soft, dying glow of the fire, his smile faltered. He clutched his bowl tightly, resolute in savoring the fleeting warmth of the moment, while a persistent inner dread quietly tightened its grip on his chest.
Later, when the fire had dwindled to faint embers and the sounds of sleep had settled over the house, Reed lay awake. Gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling above, he watched the faint yellow light pulsing beneath his worn tunic—a silent reminder of a truth he could never escape.
He wasn't unmarked.
And soon, that truth would unfurl, reaching every corner of their fragile existence.