The morning sun crept lazily through the wooden shutters of the Verne household, falling in thin, golden streaks across the polished floor. To any ordinary person, it might have looked peaceful—a quiet start to a new day.
To me, Ilyas Verne, it was a warning.
Because in this house, "peaceful" was a lie. A fragile, dangerous, and short-lived lie that dissolved the moment the first footsteps thundered across the corridor.
"Father!"
I groaned into my pillow. Eight-year-old Arin, my son, appeared at the door with the energy of a tornado in human form. Dark hair tousled, eyes gleaming with mischief, he carried a wooden stick that he waved as if it were a sword.
"Yes, Arin?" I asked cautiously, trying to sound calm.
He tilted his head. "Good morning, Father. I… wanted to ask…"
Before he could finish, a loud crash came from the next room. Something ceramic had shattered. I peeked over the edge of my blanket. Lysa, my ten-year-old daughter, was already upright, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the mess her brother had made.
"I told you not to touch that!" she said, her voice deceptively soft. But her glare could have frozen molten metal.
Arin shrugged innocently. "It was an accident. Besides, I need to practice."
"Practice?" I echoed weakly, sitting up. My joints protested in chorus. "For what?"
Arin's grin widened. "Strength, Father. Mother says we must always be ready."
I blinked. Mother? Ah, yes. Avaris, my wife.
From the hallway came a soft, deliberate tap of footsteps—the kind of movement that demanded attention without speaking a word. Avaris entered, her presence immediately flattening the chaos into a tense harmony. Calm, poised, impossibly beautiful. Dark hair pulled back neatly, eyes like knives wrapped in velvet. She smiled at me, faintly, almost tenderly.
"Good morning," she said softly. Her tone was gentle, yet commanding. Just enough to remind me that I was always under her watchful eye.
I bowed my head slightly. "Good morning."
Her lips curved into a smirk, just enough to hint at amusement. "Five minutes," she said. Then she turned her gaze to the children, who froze in place as if their energy had been sapped by some unseen force.
I exhaled. Survival in this household was an art form.
Breakfast was another test of patience. Arin insisted on sitting at the head of the table, claiming it was "strategic positioning." Lysa meticulously arranged her utensils, tilting the cup just so, and making notes about the angle of sunlight across her food. Meanwhile, I tried to sip my tea without spilling it—an increasingly impossible task whenever the children were present.
Avaris hovered behind me at intervals, adjusting my robe, smoothing my hair, and occasionally tapping her fingers lightly on my shoulder. Her movements were subtle, almost affectionate, but carried that underlying authority I could never challenge.
"You're lucky I love you," she said at one point, leaning close enough that I could smell the faint scent of jasmine. Then, as if to remind me of her sharpness, she added, "Try not to embarrass yourself today."
I swallowed hard. I still didn't know who she really was. Not her past, not her true capabilities. All I knew was that she could silently make a grown man feel inadequate with a glance.
After breakfast, I moved to the study, attempting to lose myself in my work: sketches of serene landscapes, poems about rivers, essays about calm, peaceful life. Each stroke of the brush reminded me of the absurdity of my existence—a scholar surrounded by a family that could topple kingdoms if provoked.
Arin was already at it again, testing small objects, swinging a spoon like a sword. Lysa silently corrected the angle of his movements with her sharp gaze. And Avaris… she leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, observing me with that unreadable expression of hers.
I groaned. "Ilyas Verne," I muttered to myself. "A peaceful scholar's life… my dream. Why did it have to include children who can crush a man twice their size?"
Arin laughed. "Father, don't exaggerate. I'm only eight."
I shot him a look that could have felled a lesser child. He only laughed harder.
Avaris chuckled softly from the doorway. "Don't worry, love. They only tease because they know you can't fight back."
I swallowed. She meant it as affection. I took it as both warning and insult. Classic tsundere effect.
The morning continued in a blur. Arin pulled at things he shouldn't, Lysa quietly corrected every minor misstep, and I—helpless, ordinary, frazzled—was tasked with supervising, reasoning, and occasionally hiding from them altogether.
By mid-morning, I slumped into a chair, taking a deep breath. I gazed at my children, the little monsters who somehow inherited their mother's inexplicable strength. How? I had no clue. My genes were ordinary at best, yet these two tiny terrors could easily overpower me in any physical contest. I still didn't know why.
And then I looked at Avaris, calm and composed, yet exuding a quiet aura of command. I could never hope to guess her full history. I still didn't know who she really was.
And somehow… I loved them all anyway.
Because despite the chaos, the near-constant danger to my sanity, and the ridiculousness of my "ordinary scholar" life, this was my family. And whether I survived it or not, I was going to endure… at least until the next disaster struck.
And, judging by the gleam in Arin's eye as he quietly picked up a wooden spoon again, I had a feeling it would not be long.