The morning came softly upon the house at the edge of the hill, as though the dawn itself feared to disturb the fragile peace that rested there. Pale gold light slipped through the wooden shutters, touching the worn table, the clay cups, the quiet figures beginning to stir. The air carried the faint scent of damp earth and leaves—a promise of another day of labor, and perhaps, if fortune allowed it, of quiet triumph.
The children rose early, as they had learned to do. There was no indulgence in sloth in a life such as theirs. Even the youngest had come to understand that the day must be met with readiness, or it would leave them behind without mercy.
Breakfast was simple: warm porridge, a little bread, and watered milk. Yet it was eaten with an ease that came not from abundance, but from shared company. Small laughter flickered between them, brief and bright, like sparks that refused to die even in hardship.
Sion had risen before the others.
He sat apart at first. His movements were quiet, deliberate—one might think him merely reserved, but those who knew him understood better. There was always a measure of caution in him, a habit carved deep by years of watching, listening, surviving.
He was bound again for the orphanage that day.
When the meal was done, they made their way toward the market. The path wound down from the hill, the earth still cool beneath their feet. The town below stirred slowly, merchants setting up their stalls, voices rising in the early bustle.
Eiran and Sion worked together without need for many words. Crates were lifted, cloths spread, fruits and vegetables arranged with care. Sion kept his hood low, his face obscured from curious eyes, though now and then one could glimpse the sharpness of his gaze beneath the shadow.
When at last everything was in order, Sion did not linger.
"I'll go ahead," he said simply.
Eiran nodded, though the faint crease between his brows betrayed his concern. "Be careful."
Sion gave no promise. He merely turned and went, his steps swift as he left the town behind, heading toward the distant orphanage without looking back.
Eiran and the others watched him go for a moment longer, then exhaled and turned toward the path home. The smallholding awaited him—there was always something that needed tending.
He did not like leaving the others alone.
Yet the twins, with their bright eyes and quick minds, and Felian—who bore a quiet sharpness not unlike Sion himself—had insisted.
"Trust us," they had said.
Eiran had hesitated, then relented. Trust, after all, was something that must be given, or it would never grow.
The day passed, and the sun began its slow descent.
It was nearing dusk when Sion returned.
The market was quieter now, the earlier clamor softened into the weary murmur of closing trade. The golden light of the setting sun stretched long shadows across the ground.
But something was wrong.
The stall was empty.
No twins. No Felian.
Not even a trace of them remained.
Sion stilled.
For a fleeting moment, something sharp and dangerous flickered beneath his calm exterior.
He stepped toward a nearby vendor, his voice controlled but edged with urgency. "The children who were here earlier—where are they?"
The man blinked, then recognition dawned. "Ah, them?" he said, his tone almost amused. "They've gone already. Sold out everything, they did."
Sion's gaze did not soften. "Sold out?"
"Aye," the man continued, warming to his tale. "Quick-witted, those ones. At first, no one paid them much mind—new faces, you see. But then one woman noticed how fresh the produce was, started asking questions. Before long, there was a crowd."
He chuckled. "Some fools tried to take advantage, of course. But…" He paused, glancing around before lowering his voice. "That taller one with them? No one dared push too far after seeing him."
Sion exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing—though only slightly.
"Thank you," he said, already turning away.
He did not hear the whisper that followed until he had taken a few steps.
"Why tell him?" someone muttered. "That's the omega who lives on the hill."
There was a brief silence, then another voice—firm, dismissive.
"And what of it? I've no patience for foolish rumors. You'd do well to mind your own business instead of spreading nonsense."
Sion did not look back.
He had long since learned that rumors were like weeds—they grew where they pleased, and pulling them out often only made them spread further.
By the time he reached the house, the sky had darkened into shades of amber and violet.
He found Eiran in the backyard.
"Where are they?" Sion asked at once.
Eiran gestured toward the smallholding. "Somewhere there."
Sion did not wait.
He crossed the field and entered the orchard, where the trees stood in quiet rows, their leaves whispering softly in the evening breeze.
And there he found them.
The sight, at first glance, seemed almost absurd.
Felian stood a short distance away, his sword flashing in the fading light as he practiced, each movement precise, controlled, and just a touch too deliberate—like a performance meant for unseen eyes.
Riven sat beneath one of the apple trees, a book open in his hands, his expression calm and absorbed, as though the world beyond those pages scarcely existed.
And Rhen…
Rhen lay stretched upon the grass, utterly at ease, a book draped carelessly over his face as he slept, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady.
For a moment, Sion simply watched.
Then, without a word, he turned and returned shortly after with a tray—sweets and tea, modest but carefully prepared.
Riven was the first to notice him.
He looked up, his eyes lighting with quiet delight as he lifted a hand in greeting. "Uncle,You're back."
Rhen stirred at the sound, the book slipping from his face as he blinked awake, while Felian lowered his sword, his attention shifting at once.
Sion set the tray down and seated himself among them.
"Well?" he asked, his tone lighter now, though a trace of curiosity lingered beneath it. "How did it go?"
That was all the invitation they needed.
The twins spoke eagerly, their words overlapping at times.
"At first, no one noticed us," Rhen began.
"They thought we were just children," Rive added, a hint of mischief in his voice.
"But then—" Riven continued, "one customer stopped. She saw the vegetables, how fresh they were."
"And we made sure she said it out loud," Riven said, grinning faintly.
Sion's lips curved, ever so slightly.
From there, the story unfolded—a careful weaving of small tactics and subtle persuasion. A remark here, a suggestion there, positioning themselves where they would be seen, letting curiosity do the work for them.
Felian, for his part, said little, though the faintest hint of satisfaction lingered in his gaze.
By the end of it, they had sold everything.
All of it.
In half a day.
Sion reached out and patted their heads, one by one—a rare gesture, quiet but sincere.
"Well done," he said.
The sun had already dipped below the horizon.
"Come," he added, rising. "Let's go home."
Inside the house, the warmth of the food welcomed them.
The twins wasted no time.
They produced the day's earnings with a kind of eager pride, placing them before Sion.
"We wanted to show you first," Rhen said. "Before Eiran."
Sion raised a brow, amused.
Yet as he examined the earnings, he noted something curious.
Not all of it was coin.
Felian stepped forward then, placing several small packets upon the table.
"Some paid in these."
Sion opened them carefully.
Seeds.
Strawberries. Pears. And others—varieties not easily found.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, softly, "These are worth more than coin."
There was no mistaking the gratitude in his voice.
That night, the house was filled with something rare.
A feast.
Not extravagant, but abundant enough to feel like one—a celebration of effort, of trust, of small victories hard-won.
Far from the quiet hill, in the capital where stone towers pierced the sky and power moved in unseen currents, another conversation unfolded.
Darius had just finished his duties and was preparing to leave when a voice called out to him.
"Leaving already?"
Queen Rin.
Darius paused, turning to face him,and bowed slightly."Your Majesty."
Rin approached with his usual sharp expression, eyes keen and unyielding. "I heard something," he said without preamble. "You're planning to sell half of your private estate."
Darius did not deny it. "I am."
Rin clicked his tongue, irritation plain. "Have you lost what little sense you had left? Do you even understand the consequences of that decision?"
"I do."
"And your family?"
"They understand as well."
Rin studied him for a long moment, then his gaze sharpened further. "And what of him?" he asked. "Do you think Sion will understand why you're throwing away your wealth for his sake?"
Darius was silent.
"That's what this is about, isn't it?" Rin pressed. "You didn't even consult him. Not that you'd dare—he'd oppose it immediately."
A faint smile touched Darius's lips. "Exactly why I didn't tell him."
Rin scoffed. "Unbelievable."
He stepped closer, his voice lowering, cutting. "And what if he doesn't love you as you do him? What if he's merely using you?"
Darius met his gaze steadily.
"Even so," he said quietly, "I will do it."
Rin stared at him, as though searching for some trace of doubt—some crack in that unwavering resolve.
There was none.
"Even if he uses me," Darius continued, "even if I am worth nothing more to him than what I can give… I will still choose this."
For once, Rin had no immediate retort.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"You're a fool," he muttered.
Yet there was something almost weary in his voice now.
"Hopelessly, utterly devoted."
Darius said nothing.
And in that silence, the weight of his choice settled—not as a burden, but as something he had already accepted, long before this moment.