The morning light inside the Ellis cottage was softer than the harsh glare of the training fields or the vibrant gold of the riverbank. It filtered through the small, lace-curtained kitchen window, catching the fine haze of flour that always seemed to hover in the air.
Lif sat perfectly still on a low wooden stool in the center of the kitchen, a clean linen sheet draped over his shoulders and pinned at the back of his neck.
*Snip. Snip.*
The cold steel of the shears tickled the nape of his neck, followed by the soft, rhythmic rustle of dark hair falling onto the floorboards. Behind him stood Lucia, her fingers moving with deft, practiced familiarity as she combed through his thick locks. She wasn't just his mother; she was the steady anchor of the house, a woman whose sweetness was matched only by a quiet, unshakeable stubbornness and a mind that caught details most people missed.
"You're tilting your head again," Lucia murmured, her voice a gentle, melodic purr. She lightly tapped the top of his head with the flat of the comb. "Keep it straight, or one side is going to look like the hedge-maze behind the elder's manor."
"Sorry," Lif muttered, squaring his shoulders and staring straight ahead at the spice rack on the wall.
Lucia smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She paused, lifting a particularly long strand of hair near his temple, letting it slide through her fingers. "You know, you have your father's thick hair, but it has a softness to it. I've been thinking… we should let it grow out a bit. Just to your shoulder. It would frame your face beautifully."
Lif wrinkled his nose, his reflection in the polished copper kettle on the counter twisting his expression into a comical grimace. "No way. If it gets any longer, it's going to look girly. Ren already teases me enough when it gets in my eyes."
Lucia let out a soft, musical laugh, the shears clicking merrily as she trimmed a stray edge. "Girly? Since when does a bit of hair change the fact that you can out-lift half the grown men on the village watch? Besides, some of the greatest warriors in the old northern tales wore their hair in long, braided manes. It's a sign of strength, not softness."
"They probably didn't have Ren throwing wind-blasts at them to see if their bangs would flutter," Lif grumbled, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Let Ren talk," she said softly, leaning forward so her chin brushed the top of his head for a brief second. "Ren talks because his mind moves as fast as the breeze. But you have a stillness, Lif. A strength that doesn't need to shout to be heard. Don't ever let anyone tell you how you ought to look, or who you ought to be. You're exactly as you should be."
Lif blinked, a sudden tightness in his throat. He reached up beneath the sheet, his linen-wrapped fingers gently squeezing his mother's wrist. "Thanks, Mom."
"Now, stay still," she chided playfully, snapping the scissors near his ear. "Unless you want to go to the market looking like a clipped sheep. We have a long day ahead of us."
Once the final trim was done, Lucia shook out the sheet, sending the stray hairs fluttering into a neat pile for the broom. Lif stood up, stretching his limbs, his head feeling remarkably lighter.
"Alright," Lucia said, wiping her hands on her apron and checking a small piece of parchment on the table. "The pantry is practically bare, and your father is going to eat us out of house and home if we don't get groceries today. We need a sack of winter flour from Gable's mill, a crate of root vegetables, three crocks of salted lard, and whatever fresh greens the traders brought in from the lowlands."
She reached for a large, woven wicker basket sitting by the door, but before her fingers could even touch the handle, Lif's hand snapped out and snatched it away.
"I've got it," Lif said quickly, shifting the basket to his shoulder.
Lucia raised an eyebrow, her hands dropping to her hips. "Lif, that basket is empty right now. I am perfectly capable of carrying an empty piece of wicker down the lane."
"Yeah, but it won't be empty for long," Lif replied, his stance firm and unmoving. He cast a brief, incredibly deliberate glance down at her apron.
Beneath the linen fabric, her belly showed a small, distinct curve—a new life that was only a few months along. It was a secret they were keeping close for now, Until Lif told everyone, to him it was the most important mission he had ever been assigned. His mother was clever and fiercely independent, the type of woman who would attempt to carry a whole timber log herself just to prove a point, but Lif wasn't having any of it. He had spent his entire life learning how to calculate force, weight, and strain. He knew that labor was a heavy toll on the body, and he was determined to make sure she didn't lift a single ounce more than necessary.
Lucia caught his glance and let out a long, fond sigh, though her eyes danced with warmth. "You are just like your father. Stubborn as an old mule. I am pregnant, Lif, not made of spun glass."
"Dad told me to look after you," Lif said, using his best imitation of his father's deep, unarguable tone. "Carrying things is a physical job. Real man's job. You just do the smart stuff, like picking the best cabbage."
Lucia shook her head, a beautiful, proud smile breaking across her face. She reached out, pinching his cheek gently. "Fine, Mr. Strongman. But if my arms are empty, that means I have a free hand to hold yours on the way there."
"Deal," Lif said, his chest warming.
The walk into the village market was pleasant, the crisp morning air keeping the heat of the sun at bay. The market square was a bustling hive of color and sound, with farmers shouting their prices and children chasing each other between the stalls.
As they moved through the crowd, Lif became a silent, hyper-focused shield. Every time a careless trader pushed past with a wheelbarrow, or a group of rowdy teenagers ran by, Lif subtly shifted his body, positioning himself between the crowd and his mother. He used his broad frame and his deep awareness of his surroundings to create a pocket of absolute safety around her.
At the grain stall, Gable—a stout man with flour permanently dusted into his beard—nodded as they approached. "Morning, Lucia. Morning, Lif. Got that winter flour you ordered. It's a heavy one today, sixty pounds of ground rye."
Gable reached down to hoist the massive burlap sack onto the counter, but Lif stepped forward smoothly, his linen-wrapped hands sliding under the sack before the miller could even lift it. With a single, fluid motion—using his legs and his core just as Victor had taught him—Lif hoisted the heavy sack onto his shoulder as if it were filled with goose down.
Gable blinked, stunned. "By the stars, boy… you've got iron in those veins. Most kids your age would be flat on their backs under that weight."
"He gets it from me," Lucia said with a straight face, winking at the miller.
They continued through the market, Lif's basket quickly filling up with heavy jars of honey, root vegetables, and salted preserves. By the time they were finished, Lif was carrying well over a hundred pounds of cargo, but his stride remained steady, his eyes constantly scanning the path ahead for loose stones or slippery mud that might cause his mother to stumble.
When they finally returned to the cottage, the afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, lazy shadows across the kitchen.
"Alright, chef," Lucia said, tying her apron back on as she looked at the mountain of fresh ingredients on the table. "You carried it all, so now you get to help me turn it into dinner. We're making a rustic beef and root stew with pulled trencher bread."
"Tell me what to do," Lif said, pulling up a chair and grabbing a small paring knife.
For the next two hours, the kitchen was a symphony of chopping, sizzling, and boiling. Lucia stood by the great black iron pot, stirring the rich, savory broth, while Lif sat at the table, methodically peeling potatoes and chopping thick carrots. His "battle genius" mind, usually reserved for finding cracks in a defense, was perfectly applied to the culinary arts. Every slice of the knife was exact, every potato cut to the precise size to ensure they all cooked at the exact same rate.
Lucia watched him from the stove, her heart full. She didn't see a boy who lacked magic. She saw a boy who poured absolute devotion, intelligence, and care into every single thing he touched—whether it was a training axe, a heavy sack of flour, or a simple carrot.
"You're a good boy, Lif," she said softly over the sound of the bubbling stew.
Lif looked up from his perfectly cubed potatoes, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. "I learned from the best."
As the aroma of rich beef, thyme, and fresh bread filled the warm kitchen, the front door rumbled open, and the heavy, familiar boots of Victor stepped into the hallway. The family was together, the house was warm, and as Lif set the table, he knew that no matter what the stars said, his world was entirely perfect.