The kettle screamed before Junari could reach it.

She was halfway across the kitchen, her small hands gripping the wooden crutch that wobbled beneath her arm. Steam curled like ribbons toward the ceiling, carrying the faint scent of mint and barley.

“Junari, sit down,” her father’s voice came from the doorway — soft but worn, like an old coat left too long in the rain.

“I can do it, Papa,” she said, breathless, her dark braid slipping loose over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be standing for so long. Your knees—”

“My knees have carried me through fifty winters, little moon,” he said, taking the kettle from her with a sigh. “They can bear one more pot of tea.”

Junari smiled faintly at the nickname — little moon. It was what he had called her since birth, after the night her mother died and the moon hung full and pale over the house. He said Junari’s eyes were made of the same quiet light.

She lowered herself into the chair by the window. Outside, the frost had begun to melt, thin silver lines sliding down the glass. The world was gray and trembling — a morning caught between seasons.

“You should rest,” her father murmured again, setting the tea before her. “That cough kept you awake all night.”

“I’m not sick,” she protested softly. “Just… tired.”

He didn’t answer. The truth hung between them, heavy and kind — that she had always been tired. Her bones too delicate, her lungs too shallow.

So she helped in little ways: mending socks, sorting herbs, folding his papers, pretending not to see the tremor in his hands when he reached for his spectacles.

⸻

By noon, the sun had crept low and warm over the fields. Junari sat by the hearth, stitching a torn sleeve when the door swung open.

A gust of cold rushed in — and with it, Jorai.

Her brother filled the doorway like a shadow of summer: tall, smiling, the scent of earth and horses clinging to his coat.

“Jorai!” she gasped, nearly spilling her sewing.

He grinned, brushing snow from his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be resting, Juni.”

“And you’re supposed to write home more,” she shot back, though her voice wavered with happiness. He laughed and crossed the room in three strides, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Their father looked up from his work at the table, his eyes softening. “You’re home early.”

Jorai’s grin faltered.

Junari felt the change before he spoke — the air tightening, the quiet stretching thin.

“There’s news from the capital,” he said. “The crown has called for volunteers. Not just volunteers… lists were drawn.”

His father’s pen stopped mid-line.

“I’m on it,” Jorai finished quietly.

The room went still except for the ticking of the old clock.

Junari’s fingers curled around the edge of her chair. “No,” she whispered. “You— You just came home.”

“They said the war in the east grows worse,” he replied. “They’re taking men from every province now. Farmers, traders… sons.”

Her father stood, his back straight but his hands trembling. “You’re not fit for battle, Jorai. Your arm—”

“Has healed,” Jorai said quickly. “And they need every hand they can get.”

For a moment, no one breathed. The kettle began to hiss again — low, forgotten, like the sound of the world refusing to stop for grief.

Then the old man nodded once, a gesture too slow to be acceptance, too proud to be surrender.

“You’ll eat before you go,” he said quietly. “And I’ll pack your mother’s rosary. It’ll keep you safe.”

Jorai turned away to hide the way his jaw clenched. Junari looked down at her lap, her stitches blurring through tears she refused to let fall.

Outside, the first flake of snow drifted past the window. It landed on the sill, melted in an instant — a promise of spring already fading from the cold.

The air that evening was thick with woodsmoke and the faint scent of apples left rotting beneath the trees. Satorin walked the narrow road toward his family’s cottage, the folded parchment in his pocket feeling heavier than the sword he had yet to carry.

The notice had been brief: By order of the crown, the following men are hereby called to serve in His Majesty’s campaign in the eastern provinces.

His name had been near the middle — neat, final, unremarkable.

He reached the small gate and stopped. The house glowed warmly from within; the laughter of his sisters drifted through the open window, soft and unguarded. He could almost pretend that nothing had changed — that he was just returning from work, that his life was still his own.

Almost.

He pushed open the door.

⸻

“Satorin!”

Emi, the youngest, dashed toward him, her braids flying. Her hands were dusted with flour, a streak of it across her cheek. “You’re home early! We made bread, and it didn’t even burn this time!”

Satorin smiled faintly. “That’s a miracle worth seeing.”

Behind her, Yumei, the eldest, looked up from the pot she stirred. “Early,” she echoed. Her tone was steady, but her eyes searched his face — she had always been able to read him too easily.

The other sisters turned. Selara was sitting by the window, mending a sleeve; Padumi was braiding Nayumi’s hair, both of them still half-laughing until they saw the look in his eyes.

The laughter faded.

Satorin took off his coat and hung it carefully on the hook, the silence between them stretching thin. Then, finally, he said it:

“They’ve chosen me.”

His mother’s spoon slipped from her hand and clattered against the floor.

For a long moment, no one moved. The kettle hissed behind them, and somewhere outside a crow cried out — a lonely, distant sound.

Emi blinked. “Chosen… for what?”

“For the king’s war,” Yumei answered quietly, before he could.

Padumi stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “No. No, they can’t take you. You’ve already served before, when you were barely older than Selara!”

“That was border duty,” Satorin said, forcing calm into his voice. “This is different.”

Nayumi’s lip trembled. “Different how?”

He hesitated. “This time, they don’t expect anyone to come home soon.”

⸻

Their mother turned toward him slowly. Her hair had long gone silver, tied neatly behind her neck, her hands still shaking from the fall of the spoon. “Your father gave them one son already,” she whispered. “Must they have another?”

Satorin swallowed hard. “It’s my duty, Mother.”

“It’s their war,” she said. “Not yours.”

No one spoke after that. The fire crackled, throwing restless shadows across the walls. Selara rose quietly and wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders. Yumei returned to the stove, her face unreadable.

Emi slipped her hand into Satorin’s. “Will you come back?” she asked in a whisper so small he nearly missed it.

He knelt to meet her eyes. “I’ll try.”

He meant it — but even as he said the words, he felt how fragile they sounded, how easily they could break.

Outside, the wind carried the faintest trace of frost. Winter was coming early that year.

And in the house of six women, silence settled like snow.

The morning fog hung low across the valley, quiet and pale. The sound of boots, of wagons creaking and voices calling orders, carried through the mist like ghosts learning to speak.

The king’s soldiers had come at dawn.

Dozens of men — farmers, traders, brothers, and sons — gathered near the edge of the main road, where the banners of Oxia fluttered, cold and bright against the gray sky.

Satorin stood among them, his pack slung across his back, the chill biting at his fingers. He looked down the line and saw the same expression on every face: fear, disguised as duty.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, his mind still caught on the image of his sisters crying by the door, his mother’s trembling blessing whispered through tears. He had left before sunrise so they wouldn’t see him falter.

He thought he was alone in that. Until someone beside him spoke.

“First time?”

Satorin turned. A tall man stood there, his hair tied back, his coat worn from labor. He had the strong, sun-browned face of someone who’d spent his life outdoors.

“Not quite,” Satorin replied. “You?”

The man gave a tired smile. “No. But I was hoping it’d be the last.”

He extended his hand. “Jorai.”

Satorin shook it. “Satorin.”

⸻

They fell into step together as the soldiers called for formation.

“My family lives west of the river,” Jorai said after a moment. “Small house, nothing grand. My sister’s… fragile. My father’s older than he admits. I didn’t want them to worry.”

Satorin’s chest tightened. “My mother’s the same. And I’ve five sisters who think I can’t be killed.”

Jorai chuckled faintly. “Then we’re already doomed — too many people waiting for us to come home.”

Satorin smirked despite himself. “You speak like a poet.”

“I’m just a farmer,” Jorai said. “But you start to sound poetic when the only thing left to talk to is the wind.”

⸻

The line began to move.

They started down the long dirt road east, the village shrinking behind them with every step.

The mist parted slowly, revealing the pale morning sun breaking through the clouds. For a fleeting moment, it bathed the men in gold — as though blessing them before swallowing them whole.

Satorin glanced at Jorai. “If we’re to die, might as well make a pact,” he said lightly.

“A pact?”

“If one of us makes it home, he’ll tell the other’s family what became of him.”

Jorai’s eyes softened. “That’s fair.” He extended his hand again.

They shook once more — the kind of handshake that felt like the binding of something sacred.

Then the horn sounded.

And the march began.

⸻

Far behind them, in a quiet house warmed by a small fire, Junari Fengari watched the sky from her window. The clouds were moving eastward, slow and deliberate, like a tide she could not stop.

Somewhere beyond the hills, her brother was walking into that same horizon — and though she could not see him, she whispered a prayer to the wind all the same.