The House of Daughters

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.

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