It's like a dream.

Staring at the familiar patterns on the ceiling, this thought involuntarily entered Capillata's mind.

In the center of the ceiling, the rotten spruce cannot withstand the moisture and sinks down like a water-filled cloth bag. The gloomy wind, accompanied by drizzle, constantly beats the soaked thin wooden boards and seeps through the gaps in the window frame, as if an invisible mare ghost is swirling and howling in the dark and humid room.

He sat up, lifted the musty thin blanket, stepped off the canopy bed without a ceiling, and walked with weak steps, taking a tour of the room where he had lived for decades. When he passed the broken square mirror leaning against the wall, he couldn't help but touch his neck with his palm, where there was nothing.

But Vit’via...

The limp body and lifeless pupils flashed before his eyes, and he felt a headache. An ominous chill, like an arrow piercing through the spine, deeply penetrated behind his eyelids and forehead.

There came from downstairs a flickering firelight and a whispering, sometimes low and sometimes impatient. In the past, on sleepless nights, father's prayer was the best lullaby, but tonight, the man's echoing voice in the darkness was like a curse, making Capillata shudder.

The boy slowly stepped down the creaking spiral staircase. On the other side of the stone wall, a figure in a reindeer skin coat was kneeling in front of the fireplace, casting a deep and wide shadow.

"You shot her." Capillata stopped on the last floor stairs, interrupting the man's confession with a trembling voice, "Where is she?"

The chanting stopped abruptly, and only the crackling sound of firewood burning in the fireplace echoed in the cylindrical tower. The man lifted his head from the wide shoulders covered by a beaver skin cape, "You mean that lamb girl."

"Vit’via," Capillata's tone still trembled, but it was no longer due to fear but anger, "Is she dead?"

Father sighed, and his broad shoulders drooped slightly. He still faced the flickering fire, "I left her where she was. Perhaps her people will take her away, or perhaps other beasts will find her first." He paused for a moment, then turned his head slightly, and his bearded profile was hidden in the backlight of the fire, "But what does it matter?"

"Vit’via is my friend."

"No, she's just an accident. You shouldn't have met her."

"You don't understand anything." Capillata was filled with anger, and descended the final step.

"Well, would it make you feel better if I said she's a part of fate?" The hunter by the fireplace stood up and turned around. His gray-white hair almost touched the ceiling, and his figure resembled a snow-capped mountain at dusk. "If you hadn't sneaked away, you wouldn't have met that girl, and she wouldn't have suffered this misfortune." The tall man crouched down and grabbed Capillata's shoulder, and said with a serious tone:

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"Capillata, I heard you are about to abandon something important. The goat witches are known for their skills in mixing potions, including some that can bewitch your mind. Don't you understand?"

"You mean 'Flamma Varmah'?"

An orange flame brighter than the fireplace lit up on the man's weathered face. Even though the flame held in the boy's palm was separated by a layer of crystal, it still shone ever brightly, ever dazzlingly.

"You know its name." Hidden behind his eyebrows and beard, the man exclaimed sorrowfully, "What else do you know?"

"I know a lot, but there are still many things I don't understand," Capillata hesitated for a moment, before uttering the word from between his teeth, "Dad."

The man snorted and stood up.

"Sit down, child." He walked to the wooden table and sat on the bench near the door.

Capillata took a seat on the opposite side near the stairs.

"My mother was a 'virgin,' right?" Capillata almost bit her lower lip until it bled. "My blonde hair and flames were inherited from her."

The man noticed that the boy who was once nurtured in a greenhouse was no longer the same. So, he awkwardly rubbed his furrowed brow with his thumb and index finger, and held the sunken cheeks caused by aging with the web of his hand.

"Yes, she was."

"She gave up her chastity and duty, for you..." Capillata asked, confused. "But why?"

"You had it wrong. I wasn't hers," the man rubbed his knees with his rough palms and added, "No one was."

"But you're my father," Capillata placed both hands on the table, leaned forward, feeling a pain in his chest.

"No, I was only assigned to take care of you," the man crossed his arms and leaned back, avoiding the boy's gaze.

"Look at me," the boy pleaded. "Under your eyebrows, you have the same gray eyes as mine."

"Enough, Capillata."

"And our noses are--"

"I said enough!" the man shouted, his anger echoing through the air. After the reverberations subsided, only the sound of crackling firewood and short, rapid breathing remained, revealing a hint of fear.

Capillata searched for words that could save him. He lifted his head, gazed into eyes that mirrored his own with tears, and said, "She loved you, didn't she? Tell me, she loved you."

"Love?" the man laughed vaguely, as if he were suppressing the pain inside him. His shoulders shook exaggeratedly up and down, and he spat on the ground. "I was just one of the bandits."

He sighed slowly, his shoulders still drooping, leaned forward towards the table as if afraid of being overheard by outsiders or deities, and whispered like a snake to Capillata:

"Listen, it only happened once. But that one time, the seeds of disaster were sown." He turned his head away, avoiding the boy's gaze. "I begged them to kill you, but I couldn't decide. She secretly gave birth to you, a virgin son, a forbidden existence, and before she left, she left part of the divine fire with you." As if afraid of being burned, the man only pointed to the Flamma Varmah in Capillata's hand. "She believed that even if you were different, you could carry an extraordinary destiny like hers."

"What do you believe?" Two tears slid down Capillata's cheeks, but he longed for an answer and didn't wipe them away.

The man lifted his gaze, as if looking at himself in a mirror, his eyes hidden beneath his deep brow. When his disgust overwhelmed other emotions, he blew on his beard and moved his lips below:

"I believe she was a wise woman, but her love for you blinded her eyes, so that she cannot see how deeply cursed you are."

"Because of you, all the destinies I could've had… slipped away from me." Capillata lowered his head and tried to focus on the Flamma Varmah in his hands, through the shimmering tears. However, the splitting light grew increasingly blurry.

"You can't say anything new," the man propped up his heavy body with his palm, returning to the fireplace like a golem summoned by magic, slowly kneeling down and continuing his interrupted confession.

"I need to take a bath." Capillata, who stayed at the table, felt dizzy and stood up suddenly, intensifying the darkness in front of him. There was no indication from behind him, but the footsteps going upstairs seemed to be pulled by silence, becoming heavier with each step.