---CLAUDE---

Claude stared at the old iron sword his father had left him. He had been staring and holding it as he sat on a bundle of hay inside their old toolshed since the morning after they went to Mount Lhottem. He swung the air with it with different gestures, trying to make blue flames appear, just like when they battled the monstrous form of Ember.

Through the years, he did not feel anything out of the ordinary from the sword. It was special, certainly, being the only remaining possession, his father left when he disappeared. But not special enough to slay direwolves and wrap itself in odd-colored flames that did not burn him.

The flame did not sputter or crack or burst into flame. It did nothing but be an iron sword, and Claude saw himself reflected in its body looking sad and a little bit frustrated. He sighed and placed the sword on his lap. He dipped a cloth into a washbasin nearby and decided to clean it.

As his hands worked, Claude could not stop wondering. In his hands, it was simply an old sword. But that night with Ryne, it had become something from his dreams. The whole night felt like a dream. He had asked himself how a farm boy and a frail monk could ever go down the tunnels and defeat a great giant beast guarding a chamber from the mountain. But his arms and legs felt sore and little tears now threatened to ruin his old jerkin. And he had touched Ember’s docile form when some power purified her. Strange and fun things had happened in his life because of Ryne.

He wanted to visit him as soon as the sky woke, of course, but he had a strong feeling that Ryne and his brothers might have their hands full.

___

When he walked inside the cottage, Claude knew something was off. There was a quiet thing that was creeping throughout the cottage. All the wooden walls and chairs and chests held their breath. Something warm was cooking over the fire, but he could not smell it. All the candles seemed to burn low.

On the kitchen table was her mother, a strand of hair free from her cap, face covered by her hand. Claude approached her gently and saw a thick roll of parchment with just one glaring sign: a red mark with the seal of the Bahram House. Claude felt his blood run cold.

“Whatever we have won’t be enough for the season’s tribute,” Lydia said sadly.

Claude instinctively wanted to say that Lord Bahram knew that all their harvests were brittle, but he had always wanted to seize this cottage back from us. Claude knew they were tenant farmers, and they had paid their dues since before he was born. Now, Bahram was becoming impatient and wanted an excuse to send them out.

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“He… can’t.” That was the only thing that came from his mouth. But Claude knew very well that he could. All of the lords could. “Does Annette know?”

“She was the one who first found the letter. She knew what it meant. She’s being very brave in her room, already packing which of your wooden sculptures to bring with us when we… when we leave. She’s already saying goodbye to all the furniture.” Despite the situation, Lydia couldn’t help but chuckle.

Then she sighed and arranged the lock of her hair. She stood and pushed her chair back and checked whatever meal was cooking in the pot. She brought out two wooden bowls and two fat wooden spoons and poured the hot meal. She laid them out on a tray and set them on the table. Claude did not even remember sitting down and eating. He did not even taste the meal. His hand simply moved on its own, dipping stale bread into the soup, then bringing it to his mouth where his teeth ground it into bits and where his tongue pushed it down his throat to swallow.

This is our home, he keeps thinking. He feared this day would come. He thought he had been prepared for it, but maybe being with Ryne and feeling light again made him forget the sting he was preparing for. It all came crashing down on him. He looked around the cottage because everywhere had a story. There in the floorboards was where he chipped his tooth. There on the stairs was where he and his brothers chased each other. There in the corner near the candles was where he hid to grab Annete’s little ankles.

He was vaguely aware of his mother talking between bites. “Maybe Lord Bahram can give us a few more weeks to at least contact Nhim or the rest of your brothers. I know that sending letters is expensive, but maybe if we could just plead with him…”

“This is our home,” he said to Lydia finally.

Lydia fell silent and watched her son. By the way he held his spoon, he knew he was about to storm off.

“Our home is with each other,” she said gently. She swallowed, forcing the words out of her mouth. “Lord Bahram has been kind enough to give us a good sum for the house.”

Claude stared at her. “Your father built this house. Your father and his. And Da fixed and rebuilt and expanded it, Ma. This is ours.”

Lydia swallowed and blinked her eyes rapidly. They both remembered the painstaking work Claude’s father had to do to fix most of the floorboards and banisters. He had to work hard to pay for the permit to cut down the healthier trees in the meadow and drag them back to his house when Lydia was pregnant with Annette. He had wanted a separate room for her, and two more for the boys. He strained and groaned and both remembered the sweat on his brow and his back. And now, it would all be for Lord Bahram.

Lydia did not reply. Both of them couldn’t finish their meals. Claude slowly rose from his chair and walked outside, grabbed his shepherd’s staff, and walked towards the sheep pen. He did not look at the toolshed as he passed it.