“Yes, sir,” Connor replied quickly.
“But, Da... why must we not tell?” Collin asked, his brow furrowed.
Jiah looked into his son’s wide, trusting face. He pulled Collin gently onto his knee and held both boys close.
“Come here, my beloved boys... How can I help you understand?”
He took a breath.
“I was born in a village called White Wood. It’s a farming community far over the northern pass. Life was good in my childhood home. For generations, we traded freely with neighboring villages—long before this land was ever called Crimisa.
“But one day, when I was just about Connor’s age, men came from Chroma. They were led by a man named Montigo. He told us we must join his society—or face more attacks. Montigo did this all across the land. The small villages fell quickly to his cruelty, and some were lost completely, their names forgotten. The larger ones—like White Wood and North Town—fought for years. But even they began to crumble.
“Some people say Montigo united Crimisa, that he brought order and a shared culture. But many more believe he conqueredus by force. That he used fear and violence to break free people and bend them to his will.”
Connor’s eyes were wide. “But how does one man make a whole village do what he says?”
“Fear,” Jiah said softly. “Fear is a powerful weapon. Montigo uses cruel punishments to keep his control. When I was a boy, I watched his men burn our home—our barns, our crops. They slaughtered our animals... because my grandfather and father refused to payhistaxes. They believed in freedom. And Montigo made them pay for it.
“When people dare to speak their minds, to stand up for themselves—he doesn’t just punish them. He punishes the people they love.”
At that, Ismene gasped. Her eyes were wide with dread as she pulled Collin protectively into her arms.
“Jiah, don’t,” she whispered. “You mustn’t tell them such awful things. They’re too young.”
Collin didn’t quite understand the fear in his mother’s voice, or the terrible truth his father had just asked them to guard. But he knew it mattered. And he knew—deep in his chest, a secret burning quietly—that it must be kept.
In the weeks that followed, Jiah continued to bring home meat: stringy rabbit one day, a wild pheasant the next, even a slab of boar so rich in fat it crackled in the pan. Sometimes fish, still glistening and limp, lined the counter before supper. To Collin, it felt like magic. His father had become a provider of marvels. Hunger became a forgotten ache, replaced by the thrill of not knowing what would be set on the table each night.
But as Collin savored his full belly, a quiet wrongness seeped into the corners of their home.
His mother no longer hummed old songs beneath her breath. The lilting melody that once drifted from the garden vanished, swallowed by silence and wind. She moved with a stiffness now, eyes flitting to the window at every passing footfall, every creak of the fence gate. If Jiah was even minutes late, she’d pace the kitchen floor, fingers worrying the hem of her apron until the fabric frayed.
Collin began to wake to muffled footsteps and whispered arguments behind closed doors. Once, he crept from bed and saw her standing alone near the hearth, lips moving soundlessly in prayer or plea, arms wrapped tightly around herself though the fire was high and hot.
Her skin grew ashen, translucent in the morning light. She barely touched her meals, nibbling at bread crusts while urging the boys to eat more. Her eyes reddened from restless nights, and some mornings she seemed surprised to find the sun had risen at all.
Collin didn’t understand what had changed. All he knew was that his father whistled and brought meat, and his mother—once the light of the house—had grown thin, silent, and watchful, as if waiting for a terrible shadow to come through the door.
On a clear midsummer night, Ismene waited for her husband to return home after a long day of work. His dinner had grown cold and uneaten on the table, and still, Jiah didn’t come home. Finally, she put her sons to bed. With a forced smile on her tired face, she told them not to worry.
At dawn the next morning, Jiah still hadn’t come home.
Ismene wrung her hands as she moved distractedly through the kitchen, eyes darting to the window more often than the food she stirred. The smell of breakfast hung in the air, but no one was hungry.
Collin wanted to ask where Da was, but a fist in his chest clenched too tightly. The question caught in his throat like a thorn. He already knew what Mother would say—“He’s fine.”She’d force a smile, but her eyes would betray her. They always did.
A sudden, rapid knock exploded against the front door—frantic, relentless.
Collin and Connor both jumped in their chairs. Their mother gasped, sharp and strangled, dropping a spoon that clattered to the floor. Then she was moving—rushing to the door with a kind of desperate speed Collin had never seen in her before.
A small woman stood on the threshold, bathed in the trembling light of morning. Her pale yellow hair caught the sun, burning white around the edges like flame. Her chest heaved with sobs, her face streaked with tears.
“Lue!” Ismene cried. “What’s happened?”
Lue didn’t answer. She shook her head violently, words tumbling out between gasps.
“Come quickly—come now!The town square—hurry!”
