The Secret Project.
In the quiet of his room, Rune sat hunched over his study table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sketched a delicate design.
"What are you drawing so intently, Young Master?"
Hilda asked, tilting her head. It was a rare day off for Rune, and she had expected him to be at the lake or catching up on sleep.
Rune looked up, his face breaking into a wide, beaming grin.
"I want to make a special gift for Rorry's first birthday. Look—"
He showed her the sketch of a slender, fluted whistle with intricate floral engravings, meant to be worn on a crimson cord.
"Do you know where I can find someone to make this?"
"For craftsmanship like that, we'll need an artisan,"
Hilda said, a soft smile touching her lips.
"There is a master at the marketplace on the far side of the town plaza."
"Can we go now?"
Rune asked, his eyes wide and pleading.
"Meet me at the gate in five minutes,"
Hilda laughed.
"Just let me change into my walking cloak."
The Faces of Midgard.
The walk to the marketplace was a revelation.
As they passed the towering buildings of the inner district, Rune noticed children huddled in the shadows of the sidewalks, begging for scraps. Some were barely clothed, their eyes hollow with a hunger Rune had never known.
"Hilda... why are they like that?"
Rune asked, his voice small.
"Where are their parents?"
"Not everyone is born into a house as strong as yours, Young Master,"
Hilda said, her tone turning melancholic.
"Some are orphans of the war. Others..."
She hesitated, then sighed.
"Most of the children you see here are those rejected by the Purist families. Because their blood was mixed between different clans, they were cast out, deemed 'unworthy' of their own kin's protection."
Rune felt a cold, sharp anger flare in his chest. To be discarded because of a bloodline—it was a cruelty he couldn't grasp, but he felt his own helplessness like a leaden weight.
When they reached Smior's Artisan Shop, the atmosphere shifted to the rhythmic clink-clink of metal.
"Master Smior! Are you in?"
Hilda called out.
The shopkeeper looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of Rune. "If it isn't Miss Hilda! And who is this young gentleman?"
"This is Young Master Rune. He has a special commission that needs to be finished immediately."
While Hilda negotiated the price and timeline with the artisan, Rune's gaze drifted to the forge. A boy, not much older than himself, was hunched over the coals, tirelessly feeding the fire to keep the heat constant.
"Hi. I'm Rune,"
he said, stepping toward the heat.
"What's your name?"
The boy didn't even look up. He continued his work with a mechanical, joyless precision, as if Rune didn't exist at all. Eventually, Rune sat back in the corner, a strange hollow feeling in his gut.
On the walk home, Rune asked about the boy.
"He is likely a slave,"
Hilda explained quietly.
"Sold by his parents to pay off a debt of ether crystals, or simply to survive another winter."
The news hit Rune like a physical blow. Slavery, poverty, the cold logic of the Purists—the world was so much larger and more terrifying than the training grounds of the Assaroth manor. When they reached the gates, he thanked Hilda and went straight to his room, using meditation not to gain power, but to find some semblance of peace in the face of what he had seen.
The First Flame
Three days later, the manor was transformed. Lanterns hung from the rafters like fallen stars, and the scent of honey-cake drifted from the kitchens. It was Rorry's day.
Rune burst into his parents' room, kissing Rorry's chubby cheek.
"Happy birthday, little sister! I hope you stay this cute and happy forever."
Rorry responded with a series of high-pitched gurgles and delighted shrieks, reaching out to tug on Rune's hair. Ravina and Froyd watched them from the doorway, their hearts full as they witnessed the bond between their children.
After a light morning drill, Rune met Tove and Siggy, inviting them to the evening feast. Tove was especially relieved to hear that no formal attire was required—a birthday for a one-year-old was a time for comfort, not stiff tunics.
The night was a whirlwind of music and laughter. As Rune watched Rorry reach for her cake, the dark thoughts of the marketplace receded, replaced by the warmth of the hearth and the promise of a big brother's protection.
As the evening drew to a close and the lanterns began to flicker low, Rune finally stepped forward to present his gift. He knelt before Rorry, the firelight dancing in his eyes as he held out the delicate, engraved cylinder.
"My dear little sister,"
Rune whispered, his voice steady with a gravity that transcended his almost seven years of life.
"I give you this whistle as a sign. Whenever you are in trouble, whenever you feel alone, all you need to do is blow into it. I promise you, I will do everything in my power to reach your side."
Ravina and Froyd exchanged a look of profound pride.
They saw then that the playful boy who used to hide behind Hilda's skirts had truly become the protector he had promised to be. Rune hadn't just given her a toy; he had given her a vow.
The celebration was a triumph of warmth and family. As the last guests departed and the manor settled into a peaceful slumber, the first year of Rorry, the Flame of House Assaroth, came to a close—guarded by a brother whose light was growing stronger with every passing day.