The key turned with a soft click, and Lyra pushed open the door to Sifuu’s house with a sense of quiet reverence. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but the small, tidy cabin bore a kind of lived-in charm: old maps and hides hung neatly on the walls, and a kettle sat on the stove as if it had just been used. It was homey, lived in. But what made her pause wasn’t any of that.
His scent lingered faintly — leather, earth, smoke. She hadn’t realized how familiar it had become. He didn’t stay here often — she knew that — but being in this space felt… personal. Like stepping into a part of him he rarely showed. Quiet. Practical. Everything in its place. No clutter — just basic furniture, tools, and silence.
It struck Lyra how different Hassian and Sifuu were, despite their closeness. Sifuu was warmth and light, all fierce affection and sharp wit, her presence filling a space like sunlight through stained glass. Hassian, by contrast, was all quiet edges and watchful stillness, like the forest before a storm. Where Sifuu challenged with a smile, Hassian protected with silence. And yet… the same unshakable loyalty burned in both of them, just lit by different flames.
She stood looking a moment too long, cheeks warming as she realized. Get the book, she reminded herself.
She found it easily — spine cracked, edges worn, as promised — tucked beneath a half-empty windowsill planter. The title wasn’t written on the cover, just a jagged scratch that might’ve once been a symbol or a creature’s claw. She turned it in her hands, weighing the life it carried.
That night, Lyra curled up in her cozy cabin with a cup of tea and opened the book. It read like an epic — every page brimming with wild monsters, impossible feats, and Sifuu’s bold, unflinching voice. She battled mountain beasts with nothing but a kitchen knife, dove into sinkholes for missing children, and once — supposedly — argued with a flame spirit until it agreed to leave a mining town alone.
Lyra laughed aloud more than once, shaken by both disbelief and delight.
There was no question: the writing was good. Sifuu had a rhythm — sharp, vivid, playful. But even as Lyra turned the pages, she couldn’t shake the quiet hum in the back of her mind. None of this could’ve happened exactly like this.
Still, it didn’t make her enjoy it less.

Tall Tales

When she met Sifuu at the tavern the next evening, book in hand, she slid it across the table with a small smile. “It’s fantastic,” Lyra said truthfully. “You have a real voice — I could see every monster clear as day.”
Sifuu beamed. “I knew you’d like it.”
“I admit,” Lyra added, choosing her words with care, “some of it felt a little… stretched. But in a good way. Like myth. It reads like legend. I think that’s what makes it so fun.”
Sifuu chuckled. “Myths always come from somewhere, girl. I didn’t make any of it up.”
Lyra held her gaze, gentle and playful. “Then you’ve led the kind of life most people can’t even imagine.”
“Damn right,” Sifuu said, then softened slightly. “Not everyone’s a fan of the way I told it, though.”
“Oh?”
She waved her hand. “Hassian. He didn’t care for it. Never finished it, I don’t think.”
Lyra blinked, surprised. “Really? Why not?”
Sifuu shook her head with a rueful little smile. “He’s got his own opinions. Always has. He acts like letting me in would hand me a weapon against him. Stubborn fool.” She snorted softly, folding her arms. “Doesn’t matter that I raised him — I’ve still got to fight for every scrap he gives me.”
Lyra blinked, taken aback. She had thought it was only her he held at a distance, but no — his mother too. The realization settled in her chest like a weight and a strange kind of comfort. His reserve wasn’t about her, not entirely. It was simply how he moved through the world, walls raised against everyone.

Not What it Seems

The next morning, Lyra found Hassian outside the shack, skin glistening slightly from the bright sun. He was stripping bark from a branch, shaping it into something with focused, precise strokes. Tau lounged nearby, tail swishing lazily.
Lyra approached with a small bundle tucked in one arm. “Brought something,” she said, holding it out.
He looked up, wiping his hand on his trousers before accepting it. “What is it this time?”
“Flatcakes with mushroom and trout. I’ve been experimenting with flour. And Reth says I’m not allowed to kill anyone, so I figured you’d be a good test subject.”
That earned her the smallest of eye rolls, but he took the bundle and unwrapped it without protest. A few bites in, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “It’s good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m not.”
She smiled, leaning back against the post beside him. For a moment, neither spoke. Then: “Sifuu told me you didn’t like her book.”
He stiffened — barely, but she noticed.
“Can I ask why?” she asked, her tone easy. Curious, not confrontational.
Hassian paused, then looked down at the half-eaten flatcake in his hand. Something in him shifted — a calculation, a decision. “She mischaracterized my momma,” he said finally. “Taylin.”
Lyra stayed quiet, steady in her stillness. She let the silence stretch, not pulling back, not filling it — just staying close enough for him to feel that she wasn’t leaving.
“Sifuu and Taylin were best friends since childhood. Grew up together. The book… turns their partnership into something it wasn’t. Taylin was brilliant. Quiet. Kind. She believed in people even when she shouldn’t’ve. She didn’t do all that wild stuff.”
He exhaled, setting the food aside. “They weren’t lovers. They married to protect land rights. Shared a cabin, raised me together, yes. But it wasn’t… that. It was something else. Something better, in its own way.”
“I see,” Lyra said softly. “That makes sense.”
Hassian glanced at her, then away. “I don’t blame my mother,” he said. “She needs to believe in the way she sees things. But momma deserves better than being turned into someone she wasn’t.”
Lyra was quiet for a moment, then said, “That must be frustrating. Having someone so close to her still not see your momma the way you did. The way she really was.”
Her voice was steady, not pitying. Just honest. And something about that—about her—slipped under his defenses before he could stop it.
Hassian didn’t speak right away. His gaze dropped to the ground, then back to her. “Yeah,” he said finally. “It is.”
A pause. Then quieter, more like truth than habit: “Thanks.”
Lyra smiled, but didn’t press — just sat with him in his quiet.
Hassian didn’t respond further, but his eyes lingered on her face a second longer than they usually did. Something in his expression had softened—just a little. He wondered, briefly, what it might be like to let her stay.

Hassian

That night, Hassian sat by the fire with Tau curled beside him, watching the flames crackle in the dark. The food had been good. Really good. But it wasn’t just the taste that stuck with him — it was the pattern.
The way she kept bringing things. Not every day but most. Not out of obligation. Not because she had to. Just… because.
“Does she cook for anyone else?” He wondered.
He hadn’t asked for anything. Hadn’t said thank you more than a few times. And still, she showed up. In his world, feeding someone meant something. A sign of care. Of concern. Sometimes even love. It was how Taylin had shown it. How he’d learned to see it. Was any of that what Lyra meant?
Or was it nothing — just pride in learning, just leftovers she didn’t want wasted?
He wanted to believe it was more, and that want alone unsettled him.
But maybe it was time he started looking a little closer. And part of him — the part that was slowly thawing — hoped it was a sign. A quiet one. A careful one. But real.
For a fleeting moment, the prayer he’d once whispered in the dark stirred in him, unbidden. Instinct told him it was too soon, too dangerous to believe. But the thought wouldn’t leave.
He looked down at Tau. “If it is,” he said quietly, “I don’t think I’d mind.” Tau huffed, as if in agreement.