The afternoon sun bathed the Highspire house in a soft golden glow as Dorian stepped inside. The smell of fresh herbs and roasted vegetables drifted from the kitchen, and the faint sound of a lullaby hummed through the air.
In the living room, his mother, Elira, sat cross-legged on a worn rug, playing with a bright-eyed baby girl. Dorian's one-year-old sister, little Selia, giggled as Elira tickled her belly, her laughter filling the house with a warmth only a child's joy could bring.
When Elira glanced up and saw Dorian, her smile widened. "You're back early," she said gently, picking up Selia and settling her onto her lap. "Did something happen during the lesson?"
Dorian didn't answer immediately. His green eyes were distant, his usual spark dimmed by the weight of his thoughts. Without a word, he trudged past the kitchen table and up the stairs toward his room.
Elira watched him go, her smile softening into quiet concern. But she didn't call after him—she knew better. Dorian had always been an open book, quick to share his feelings and seek her advice. Yet there were times, like this, when the world sat heavy on his young shoulders, and he needed space to think.
"He'll figure it out," Elira murmured to herself as she rose, balancing Selia on her hip. She returned to her chores, dusting shelves and humming softly, her mind half-waiting for Dorian to bring up whatever troubled him over dinner.
…
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the family had gathered for dinner. The simple wooden table was set with hearty stew, fresh-baked bread, and a bowl of roasted vegetables.
Dorian sat across from his father, Gorlan, who was sharpening a knife as he waited for Elira to finish setting the table. Selia was cradled in a small chair nearby, babbling incoherently but smiling at the warm atmosphere.
The family began their meal, the usual hum of conversation filling the room as Elira and Gorlan discussed the day's work. But Dorian remained uncharacteristically quiet, absently poking at his stew with his spoon.
Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but steady. "If you had a dream, and to achieve that dream you needed to use the same weapons bad people use, would you still do it?"
Elira froze mid-bite, her eyes widening slightly as she looked at her son. Gorlan put his knife down, his weathered face unreadable as he studied Dorian.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Gorlan exchanged a glance with Elira, nodding faintly. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. "That's quite the question," he said, his voice heavy with experience. "Let me tell you a story."
"When I was a boy, maybe a few years older than you," Gorlan began, his rough voice growing quiet, "Suntails Hollow wasn't as peaceful as it is now. One year, a group of bandits came through the valley. They raided the village, taking food, supplies—whatever they could get their hands on. They used bows, swords, axes... anything sharp or heavy enough to hurt."
Elira's expression tightened at the memory, but she didn't interrupt.
"They didn't just take what we had," Gorlan continued. "They made sure we knew they were in charge. If anyone resisted, they'd pay for it—sometimes with their lives."
Dorian leaned forward, his attention fixed on his father's every word.
"One night, after a big raid, the bandits got sloppy. They set up camp on the edge of the village, drinking and celebrating like fools." Gorlan's eyes darkened. "That was their mistake. While they were drunk and distracted, a few of us—the older boys, me included—took matters into our own hands. We crept into their camp in the dead of night, armed with whatever we could find. A sickle. A hammer. Even a rusted blade."
He paused, letting the silence linger. "One by one, we dealt with them. When the night was over, we'd driven them away. Some didn't wake up at all."
Dorian swallowed hard, his young imagination filling in the blanks of his father's story.
"What do you think happened to the bandits' weapons?" Gorlan asked. "The bows, the crossbows, the swords they'd used to terrorize us?"
"They... they stayed with the village?" Dorian guessed.
Gorlan nodded. "That's right. Borr uses one of those crossbows to hunt boar even now. The same bow that bent our knees feeds our families today. Those weapons aren't evil—they're tools. Whether they're used as tools of destruction or protection depends on the person holding them."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "It's a matter of conviction, Dorian. If your dream is worth chasing, you have to decide for yourself if the tools you use to get there reflect who you are. The world will judge you either way—but the person you have to answer to at the end of the day is the one looking back at you in the mirror."
Dorian didn't respond immediately. He sat quietly, his thoughts a storm of questions and realizations. Elira reached across the table, resting her hand on his.
"Think it over," she said softly. "No one's saying it'll be easy. But I know you'll figure it out. You always do."
Dorian nodded faintly, offering his mother a small, grateful smile.
As the family finished their meal, a quiet resolve settled in Dorian's chest. Though he didn't yet have all the answers, his father's words gave him a direction—a reminder that dreams were not just about the destination but the choices made along the way.