Sylas stayed in his room for as long as he dared.
The familiar four walls offered little in the way of comfort: plain wooden beams, a rough-cut cot with a thin fur cover, and a single carved effigy of the Bear god mounted high on the wall. Its face, fierce and unyielding, watched him with stone eyes. Sylas hated how much space it seemed to take up.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the flickering shadows that danced across the wall. Time passed like smoke, drifting, intangible. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but the stillness grew heavy. He could feel the house shifting with movement outside the room: footsteps, the clatter of plates, the rustle of herbs being prepared.
Still, he didn't move.
Sylas ran his fingers through his hair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The cub made a soft noise in its sleep, ears twitching. Sylas watched it, that familiar tension coiled tight in his chest.
It wasn't just about the cub. It never had been.
His stomach growled, sharp and persistent. He ignored it at first, but the hunger gnawed harder, and eventually, the weight of inaction became heavier than the risk of facing everyone outside.
He stood, straightened his tunic, and spared one last glance at the cub. It didn't stir. He left the door slightly ajar so he could hear if it needed him.
The light outside had softened, a golden haze painting the yard in long amber strokes. The sun was drifting low, casting the stone wall in warmth. Maren stood by it, sorting bundles of dried herbs with swift, practiced hands. The way she moved—efficient, steady—made Sylas feel clumsy by comparison. She didn't look up as he approached, but he knew she'd noticed.
"Tired of hiding already?" she said, her voice casual but edged.
"I wasn't - " He stopped, sighed. "I needed some air."
Maren didn't smile, but her brow rose slightly as she turned a sprig of sage in her fingers. "I see."
"And the cub?"
"Sleeping."
"Good."
There was silence as she moved on to the next bundle. The smell of thyme and lavender hung in the air.
"You've realized hiding won't make this go away," she said.
"I know." His shoulders slumped. "I just… needed time to think."
"Thinking is good," she said. "But don't think so much you forget to act."
"I won't," he muttered, though the words rang hollow in his throat.
She turned to face him fully. The fading light caught her face, casting her features in gold and shadow. Her gaze met his—quiet, intense, unblinking.
"Tomorrow is going to be hard," she said softly. "Don't weigh yourself down with what doesn't need carrying."
Sylas nodded, but the knot in his stomach remained tight. "I know."
"Do you?" she asked. "Because if you're still thinking about that cub while you're standing at the altar, it won't matter what the gods see in you. They'll have already decided you don't belong."
The words hit harder the second time.
"That's not fair," he said, sharper than he meant to.
Maren stepped closer. Her hand brushed a lock of hair from his face, a gesture from another life—when he was smaller, lighter, and hadn't yet learned how to carry silence like a burden.
"No," she said. "It's not. But life rarely is."
He blinked hard, looking away. His eyes fell on the neat rows of herbs—perfect, ordered, intentional. Everything he wasn't.
She was quiet for a long time. Then: "The gods don't look for perfection. They look for truth. Be honest with yourself, and you'll be enough."
He nodded, but the knot in his chest didn't loosen.
"Go on," she said, turning back to her bundles. "Before your sister eats everything."
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The longhouse was warm with firelight when Sylas stepped inside. The scent of roasted meat and Maren's spiced bread filled the room, thick and comforting. It should have grounded him. Instead, it felt like another stone tied to his ribs.
Nara was already at the table, nibbling bread and smirking like she'd been waiting for him just to make a joke.
"Decided to join us, huh?" she said. "Thought maybe you were skipping dinner too. Really committing to the hermit arc."
"Nara," Maren warned from the hearth, ladling stew into clay bowls.
Sylas ignored her and slid into his usual seat at the far end of the table. Eiran sat across from Nara, arms crossed, posture as relaxed as ever. Deren stood at the head of the table, carving slices from a roast with methodical precision.
Maren placed a bowl of stew in front of Sylas. He gave her a quiet, almost whispered "thanks."
The knife clacked against the cutting board.
"Tomorrow's a big day," Deren said at last. He didn't look up, but the words cut clean across the room. "For all of us."
Nara snorted.
"What?" she asked when Maren shot her a glare. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to," Eiran murmured, barely containing a smirk.
"Enough," Deren snapped, voice sharp and final.
He set the knife down and turned his gaze on Sylas.
"You'll need to be focused."
"I know," Sylas said, his voice quiet.
"Do you?" Deren pressed. "Because from where I'm standing, you've spent the last few days avoiding anything that requires real effort."
"Deren—" Maren began.
But Deren raised a hand. "I'm not trying to be harsh. But this family carries a legacy. Our god favors strength. Discipline. If you want his blessing, you need to prove you're worthy of it."
Sylas stared at the table.
"And what if he doesn't pick me?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
The air shifted.
Eiran leaned forward, expression suddenly serious. "Then you prove yourself another way," he said. "It's not about which god chooses you. It's about what you do after."
Deren frowned but didn't contradict him. Maren said nothing, but her glance toward Sylas held a quiet grief.
"The gods don't favor uncertainty," Deren said finally.
Sylas's hands tightened around his spoon. He wasn't sure if he was angry or afraid.
A hand settled on his shoulder. Warm. Steady.
Maren.
"Eat," she said gently. "You'll need your strength tomorrow."
He nodded, forcing down a bite even though the stew tasted like ash.
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Later, the house had gone quiet. Only the hearth remained awake, flames flickering low, casting long shadows across the walls.
Sylas sat beside it, knees drawn to his chest, back against the stone.
The others had drifted away. Nara to her room, Eiran to his blades, Deren into that cold, unshakable silence he wore like armor. Even Maren had disappeared into the shadows.
Only Sylas remained.
The Bear god's effigy loomed above the hearth, carved into dark wood, its eyes hollow and knowing. He hated how much it expected of him. How much everyone expected.
He looked toward the corner. The cub was still asleep. Still out of place.
"Not so different, you and me," Sylas murmured. "Not supposed to be here."