The sun was just beginning to melt the morning mist when Father stopped in the middle of the path.
We were headed to the southern fields to check the irrigation lines. It was routine—mud, leaks, Helios getting stuck in a trench, me laughing at him. But this time, Father wasn't laughing. He stood still, eyes fixed on the trees just beyond the low stone wall.
Helios noticed it first. "You see something?"
Father's hand was already resting on the old axe at his belt. He never wore it unless he had to. His jaw tensed. "Keep close."
I frowned. "Goblins?"
"Maybe," he said softly. "Tracks were fresh yesterday. I hoped they'd moved on."
Helios stepped forward, towering beside me like a shadow with a heartbeat. "I'll go."
Father held up a hand. "No. We stay together."
A rustle. A whisper of leaves. Then—movement.
From the thicket, four goblins stumbled out, hunched and grinning, each armed with mismatched blades and rusted tools. Their eyes were small and twitchy, teeth yellow and crooked. Nothing we hadn't seen before. Goblins weren't rare in these parts—they scavenged, stole, occasionally tried their luck on wandering travelers. Most of the time, they backed off when outnumbered.
But these didn't back off.
Helios stepped in front of me by instinct. Calm, but tense. "We don't want trouble."
The largest goblin—scarred down one side of its face—grunted something in its rasping tongue and took a step forward.
Father didn't shout. He didn't brandish the axe. He simply stood there, gentle eyes steeled. "Turn around," he said, voice low. "No one has to get hurt today."
One of the goblins hissed and rushed forward.
And that's when Helios moved.
It wasn't fast—he was never fast—but it was heavy, precise, final. His fist collided with the goblin's chest like a battering ram, sending it flying back into the bushes. Another rushed, and he grabbed its arm and twisted, snapping bone with a single motion.
Two down.
The others hesitated, snarled, and turned tail, dragging their wounded into the trees.
Helios exhaled slowly. Not angry. Not proud. Just done.
"You alright?" I asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He nodded, eyes scanning the treeline one more time before finally relaxing. "Didn't want to."
"I know."
Father stepped forward and placed a hand on Helios's forearm. "Thank you."
That look in his eyes—the one I saw earlier—hadn't been fear. It had been grief. Grief that this world still asked his sons to fight.
We didn't say much on the way back.
Some days, peace feels more like a thread than a truth. And today, it had frayed just a little more.
The goblins didn't come back.
That should've made it easier to sleep, but it didn't. I lay awake that night, eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling above my bed, listening to the wind pass through the cracks in the old shutters. Every creak sounded like footsteps. Every gust felt like a warning.
Helios was still awake too. I could hear his breathing through the wall. Steady. Heavy. Like the weight he carried never left his chest.
In the morning, we didn't talk about what happened. That was Father's way. No dramatics. No lingering in fear. He made breakfast—eggs, tomatoes, toasted bread—and hummed a quiet song like always.
Helios sat across from me, picking at his food. His knuckles were scraped, the skin already healing. He didn't wear the pain on his face, but I could feel it pressing behind his silence.
"You did what you had to do," I finally said, breaking the quiet.
"I know," he answered, eyes not meeting mine.
"Then why do you look like you killed a friend?"
He glanced at me, something flickering in those dark eyes. "Because I keep wondering what it would've taken for us to avoid that fight."
"They charged. You ended it."
Helios's jaw tensed. "I could've waited longer. Blocked. Scared them off. Maybe."
I shook my head. "They weren't going to back off. You saw their eyes."
He said nothing.
Father sipped his tea. He didn't interrupt. He never chose sides between us. He let us talk it out, like he always did—like the answers were already inside us if we just spoke them aloud.
After breakfast, we walked out to the fields again. The sun was strong already, and the world looked too peaceful for what had happened yesterday.
Halfway there, Helios stopped. "You ever think about leaving?"
I blinked. "Leaving the farm?"
He nodded.
"All the time," I said. "Then I remember we have goats and Father has no sense of direction."
That made him smile. Just a little.
"But seriously?"
"I don't know. There's a world out there. And something tells me we're going to see it sooner than we want."
Helios stared at the horizon. "You feel it too."
Not a question. A knowing.