No Path Chosen

The boys arrived at the house just as the sky faded into deep blue, dusk spilling across the rooftops.

"This is it—our place," Leon said with a crooked grin, stepping up the stone path. "Come on in."

Servin stopped at the gate. His eyes traced the house from bottom to top—worn bricks, ivy curling up the sides, warm light glowing from the windows like comfort trapped in glass. It wasn't large or grand—not like his home in Brightmoor. But it felt... alive.

"Can I really?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry came up beside him and looped an arm around his shoulders. "You're already here, aren't you? Don't make us drag you in."

Lucian, just ahead of them, glanced back over his shoulder. "If you're waiting for a written invitation, we don't do that here."

He moved to the door and unlocked it with practiced ease. "It's open," he added, then stepped inside.

Servin hesitated one second longer—then followed.

The air inside was warm. It smelled of burnt sugar, smoke, and old paper. A hallway stretched ahead, cluttered with shoes, coats, and scattered books. Laughter echoed faintly from somewhere deeper in the house.

Leon turned theatrically. "Announcing the arrival of a noble guest!"

A door creaked open down the hall, and Mother Caramel stepped out, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Leon," she said with dry amusement. "What've you brought back this time?"

"It's not like that," Harry said, lifting his hands. "This one's different."

Her eyes landed on Servin, and the hallway quieted.

Her expression softened. "Oh… that hair. Are you—?"

"Servin Morvain," Leon answered before Servin could. "From Brightmoor. He ran away from home. He's staying with us for now."

Servin flinched slightly. The words sounded heavier when someone else said them.

"You ran away?" Mother Caramel asked gently. "Well… something must've happened." Her voice was kind, without pity. "You're safe here. The boys will show you around. Make sure you stay for dinner."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry replied, already nudging Servin toward the stairs.

"We're on the second floor," Leon said over his shoulder. "You'll be with us."

As they climbed, Servin trailed behind, his fingers brushing the wooden banister. There were scuff marks and small carvings—initials, doodles—the silent proof of lives that had passed through before him.

"We've had other kids stay here," Harry said, as if reading his thoughts. "Some for a few nights. Some for years."

"Not all of them stuck," Leon added. "But some do."

Lucian slowed a step and glanced back. "It's not about sticking," he said. "It's about choosing to stay. That's what makes the difference."

At the top of the stairs, Lucian opened the door to their room.

The space was tucked under the slanted roof, floorboards creaking beneath their feet. A small lantern cast soft yellow light over two narrow beds and a mattress on the floor, neatly made and waiting.

A single window looked out over the rooftops, where stars had just begun to blink awake.

"This one's yours," Lucian said.

"You can put your stuff wherever," Harry added. "We're not fancy."

Leon flopped backward onto his bed. "You'll get used to the creaking. Sounds like monsters, but it's just the wind."

Lucian stepped to the window and opened it a crack. "We always air the room before dinner. Helps with the smell—especially when Harry forgets to change his socks."

"Hey," Harry said, feigning offense.

Servin stepped inside slowly, eyes scanning the space. Shelves lined the walls—full of hand-carved animals, pressed leaves, a broken toy sword. Bits of memory. None of it expensive. All of it real.

"You okay?" Harry asked.

"I… I think so," Servin said. "I've never seen a place like this."

"It's not much," Lucian said. "But it's honest. You get used to that."

"Good," Leon added, sitting up. "Then maybe you'll remember it."

Servin turned to him, confused. "Why?"

"Because this is the first place you were wanted."

A pause followed. Not awkward—just full.

"Thanks," Servin murmured.

"You don't have to thank us," Lucian said, leaning against the wall. "You just have to stay."

Harry nudged his shoulder. "Come on, let's eat before Leon finishes the stew by himself."

"I don't eat that much!" Leon shouted from his bed.

They headed back down the stairs, voices mingling with the clatter of dishes and the soft crackle of firewood below.

Servin paused in the doorway, looking one last time at the little room with the slanted ceiling.

It wasn't what he expected.

But maybe it was what he needed.

They stepped into the dining room.

The air was warm with the scent of stew and bread, and the soft clatter of dishes filled the space. Laughter and chatter bounced off the walls, and the long wooden table was surrounded by kids—some older, some younger—all of them mid-meal or mid-conversation.

Heads turned as the group entered.

"Who's the blue-haired boy?" asked Claire, standing near the doorway with a curious look.

Servin shifted slightly under her gaze. "I'm Servin," he said. "I'll be staying here tonight."

"Just for tonight," Servin said, though he was starting to wonder if that was still true.

Claire raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were moving in or something."

Servin gave a small shrug. "Well… maybe. But my family will probably start looking for me if I'm not back by tomorrow. They weren't home today, so they haven't noticed I'm gone."

Leon frowned. "So they only care if someone tells them to?"

Before Servin could answer, a voice called across the room.

"What are you all doing crowding the doorway? Come sit down already," Eva said, waving them over.

She stood at the far end of the table, arms crossed, with the kind of authority that made people listen—even if she wasn't technically in charge.

Harry grinned and nudged Servin forward. "That's Eva. She runs this place when mother Caramel's not around."

"And sometimes when she is around," Leon muttered.

"Come on," Lucian said. "You'll want to eat before there's nothing left."

Servin followed them to the table, weaving between chairs, the noise and warmth wrapping around him like a blanket.

Servin slid into an empty chair between Leon and Harry. Across from him, Claire was still watching him with quiet interest as she took a bite of bread.

"So…" she said, chewing thoughtfully. "You from the city?"

"Brightmoor," Servin replied.

Claire let out a low whistle. "That's where the nobles live, right? Fancy houses and no street dogs?"

Servin gave a short nod. "And no noise. No music. No one talks to each other unless they want something."

"Sounds boring," said Harry, spooning stew into his mouth.

"It is," Servin muttered.

Claire leaned forward a little, curious now. "So why'd you leave?"

Servin hesitated. The voices around him—laughter, clinking bowls, the scrape of chairs—felt louder for a moment. Then he looked at her, then at Eva, who was listening quietly from down the table.

"I guess I just… wanted to breathe," he said. "Brightmoor has walls. Even inside the houses."

Claire tilted her head. "You're weird. I like it."

That earned a chuckle from Harry and even a small smirk from Lucian.

Eva spoke up, her tone calm but firm. "You'll find no one here puts on airs. Doesn't matter where you came from, only how you treat people."

Servin nodded slowly. "That's fair."

Leon leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "If you're staying longer, you'll need a chore, though. No freeloaders allowed."

Harry grinned. "Dishwashing duty's still open."

"I just got here," Servin said, surprised.

"Exactly," Claire said, smirking. "Break him in early."

"Fine," Servin muttered, but there was no sting in his voice.

He looked down at the simple bowl of stew in front of him. It wasn't fancy—nothing like the plated meals back in Brightmoor—but the warmth of it, the care that had gone into even this humble dinner, made his chest feel full.

Someone passed him a slice of bread without asking. Another kid across the table grinned and said, "Welcome to the madhouse."

Servin gave a small smile.

For the first time in his life, no one wanted anything from him.

They just wanted him here.

A moment later, the front door opened again.

Footsteps. Slow, familiar.

Then a tall figure stepped into the dining room.

He had brown hair streaked with silver near the temples, dressed simply in a black sweater with a small green crest over the chest. A duffel bag hung from one shoulder, worn and weathered from the road.

"I'm home," he said.

The air shifted.

Chatter quieted. Heads turned. The younger kids sat up straighter. Claire lowered her voice mid-sentence. Even Eva stood, her hands folding neatly in front of her as she gave a respectful nod.

But Leon—Leon lit up like a lantern.

"Silas!" he said, springing from his chair with a grin.

Silas barely had time to set his bag down before Leon wrapped his arms around him in a quick, eager hug.

"You're finally back!"

Silas chuckled, patting the back of his head. "You've grown louder since I left."

"You've been gone a week. That's forever here," Leon said. "How was Griven? Did you destroy the exam?"

"I passed," Silas said simply. "Barely."

"You liar," muttered Claire under her breath, but she was smiling too.

At the far end of the room, another door creaked open.

"Is that my boy back in one piece?" came a voice—warm and unmistakable.

Mother Caramel stepped into the dining room, her apron still dusted with flour. She didn't walk—she marched toward him, arms already out.

Silas turned just in time to catch her in a gentle hug. "Sorry I didn't write," he said. "They kept us locked in a dorm until it was over."

"Mm-hm," she muttered, squeezing him tight. "You still missed three chores, two stew nights, and my birthday."

"I brought bread," he offered.

She pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow at him. "From the Griven High bakery, I hope."

"Yes, ma'am."

Satisfied, she gave him one last pat on the shoulder before stepping back. "Sit, sit. You must be starving."

Silas offered a quiet nod to Eva, who stepped aside to let him take his usual seat near the kitchen. No one said it out loud, but the room already felt more grounded with him there—like something missing had finally clicked back into place.

Servin watched all of it from his seat—silent, observing.

Everyone treated Silas with respect, yes. But it wasn't stiff or formal. It was warm. Lived-in. The way younger siblings treat the one who used to walk them home after school and patch up scraped knees. Like someone who had earned loyalty by being there, over and over again.

Even Eva, calm and composed as ever, spoke to him with care in her tone. Not deference—but quiet admiration.

Silas's gaze finally passed over Servin.

"You're new," he said.

Servin straightened a little. "Yes. I'm Servin. Just here for the night."

Silas gave him a small nod. "Welcome."

He said no more than that—but the weight of it lingered.

Leon leaned over and whispered, "He's the coolest person in this house. And probably the smartest. Don't let the sweater fool you—he can break up a fight with a stare."

"He's been here longer than any of us," Harry added, grinning. "Except Caramel, of course."

Silas started eating quietly, blending into the rhythm of the table like he'd never been gone.

And though Servin didn't know him—not really—he could feel it.

Every kid at this table trusted him.

Every kid looked up to him.

And Leon… Leon practically glowed in his presence.

Servin watched the easy way Silas listened, the calm in his face, the strength in his silence. He didn't have to ask questions. He noticed things.

The green crest on his sweater burned quietly in Servin's memory. He knew what it meant.

But Silas didn't carry himself like someone above them.

He carried himself like someone who had chosen to come back.

And for a reason he didn't understand yet, that made Servin feel safer than anything else had in days.

Later that night, Silas called the four boys into the quiet common room. The lamps were low, casting long shadows on the walls. He shut the door behind them.

"Sit," he said simply.

They obeyed.

He folded his arms, his gaze sharp, unreadable.

"Now," Silas said, voice low but firm, "tell me what really happened out there today. And don't lie to me."

Something in his tone cut deeper than a shout. Like he already knew. Like he'd seen more than he let on.

The boys stiffened.

Leon looked at Harry. Harry looked at Lucian. Servin dropped his eyes to the floor.

No one spoke.

The silence stretched.

And Silas just waited.