Reid wore a white shirt and brown pants, similar to Arttu’s—not the same, but close enough that anyone looking twice would notice. His armor felt heavy against his shoulders.

  And if he was never going to fight anyone, why would he ever wear it?

  The outline was older than it looked.

  Bob’s handwriting filled the margins in sharp, impatient strokes—notes, warnings, small insults disguised as advice.

  Dig deeper.

  Don’t rush this part.

  If it creaks, you did it wrong.

  Patience is cheaper than rebuilding.

  Reid read it every morning.

  Sometimes twice.

  At first, they slept in the village every night. Every morning, new mail from the kingdom waited for Reid—sealed letters stacked neatly where he couldn’t avoid seeing them. Orders. Requests. Summons.

  He ignored all of it.

  The letters kept stacking. Reid let them.

  He didn’t want to disturb the peace they had found.

  They woke early, before most people were up, ate bread that tasted the same no matter where they bought it, and walked past the fields toward the open land they had chosen. The air smelled different out there—cleaner, wider. Arttu carried water in a small bucket that sloshed against his legs. Reid carried the tools.

  The walk was long at first.

  Then it wasn’t.

  The path slowly became familiar, then comforting. Reid started recognizing which stones were loose, which tree bent oddly, which patch of grass always stayed damp.

  The first weeks were only preparation.

  Chopping wood.

  A lot of chopping wood.

  Reid swung the axe with practiced strength, splitting logs cleanly. The sound echoed sharply through the forest. Sometimes he let Arttu try a few swings.

  Every time Arttu swung the axe easily, Reid felt a small shock run through him.

  Still, Reid was the older brother. He insisted on chopping most of the wood himself.

  Arttu dragged branches, stacked timber, learned which pieces were worth keeping and which were better left behind. His movements were clumsy at first, uncertain.

  His hands blistered.

  Reid noticed before Arttu complained.

  “Hold still,” Reid said one afternoon.

  Arttu froze, unsure if he was in trouble.

  Reid knelt in front of him, took his hands gently, and traced a faint green light across the skin. The pain eased. The raw cuts closed, leaving only pale lines behind.

  Arttu stared.

  “That was healing magic,” he said quietly.

  “Low level,” Reid replied. “Anyone can learn it.”

  Arttu looked at him for a long moment.

  Amazed.

  “…Can you teach me?”

  Reid hesitated.

  Not because he didn’t trust Arttu.

  Because he trusted him too much.

  Then he nodded.

  “Only this kind,” he said. “For small wounds. Nothing dangerous.”

  Arttu nodded seriously, like he had just sworn an oath.

  The foundation came next.

  Two feet deep, just like Bob’s notes said.

  The soil was stubborn. Rocks hid beneath the surface like they were waiting to trip them. Reid dug until his arms burned and his breath came heavy. Arttu passed water, wiped sweat from his face, counted stones aloud to distract himself.

  “One… two… big one… really big one…”

  Reid grunted, pried the rock free, and dropped it into the pile.

  When the trench was finished, they packed rubble tight into it. Reid jumped on it a few times to test it.

  The ground held.

  Reid smiled.

  Arttu laughed when Reid lost his balance and fell flat on the ground.

  The frame came after.

  Cutting timber was harder than chopping trees. Squaring the beams took patience Reid didn’t know he had. He messed up the first one. Then the second.

  Bob’s note stared at him from the parchment.

  Measure twice.

  Reid sighed and started again.

  Arttu watched closely, then tried it himself. His strokes were careful, uneven, slow.

  Reid didn’t interrupt.

  When Arttu finished, Reid examined the beam and ran a hand along the edge.

  “Not bad,” he said.

  Arttu smiled like he’d been knighted.

  By the time autumn arrived, they stopped returning to the village every night.

  They built a small shelter near the site. Crude. Temporary. The roof leaked. The walls let the wind through. It smelled like wet wood and earth.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  But it was theirs.

  Rain came often.

  Some days, work slowed to nothing. They sat inside the shelter, listening to water drum against the roof. Reid cleaned the tools. Arttu practiced the healing spell on scrapes and bruises until the light stopped flickering.

  “Again,” Reid said patiently.

  Arttu frowned, concentrated, and tried again.

  The spell held.

  He smiled, just a little.

  Winter arrived quietly.

  Snow fell overnight, covering everything in white. The forest looked softer. The land looked untouched again, as if the months of work hadn’t happened.

  Reid stared at it for a long time that morning.

  Then he picked up the axe.

  They worked anyway.

  Their breath fogged the air. Wood split differently in the cold—sharper sounds, cleaner breaks. Arttu learned to keep his fingers moving.

  Every night, Reid used purification magic on Arttu.

  He knew Arttu was hurt. Still, he did it. He had to. The king’s court had made him promise.

  Every time Arttu hissed, but Reid didn’t stop. Arttu wasn’t weak. He took the pain without complaint.

  But Arttu noticed something else.

  Every time Reid used purification magic, it felt like Reid suffered more than he did. The sadness in Reid’s eyes was heavy, unbearable—like he had killed someone in that moment and the guilt refused to leave him.

  “Big brother,” Arttu said one night, “could you teach me that magic? I really want to learn it.”

  Reid didn’t answer right away.

  The silence lasted a few minutes.

  Purification magic was used against curses. Teaching it meant teaching something meant to fight—no matter how gentle the intent.

  Reid didn’t want Arttu to fight.

  He didn’t want Arttu to hurt someone or, worse, hurt himself.

  All this time, he was thinking of a way to purify the curse energy within Arttu without hurting him. He wanted him to live peacefully. Normally. Without blood or fear. Everything Reid had done was to protect that.

  But Arttu’s eyes were different.

  Determined.

  Reid felt it.

  A small laugh escaped him.

  “…Okay,” he said. “I’ll teach you. But carefully. And you use it carefully too. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  After that, they kept building.

  The roof frame went up just before the worst snowfall.

  They celebrated with soup so thick the spoon stood upright. Arttu picked out the vegetables he liked and left the rest. Reid pretended not to notice.

  Spring melted the snow away.

  The house stood there—unfinished, skeletal, but real.

  Walls came next.

  Wattle and daub.

  It was messy. Clay stuck to everything. Straw tangled in their hair. Reid slipped once and landed hard on his back, completely covered in mud.

  Arttu stared.

  Then laughed.

  Reid stared at the sky.

  “…I deserved that.”

  Summer returned.

  They slept with the door open, listening to insects and wind. Arttu grew taller. Reid noticed one morning when Arttu reached for a beam he used to struggle with.

  “You’re growing,” Reid said.

  Arttu shrugged.

  “…You’re getting slower.”

  Reid scoffed.

  Every night, Reid taught Arttu about purification magic—what it was, how it worked, why it existed.

  Sometimes Arttu used it on himself without Reid knowing. It hurt. But he found a way. He learned to combine healing magic with purification, dulling the pain, but it never fully stopped. When he used too much purification magic on his body, it felt as if his body was tearing apart.

  But he still continued.

  He thought Reid wasn’t watching.

  But Reid always watched.

  He didn’t like it.

  But he was proud.

  The second winter was harder.

  Storms tore at the roof. Once, they woke to part of the thatch ripped away. They fixed it in silence, hands numb, movements practiced.

  The house held.

  By the third spring, it felt like it had always been there.

  The walls were solid. The roof didn’t leak. The floor no longer creaked.

  Reid carved small marks into the beams—not decorative. Personal. Marks only they would recognize.

  On the last day, they stood inside.

  Sunlight filtered through the windows.

  Reid set his tools down.

  Arttu looked around slowly.

  “It’s… quiet.”

  Reid smiled.

  “That’s the point.”

  They didn’t rush to furnish it.

  That night, they sat on the floor. Reid ate bread and cheese.

  Arttu ate the bread.

  Only the bread.

  He never liked cheese. He was not allergic—just the feeling that if he ate it alone, something terrible would happen. The cheese inside the pizza was fine. Pastries were fine. Plain cheese was not.

  The fire crackled softly.

  Outside, the wind moved through the grass.

  The house stayed.

  Reid stood and checked his pockets.

  One rout.

  Two.

  Three.

  Reid stopped counting.

  He froze where he stood, coins resting cold and light in his palm. For a moment, he thought he had miscounted. He counted again. Slowly. Like if he took his time, more would appear.

  They didn’t.

  Fear settled into his chest, heavy and quiet.

  After Bob. After the materials. After the tools. He should have had far more than this. Not riches, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to not think about tomorrow.

  Then it came back to him.

  The dessert shop.

  Late nights. Slipping out when Arttu was asleep. The warm light spilling into the street. “Just one,” he’d told himself. Just one pastry. Then another. And another. Tiramisu he didn’t need, cakes he definitely didn’t need, eating like peace itself could be bought with sugar.

  “But still,” Reid murmured under his breath, staring at the coins,

  “I should have had at least two hundred routs left.”

  Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his eyes.

  Arttu was standing a few steps away.

  Arttu smiled.

  Innocently.

  Too innocently.

  Reid narrowed his eyes just a little.

  Arttu, for his part, had also been sneaking out at night.

  He normally struggled just existing in a foreign place—new smells, unfamiliar faces, the constant sense of being watched by a world he didn’t understand yet. But the dessert shop was different. The dessert shop didn’t ask questions. It didn’t expect anything from him.

  It was warm.

  Quiet.

  Safe.

  So Arttu had gone. Again and again. Mostly at night, when the road was empty and the village felt smaller. He ate rice pudding until his stomach hurt, until his body felt heavy and slow. After that much eating, even the walk back felt like work. Sometimes he had to stop and sit for a moment, staring at the stars and regretting nothing.

  He also knew something else.

  Before sneaking out, he always checked the money.

  And he knew Reid was spending it too.

  Arttu had never said anything. But he was absolutely certain Reid’s weakness was the same as his.

  Desserts.

  They stared at each other.

  Both angry.

  Then, almost immediately, both guilty.

  The anger collapsed under its own weight.

  Reid let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

  “…I need to take a job.”

  Arttu nodded, a little too quickly, like agreeing faster might fix it.

  They went to the village together.

  They stood in front of the job board for a long time. Too long. Reid read every notice carefully. Arttu leaned in close, squinting like the words might rearrange themselves if he stared hard enough.

  One shop needed an apprentice.

  A tailor.

  Reid looked at Arttu.

  Arttu looked back.

  “…Sewing must be easy,” Reid offered.

  Arttu decided that was good enough logic.

  Inside the shop, Reid was handed a needle and thread.

  He stabbed the cloth.

  Once.

  Then again.

  The tailor stared at him in silence.

  Reid tried to laugh it off.

  “I’m better with swords.”

  That did not help.

  Arttu tried next. He was slightly better. Slightly. The stitching was uneven, but at least the fabric survived.

  They were fired before noon.

  They went to the dessert shop.

  Hope died instantly.

  The owner took one look at them—really looked this time—and shook his head slowly.

  “No.”

  Not angry. Not loud.

  Just no.

  They tried more places.

  First, the stable.

  Reid walked in confidently.

  A horse immediately kicked him in the abdomen.

  Then shat on him.

  Arttu watched.

  “…It chose you,” the stabler said while laughing.

  They left.

  The warehouse was next.

  The man there watched them lift a crate.

  Watched Reid struggle.

  Watched Arttu struggle more.

  “Too slow,” the man said.

  They put the crate down.

  Carefully.

  They left.

  A merchant stopped them in the street.

  “What can you do?” the merchant asked.

  Reid opened his mouth.

  Arttu opened his mouth.

  The merchant sighed first.

  “Unqualified,” he said, already turning away.

  They didn’t argue.

  Another place offered work.

  The pay was explained.

  Reid calculated it in his head.

  He blinked.

  “That doesn’t even cover—”

  “Exactly,” the man said.

  They left.

  They stood in the street for a moment.

  Reid still smelled like horse.

  Arttu patted his arm once.

  For comfort.

  For no reason.

  Each rejection weighed a little more than the last.

  By evening, Reid found himself back where the letters were stacked.

  The sealed envelopes waited patiently. Kingdom marks pressed into wax. Familiar handwriting. Orders he hadn’t opened.

  He stared at them for a long time.

  He didn’t want to go back.

  He didn’t want to see the court again, or hear their voices, or feel that pressure settle back onto his shoulders. More than anything, he feared what it would do to Arttu. How it might wake something inside him that Reid had worked so hard to keep asleep.

  But they had no money.

  And begging didn’t feel like peace.

  Reid closed his eyes, exhaled, then looked at Arttu.

  “Hey,” he said quietly, voice tired but gentle,

  “Let’s go back to Aquilonis.”