Morning came without warmth.
The sky was pale and dull, clouds hanging low as if reluctant to move on. Frost clung to the ground, crunching beneath Aric's boots as he stepped outside. Smoke rose from chimneys deeper in the village stronger homes, sturdier roofs, better-built walls.
The Veyra house released no smoke. They saved firewood for night.
Aric adjusted the strap of his worn pack and started down the narrow path toward the village center. People passed him along the way farmers, craftsmen, children chasing one another through the frost. Some nodded politely. Most did not.
A group of men stood near the well, their clothes cleaner, their boots reinforced with metal tips. Adventurers.
Aric slowed as he approached. He recognized them faces he had carried loot for countless times.
"Morning," he said.
One of them glanced at him briefly, eyes lingering on Aric's patched cloak.
"You're late," the man said flatly.
"The frost slowed the path," Aric replied.
The adventurer scoffed. "Excuses don't make the pack lighter."
Another laughed. "At least he's good for carrying. Strong back, empty head."
Aric did not respond. He bent down as they tossed bags at his feet monster parts, dungeon ore, sealed chests he would never open. The weight settled heavily across his shoulders as he lifted them.
"You'll get paid when we return," the leader said. "Same as always."
Aric nodded. "Understood."
They moved out toward the dungeon road, boots firm, laughter echoing behind them. Aric followed several steps behind, as he always did.
No one asked about his injuries from the last trip. No one asked if he had healed.
To them, he was part of the equipment.
Back at the house, Lyra watched from the doorway until Aric disappeared beyond the bend. She held her belly protectively as a cold breeze passed.
A woman from the neighboring house passed by, basket in hand.
"He's going again?" the woman asked, not slowing.
Lyra nodded. "Yes."
The woman clicked her tongue. "Dangerous work. For little reward."
Lyra forced a smile. "It keeps us fed."
"Barely," the woman replied, already walking away. "You'd be better off knowing your place."
Lyra did not answer. She returned inside, closing the door gently behind her.
The house felt emptier without Aric's presence.
She swept the floor, patched a torn cloth, and boiled water for later. Each movement was slow, careful. She had learned to ration energy as much as food.
Her eyes drifted to the sword on the wall.
Ordinary. Unremarkable. Yet it had outlived many men who mocked its owner.
Lyra sat down and rested, one hand on her belly.
"Your father works harder than anyone," she whispered. "Even when the world pretends not to see."
Outside, the village went on as it always did fields tended, goods traded, laughter shared among those with means.
Beyond the village, Aric walked the dungeon road with a heavy pack and heavier thoughts.
He did not dream of glory. He did not expect praise.
He walked because survival demanded it.
And because one day, a child would be born into this world.
A child who would see these struggles
And decide what to do with them.