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Detraeus frowned at the weapon in his grasp, tail flicking irritably side to side. It didn’t help that his mate and children were gone, or that every thought in that direction reminded him where they were, how helpless he was to follow, how useless it was to worry since he had no way of possibly knowing if anything happened to them. But, as an archer of edging in on forty years of age with well over twenty years of experience under his belt, one would think he could shoot a bow.

Except, apparently, this one.

Every time he strung it, the drawstring quivered or slipped. Arrows refused to nock smoothly. When he succeeded in nocking them, they either fell free or, if he managed to fire, shot off poorly, missing their target by a wide breath — so much so, if not for his frustration, embarrassment, and confusion he might have warned Casseth to steer clear of his practicing area lest he accidentally shoot him. It wasn’t a concern Detraeus had had to deal with for quite some time. Frankly, the last time he had not trusted his own aim, he hadn’t cared enough about anyone on Magesc’s surface enough to even worry about a stray arrow or two or ten. Grimacing, he lowered the weapon and scowled down at it.

It made him feel ten again. Or thirteen, in the orphanage, trying to teach himself how to fire while his arms burned. It was not acceptable.

Something had to be wrong with the bow.

Thus, with a frustrated grunt, he moved to set it and the arrows he’d purchased for it aside. It had been intended as a gift for his daughter to celebrate her progression as a young warrior. She had not yet officially chosen her weapon, but privately, Detraeus clung to his hopes. She was skilled with them, and seemed to show a genuine interest in the art also, though he was well aware that her brother’s choice — the staff — also tempted her. Whatever she chose, he promised himself he would be grateful that she took the path which called to her.

That did not stop him from hoping. One child who followed in his footsteps. Was that too much to ask? He felt useless around Ataya, lost in the sea of spells his son seemed so entranced by. They all looked so thin. Unpredictable, and unreliable. But, it had not been his choice to make, and nor would his daughter’s choice be.

After setting away the bow, he moved back around to the front of the house and in, on the lookout for Casseth. His friend had come to ‘make sure he didn’t do anything stupid’ — or, keep him company while his family was away and temper any wild desire he might have to storm the Celestial Plane in search of them. In the meantime, they’d kept busy.

With Ataya and Akara thirteen now, approaching their fourteenth year, they had begun showing want for…space. And privacy, as teenagers do. The desire had started back as early as their eleventh year, though it had been subtle then, but now was obvious, and it seemed only reasonable that their desire be answered before the friction caused more than minor frustrations and embarrassment. As such, Casseth had offered — and Detraeus and Araceli had gratefully accepted — to help build into their existing house, expanding the western side deeper into the mountain to make space for two new bedrooms and a conjoining room that ran across the front of both to allow the twins both privacy and a space to interact and store their shared possessions.

It was there that Detraeus found him. He propped his weight against the new doorframe. Given that they had only begun construction after Araceli and the children had left, the rooms were far from complete. Thanks to Casseth’s magic, however, they at least had their shape up, giving the two of them time to begin paneling and reinforcing. The children would not return home to completed rooms, but over the course of the next several weeks, the process would be finishable, and the pair could at least see what they were getting for now.

Detraeus’ gaze lingered long on Casseth, thinking, in spite of himself, of the path they had tread to come here. So long ago, now, and yet it seemed so vivid — a time when he had shoved Casseth from him, cursed him, and ran from everything that he now considered most precious to him. Detraeus grimaced at his folly, and diverted his gaze.

“I owe you much, you know.”

Detraeus grunted, half tempted to just leave it at that. After a moment, though, he frowned and shook his head. “Not this. More than that…everything.” His eyes narrowed a fraction, thoughtful and indecisive as he eyed Casseth. “I…” ‘…was not very grateful, once upon a time.’ But, as surely as the words came to his mind, his tongue did not want to speak them, and he did not want to have the conversation anymore. The tension of years long past was buried, but still there somehow in a subtle way like rope a dozen feet beneath the earth that, if pulled taut, could still disrupt and dislodge something, somehow. He dropped his lashes and nudged his head towards the door. “Food.”

If Casseth had been in the mood to press, Detraeus was ‘saved’ by a low whistle from the outside. Not the sharp pierce of alarm, but signal nonetheless that his mate was home. Immediately, he was out the door, just in time to view four hastars coming up the bend of the mountain path leading towards their door.

Atop Rannah, Ataya leaned over a fraction towards his sister, whispering, “Ten coppers says he lifts Mother off her hastar before we make it thirty paces more up the path.”

“I said before we reach,” Ataya said, “…and that automatically includes less than—” At their mother’s interruption, he cut off mid-sentence to wince, posture tensing a fraction on the hastar. “Are you sure you must tell him? Or…you could tell him, but not all the details? Something more like, ‘Ataya was so misbehaved, he said foul words to Lord Ysaride…’ or something on those lines. I think Father would take that better, overall, and it might perhaps merit some form of punishment, if not—”

Before Ataya got much further than that, there was a beating of dark wings, and moments later, his mother was being swept up off of her hastar at the waist and caught in an enthusiastic kiss which involved…tail and…wings and…hands and…

Ataya cleared his throat, jerking his eyes away sharply and calling out, “Last to the house smells of dalak and kargoth piss!” with a clap of his reins, already nudging Rannah off into a swift gallop towards the stables. His father’s curt grunt about something involving ‘language’ and being ‘careful’ was left in the dust.

On the ground, Detraeus grumbled, but upon seeing that, at the very least, both children and his mate seemed healthy and were here, returned to him where he could look after them again, he was of a mood to be lenient. As such, he satisfied himself for the moment with holding Araceli close and tucking several more soft, lingering kisses to her lips before speaking. “Things went well?”

“Different,” Detraeus repeated, immediately wary. Only the fact that they were all present, alive, and healthy — he was sure she would have warned them if any were hurt — kept him from pushing hard for more information in that moment. Instead, he grudgingly settled for the compromise and followed her up towards the house, a new string of tension running down his spine throughout the walk.

Lithian smiled, slipping down from his mount to greet Casseth with slightly less rapid but no less genuine enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Ataya and his sister reached the stables far ahead of them and began the process of brushing down and preparing them to be housed. Fully out of earshot of the adults and under the stable roof, Ataya spared a glance towards his sister.

“What do you think…we could run away,” he said. “But they’d probably catch us and he’d be all the more cross for it. Then again, if he blames both of us, we might get off easier on the whole than if it were just me. I couldn’t stand being cooped up for another season. Now that the snow’s melted, Dysarrin will wonder where I am besides…” He thumbed over Rannah’s reins as he unfastened them, thoughtful as a barest fragment of frost gathered under his finger. “I haven’t even had a chance to show him I’ve chosen yet.” He glanced towards his sister as he moved to set away the reins and then paused, eyes catching on a weapon he hadn’t seen before — not that he paid a terrible amount of attention to his father’s weapons, but… “Is that new?”

Immediately upon seeing his sister touch the bow’s blade, Ataya’s skin prickled with awareness of something different. A new energy, rippling and alive, as though stirred from a long slumber by her contact. His eyes narrowed on the bow, hand lifting to rub over his own arm and tame the hairs that had raised at the interaction. Suspicions and curiosity peaked, he opened his mouth to question her — but then, their parents were entering, and the opportunity disappeared. He made a mental note and stiffened in preparation, just in case Mother had already told.

As he stepped into the stables behind his mate, Detraeus’ gaze moved immediately to his children. He approached, raising his eyebrows.

“I’ve been told,” he said, overly serious and purposefully ‘ominous’ as he stepped up to them, “…that I ought to be getting hugs from you. The gods would think I scare you, running up the mountain like that…come here.” He motioned them both forward — each of them tall enough now to be caught in a hug without him crouching down to meet it — and he held them to him, kissing the crown of each of their heads. “I am very glad you are home safe…come. Your uncle and I have something to show you.”

At his bidding, the pair followed in his wake. Into the house, through the living room, down the hall and — Ataya blinked — to a new, cut out section of wall?

“These,” Detraeus said, “will be your two new bedrooms. Once finished.”

Ataya moved his hand up, instinctively carding his fingers back through to re-straighten it in the wake of his uncle’s mussing. His eyes, though, were on the new space, darting around the interior of what would be his new room. His room. He did need it. Though he wasn’t strictly uncomfortable with sharing a room still with his sister, both of their bodies were changing — alongside their attitudes, interests, and habits — and the first time she had walked in on him…attending to his changing body, his want for a space he could call fully his own had cemented itself.

A subtle, lopsided smile edged its way onto his lips. This would be exciting — particularly now that the adjoined rooms had access to a window, making for a wide open route directly to the outdoors without ever slipping past their parents’ room or the main hall and living area. Perfect, really.

Then, their father was informed of their midnight exploits.

The fun in the day rapidly deteriorated after that. At the conclusion of extensive scolding — and many an impassioned lecture on why they would never be going anywhere he could not follow again for a decade, if not longer — they were ‘grounded’ to a mile radius from the house and laden with a season’s worth of stable cleaning, privy emptying, house sweeping, and dish duties. Beginning immediately.

When they were finally left in the stables to tend to that first part of their punishment, Ataya lingered in the entryway, peeking around to make sure they had the space to themselves before slipping in and looking immediately to his sister.

“Well,” he said, “…that went better, I think, than if it had been entirely my fault…at least he’s permitting us out of the house.” Back in the presence of it, his mind flit back to the bow from earlier and his gaze moved to it, curious. “That weapon. Something happened when you touched it. Pick it up again?”

Ataya blinked, staring. After a moment, the look cracked into amusement, his eyebrows arching and smile tilting up at one corner as he snickered.

“Well, I’m not sure what you’re seeing,” he said, folding his arms and resting the weight of one shoulder against the closed stable doors to Rannah’s stall. “But I’m seeing…” He squinted with exaggerated attention to detail, “…a young girl, about thirteen or so, with wild purple-black curls, reaching for an unloaded weapon, touching it, squeaking, hopping, jumping back and dropping it as though it burned her and then staring at me wide-eyed in a filthy stable that smells of stale hastar refuse. What, pray tell, were you seeing?”