Seamlessly Underwater

As with any typical day, light chipped through the fractures of the shattered panes, the stench of old loaves and singed timber pervaded. But today, it felt different.

Underneath the silence, a tension layered upon itself, leaking out the walls, curling in on itself like a whisper, waiting to be spoken.

I pressed against the floorboards, their creak consumed by the leadened absence of motion. Outside, gray clouds blanketed the sky, suffocating the sun as they always did. A weight never shed from this community, and perhaps never would.

Next door, my mother was screaming again. Or was she? It didn't matter. Her voice had become background noise to me long ago — a perpetual noise, like the rotting wood, the draft in the walls, the hunger in my belly. It wasn't even the screaming that pained him anymore. It was the silence after.

Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.

I froze.

The door squeaked open and I smelled liquor before I saw him.

"You're still here?" My father's speech was slurred, his glossy eyes barely fixed on me. It wasn't a real question. It was an accusation.

I didn't answer. What was the point? Each conversation followed the same loop in the cycle: words hurled, silence returned.

"Father," I muttered anyway. It sounded empty, more like a stale habit than anything meaningful.

His eyes moved across my body, slowly and unfocused. Then he laughed — low and bitter. "Oh, you think you're gonna be a knight, huh? You think you're better than me?"

I fixed my gaze on the floor, fingers clenching in my lap. I had nothing to say. Not to him. Not to anyone who shared his way of thinking.

It finally made him laugh, shaking his head. "You're gonna be just like me, boy. Mark my words. We all do."

There was a time when those words would have hit me hard. Now, they were nothing. A dull noise. A shadow without weight.

Then, a knock.

Soft. Not urgent, not angry, but purposeful.

My father stood at the door, hand tightening on the half-filled bottle. "Who the hell is that?"

I hardly cared — till when the door opened.

The man who walked inside was old, one of the dwindling few elders remaining in the village. His face was weathered, decades counted into lines, but his eyes — fogged and sharp — zeroed in on me the moment he walked into the room.

Something passed across his face. Recognition? Maybe. But by the time I was sure, it had disappeared.

"Good afternoon, Alarion," he said, his voice gruff but even.

I hesitated. "Afternoon."

He hardly glanced at my father before turning to me again. "I've come to talk to you."

There was something in his voice that made me shiver.

"With him?" My father scoffed. "He's just a boy wasting his time with a dream."

The elder ignored him. "Alarion, you have matters to discuss," Things you should know. Things you cannot ignore."

The words sank in like a hook in the ribs, dragging me into something I didn't comprehend.

My father scowled. "What do you want with him?"

The elder's gaze did not falter. "It's not age," he said softly. "It's about the path ahead. You are not able to run away from your past, however you can determine your future. Don't forget that."

It felt harder to breathe, the air weighed down on my ribs. I opened my mouth, and then nothing came out.

The elder turned to face the door and lingered with his hand still on the frame. "I will be watching," he told them. "You don't know it yet, but the bubble is right in front of you. You have decisions to make."

Then, he was gone.

The silence that followed wasn't the noise before. It wasn't vacant — it was full of something. A warning. An invitation.

I just stood there looking at the door, unable to shake that gut feeling that an unchangeable thing had just been changed.

My father cursed under his breath behind me, muttering something I didn't bother to catch. He was already on his bottle, on his endless loop.

But I wasn't him.

I finally felt it for the first time.

The crack in the walls. The shift in the air. That something waited for me on the other side of this.

The path is already laid out before you.

The words of the elder wrapped around my thoughts, burrowing in deep.

Then came the loud sound of breaking glass. My father had dropped the bottle, cursing louder this time. I grit my teeth as I stare at broken shards scattered all over the floor.

I looked away, moving toward the kitchen. My mother hovered over the stove, back straight, knuckles white as she stirred the pot. She hadn't uttered a word since my father came in.

She never did.

But I stared it down at that moment —just for a second. The slightest tremble in her fingertips. A spark of something buried under all those years of silence and survival.

"Mother," I carefully said, and my voice even trembled.

She didn't answer.

I exhaled, looking down. She had made her decision a long time ago. Whatever burden she held, she had determined how to hold it.

But I had a choice too.

And I wouldn't waste it.

My father swaggered back into the room, mockingly. "Look at you. Think you can just walk away? No one cares about your dreams. You're not meant for that type of life. You're supposed to be here, cleaning up the mess I made."

I didn't flinch.

For so long, his words had seeped into my bones. Allow them to rest there, weighty, inevitable.

Not anymore.

I'm not like that, I said, perfectly still and quietly forceful. "I'm not going to be here forever.

His laugh was harsh, hollow. "You'll see. You can't outrun your bloodline. You don't get to escape fate."

I glanced at my mother one final time. She still hadn't turned around.

Maybe she never would.

But I would.

The elder's words rang in my ears.

The way is already laid down before you.

For the first time, I felt that way.

And for the first time, I didn't fear."CHAPTER 2 – THE WAY AHEAD