Uncertain Future

The reed door creaked as Jobe pushed it open with his shoulder, stepping into the warmth of the hut. A sharp gust followed him in, carrying the scent of sweat, dry grass, and blood. He ducked beneath the low frame, the flickering light from the hearth casting shadows across his face.

His mother was crouched near the center mat, grinding herbs in a wide stone bowl. The smoke from the fire danced around her, and the thin braid down her back trembled slightly with each motion of her pestle.

His grandmother sat farther off, near the rear of the hut, weaving a tight strip of reed into a coil. Her hands were slower than they once were, but still precise.

Jobe stepped inside without a word and unwrapped the rough cloth from around his hand. A fresh rabbit, small but plump, swung by its hind legs. Its fur was matted with dry blood around the neck, but the cut was clean.

His mother turned at the sound of his footsteps.

"Caught something?"

He held up the rabbit.

She offered a nod not quite a smile, but not cold either. "Good. The stew will thank you."

Jobe crossed the room and set the rabbit gently onto a flat stone near the basket of roots. Then he stretched his back with a low grunt, the tension from the morning's crouching and tracking still clinging to his shoulders.

"it was hard to catch it," he said. " The Wind kept shifting. Thought it'd catch my scent."

His grandmother clicked her tongue softly. "That's when most boys sneeze and scare the whole forest."

He smirked, just barely. "I'm not most boys."

"You're not grown either," she muttered.

Jobe lowered himself onto the mat and reached for the water gourd, drinking deeply. His lips were cracked, and his arms bore thin scrapes from the brush.

His mother set down the pestle and moved to inspect the rabbit. She ran a hand along the fur, fingers pressing gently.

"You did well," she said. "Next time, bring two."

"I'd need your luck for that."

She glanced at him sideways. "Luck is for men without patience."

The quiet held for a while, broken only by the soft snapping of twigs in the fire. The hut was warm, safe. Familiar.

Then Jobe said, almost too casually, "Father told me about the Trial."

The air stilled.

His mother's hands froze. The rabbit hung limp in her grasp.

"What?"

"The Trial," he said again, slower. "He says it's time."

His grandmother's eyes flicked up from her weaving. Her hands stopped mid-motion, one loop hanging loose between her fingers.

His mother stood up straight, her voice low. "No. No, you're not going."

"He already spoke to the others. It's decided."

"He doesn't decide that."

"Apparently, he does."

The silence that followed was heavy.

His mother turned fully to face him now, anger rising beneath the tightness in her voice. "Do you even understand what the Trial is? What it's done to boys who thought they were ready?"

"I've trained," he replied.

"Training doesn't matter out there. The forest doesn't care how many stances you've practiced or how many hours you've swung a spear. The Trial breaks people, Jobe."

He looked at her, quiet.

"I'm not scared," he said.

She stepped forward suddenly, cupping his face in both hands. Her palms were warm, her grip trembling.

"I am."

He didn't know what to say.

Behind them, the grandmother finally spoke, her voice worn but steady.

"The Trial comes to all in time. So it has always been. So it must be."

"Not now," his mother snapped. "He's still a child."

"He's fifteen."

"Then he has years yet."

"Years the spirits may not give."

His mother turned away sharply, hiding her face. Jobe watched her for a moment, then reached down and adjusted the rabbit, as if the quiet task might steady the storm in the room.

His grandmother stood slowly, resting her hand on her knee for balance.

"If his name has been called, he must answer," she said. "Else the shame will haunt him longer than the danger ever could."

His mother said nothing.

Jobe stood.

"I need to tell Ronald and Will," he said quietly.

His mother didn't turn. She only nodded once, stiffly.

Jobe reached for the reed curtain, pausing as the evening wind curled through the doorway. He was halfway through when his grandmother spoke up behind him, her voice a scratchy drawl over the low crackle of the fire.

"If you're not too busy tonight, boy, come sit by the fire a while. I've got a story I've been saving."

Jobe glanced back over his shoulder, smirking. "What, another tale about the talking goat that tricked the storm spirit?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "No goats this time. Just a story. One you might want to hear. Might help, if you've got ears still sharp enough to use."

He tilted his head. "You really think a fireside folk tale's going to make a difference?"

She leaned forward with that same dry grin. "I don't think much of anything. But sometimes it's the small stories that sneak in and settle where they're needed."

Jobe gave a small shrug. "We'll see."

"Do what you can," she said, settling back into her shawl. "But stories don't wait forever."

He nodded once and stepped out, the curtain falling closed behind him.

Jobe walked the worn path past crooked fences and sagging homes, each step pulling him toward a pair of familiar voices echoing from the far side of the clearing.

He spotted them near the edge of the orchard Ronald with his usual crooked grin, tossing stones at a half-rotted stump, and William hunched beside him, carving patterns into the dirt with a twig.

"Still wasting time like old men?" Jobe called out.

Ronald turned, squinting. "Look who returned from the dead."

William smirked. "Did the chief finally release you from house arrest, or did you escape through the chimney?"

Jobe chuckled and dropped onto the grass beside them. "Neither. Just needed to breathe somewhere the walls didn't listen."

Ronald offered him a stone. "We were betting if you'd end up married to a tree by the time we saw you again."

Jobe shook his head. "If I did, at least the tree would talk less than you."

They laughed, and for a moment, the weight of recent days fell away. There was no ceremony, no pressure just the easy rhythm of boys who'd known each other too long to pretend.

"Your old man still sharpening swords with that sour look of his?" William asked, flicking a pebble down the hill.

"He's… different now," Jobe said, eyes distant. "He finally said yes."

They both looked up.

Ronald leaned forward. "You mean?"

Jobe nodded. "The Trial."

Silence fell between them like a slow, gathering fog.

William let out a low whistle. "Damn. So it's real then."

"Yeah."

Ronald studied him carefully, his playful grin softening. "You scared?"

Jobe didn't answer right away. His fingers dug into the soil, feeling the cool dirt beneath his nails.

"I don't know," he said. "I thought I'd be ready. That's all I ever wanted. But now that it's actually happening… feels like I've already stepped into something I can't walk back from."

William glanced away, picking at his twig. "That's what growing up feels like. You think you're just dipping your toes in and suddenly you're neck-deep."

Ronald threw his last stone at the stump and missed. "You know we're behind you, right? Trial or not. You don't have to carry everything by yourself."

"I know," Jobe said, managing a small smile. "That's why I wanted to see you first."

They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the orchard leaves whisper in the breeze.

William broke the silence. "Still remember when we swore we'd do the trial together? Back when we thought it was just sword fights and glory?"

Ronald scoffed. "Back when we thought girls had cooties and Jobe had two left feet."

Jobe gave him a light shove. "I still have the scar from that fall, thanks to your brilliant 'shortcut' through the river."

"And you're welcome," Ronald said proudly. "That scar built character."

They laughed again, quieter this time.

Jobe's voice turned thoughtful. "Everything's changing. I can feel it. Like something's waiting past the Trial that none of us are ready for."

William nodded. "That's what makes it worth doing."

Ronald clapped him on the back. "Just don't forget us when you become some grand knight with too many titles to count."

Jobe stood and dusted off his pants. "You two are impossible to forget."

William stood too, stretching. "You heading back now?"

"Not yet. Might go listen to one of my grandmother's stories ."

Ronald raised a brow. "You? Listening to stories? Who are you and what have you done with Jobe?"

Jobe grinned. "I guess I just miss the way her voice makes everything feel… less terrifying."