Luckborn

The Binding was supposed to be a holy observance of when the gods came together to bind Kaos and prevent him access to the world. There were some who still treated it like that. The priests and Divine Conduits of the world still gathered together in prayer, the one day of the year when members of different faiths intermingled peacefully. But for most, Binding Day was a time for gathering with friends and family to celebrate the threads of fate that bound them together. Homes were decorated with woven ribbons and sprigs of winter greenery, and the air was rich with the scent of spiced cider, roasted nuts, and sweet pastries. For everyone, it was two days of paid time off. Not a single employer in the city would violate that tradition.

Binding Eve was a bit more solemn. Candles were lit in almost every home, symbolizing the light of hope in the face of calamity. Parents would read stories aloud to their children in remembrance of those who fought to keep Kaos at bay.

Otter and his mother typically began the evening in the kitchen.

They worked side by side, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour as they shaped orange blossoms—delicate pastries filled with spiced honey and candied orange peel, pinched into the shape of a flower before being baked to a golden crisp. His mother kneaded the dough with practiced hands while Otter worked on the filling, carefully layering flavors, just as she had taught him.

"You're rolling them too tight," his mother chided playfully, nudging one of his imperfect pastries. "They need room to bloom."

Otter huffed. "I like mine better this way."

She snorted. "Just wait until they bake. They'll come out looking like sad little knots instead of blossoms."

Despite her teasing, Otter felt a sense of peace in the simple routine. For the first time since returning home, he wasn't thinking about Kaosborn, Varek Holloway, or the mysteries of the Academy. Just this—the quiet warmth of the kitchen, the gentle rhythm of their movements, the comfort of home.

As the last batch cooled on the counter, Marla wiped her hands on her apron and disappeared into the small sitting room. "Wait here," she called over her shoulder.

Otter dusted flour from his fingers, watching curiously as she returned with a small, neatly wrapped bundle.

"For you," she said, pressing it into his hands.

Otter blinked. "But Binding gifts are supposed to be given tomorrow."

She shrugged. "I figured we'd make an exception this year."

Carefully, he unwrapped the package to reveal a pair of leather gloves. Simple, but sturdy. The kind meant for work and travel.

"They're reinforced at the palms," Marla explained. "So they won't wear out too quickly. You'll need them at the Academy, I imagine. And beyond that…" She hesitated, then gave him a small, knowing smile. "Well, you're always getting into something. Might as well have the proper gear."

Otter swallowed past the lump in his throat. It wasn't just a practical gift. It was a reminder that she saw him—not just as her son, but as someone on the cusp of something bigger. Someone who would leave again soon.

"…Thank you," he said softly.

Marla patted his cheek, then grinned. "Now, what did you get me?"

Otter fumbled in his pocket before pulling out the sea glass charm.

Her breath hitched.

He placed it in her palm, watching as her fingers curled around it. "It reminded me of you," he admitted.

She exhaled a small, watery laugh. "Otter, it's beautiful."

For a moment, they simply sat there in the quiet glow of the kitchen candles. Then—before the moment could grow too heavy—a knock at the door broke the silence.

Otter hurried over and unlatched it, letting in a gust of cold air. Erin and her parents stood outside.

Erin held out a basket filled with extra candles and dried fruit to share. "With this gift, we offer a binding," she said. It was a highly traditional and formal greeting, but one that had persisted for hundreds of years.

"We humbly accept and offer you shelter from the storm," replied Otter, taking the basket from her. Then they embraced. One beat. Then two. Then three.

Erin's father cleared his throat. They hastily separated. Otter's face turned a bright pink.

His mother came to the rescue. "Come in! Come in!" she cried as she ushered their guests inside. She collected their coats and hung them on pegs by the hearth.

Soon, everyone was gathered around the little table, snacking on pastries and exchanging pleasantries.

It was nice to have a feeling of normalcy.

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Otter let the warmth of the gathering settle around him. The glow of the candles flickered softly against the stone walls, their light casting gentle halos across the table. The scent of spiced honey and orange blossoms filled the air, mixing with the earthy aroma of the herbal tea his mother had brewed.

Erin's parents, Mirren and Corwin, were well-spoken but down-to-earth folk. Mirren had a sharp wit that contrasted with Corwin's steady, quiet presence. It was easy to see where Erin had gotten both her fiery spirit and level head.

They spoke of small things at first—the winter weather, the crowded markets, the state of the docks. Then, inevitably, the topic shifted.

"The attack on Brighthaven," Mirren murmured, her expression darkening. "It's still hard to believe. Kaosborn attacking two cities in one night? If the Guild hadn't responded so quickly…"

Otter exchanged a glance with Erin. He could see the same thought mirrored in her eyes. Two attacks. One at Brighthaven. One at the Academy. Coincidence? Or something more?

"Did the Guild say anything more?" Marla asked.

Corwin shook his head. "Nothing definitive. Only that it was an unusual event. But I heard something strange earlier today—a few people swore they saw Kaosborn dissolve into mist after they were struck down. Not like normal. Like… an illusion unraveling."

Otter stiffened. That sounded eerily similar to how the Kaosborn had acted inside the simulation.

Erin shifted in her seat. "Who said that?"

Corwin shrugged. "Some dockworkers. A few guards. I wouldn't put much stock in it, but still… it's strange."

A long pause followed. Otter took a slow sip of his tea, trying to push away the nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

Mirren exhaled sharply, forcing a smile. "Well, no use dwelling on it tonight. The Binding is about hope, after all." She reached for one of the orange blossoms, inspecting it with a critical eye. "Now, which one of you made these?"

Otter sighed, already knowing what was coming.

His mother grinned and pointed at the slightly misshapen pastries in the corner. "Those would be my son's."

Mirren bit into one, chewing thoughtfully. Then, with perfect seriousness, she said, "It tastes better than it looks."

Erin snorted. Otter groaned. His mother laughed.

And just like that, the heavy topic faded into the background.

For the next hour, they ate, drank, and exchanged stories—some new, some old, some exaggerated for the sake of Binding Eve tradition. The candles burned low, their wax pooling across the wooden holders. Outside, a quiet snow was falling, dusting the streets in silver.

Otter relaxed, despite everything. Despite the mysteries. Despite the unease. Despite the Watcher.

For the first time in weeks, he let himself feel the safety of home. Laughter hummed through the small cottage, and Otter drank it in. His mother and Erin's parents remained at the table, engaged in an animated discussion about some neighborhood gossip—something about a baker's apprentice and an ill-advised attempt at honey-glazed venison.

Erin nudged his foot beneath the table. When he glanced at her, she inclined her head toward the door.

Without a word, he rose, grabbing his cloak from its hook before slipping outside. Erin followed, latching the door softly behind them.

The night air was crisp and cold, thick with the scent of pine and wood-smoke. Snow crunched softly beneath their boots as they made their way toward the small garden behind the house. It was little more than a patch of dormant herbs and frost-dusted vines, but it was quiet. Hidden.

They leaned against the low stone wall, breath curling into the cold night air.

Otter was the first to break the silence. "You ever wonder if you'll actually miss home?"

Erin frowned slightly, kicking at a bit of ice. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" He exhaled, watching as his breath disappeared into the night. "The more time we spend at the Academy, the more it feels like that's where our lives really are now. Like home is already something we're leaving behind."

Erin was quiet for a long moment. "I think… home is wherever we choose to hold on to," she said finally. "Some people never leave, and home is always here. Some people go out into the world, and home becomes something different." She gave him a sidelong glance. "You thinking of not coming back?"

"No," Otter said quickly. Too quickly. He hesitated. "I don't know. I used to think if I left, I'd always have a safe place to come back to. But now… I don't know. It just feels different."

"I know," she said, softer this time. Then, after a pause: "I feel it, too."

Otter chewed the inside of his cheek. His gaze flicked toward the street.

Now or never.

"There's something else," he murmured.

Erin turned to face him fully. "What?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "You'll think I'm imagining things."

Erin arched an eyebrow. "Try me."

Otter exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "The other night, after I ran into Bran, something… happened."

Erin's expression sharpened. "Go on."

"There was a man. I think. Or something like a man. Watching."

Erin frowned. "Watching?"

Otter nodded. "Across the street, hidden in the shadows. It was weird. It was like his presence changed things. The air felt thick. The streetlights dimmed. Everything got quiet. And when I stepped toward him, he just… disappeared."

Erin's brows knit together. "Not walked away? Disappeared?"

"Like he was never there."

She considered that for a long moment, her breath slow and measured. Then, finally, she asked, "Do you think it was him?"

Otter blinked. "Who?"

"Your father."

The thought sent a jolt through his chest. "I—I don't know."

Erin bit her lip, thinking. "If not him, then who? Another bounty hunter? Someone from the Guild?"

"I don't know," Otter admitted. "But Bran saw him, too. And it scared the hell out of him."

That caught Erin's interest. "Bran? Scared?"

Otter nodded. "He ran like a rabbit."

That clearly unsettled her.

They stood there for a moment in heavy silence.

Then Erin did something unexpected. She reached over and took his hand.

Otter blinked, his mind momentarily blank.

Her fingers were cool, calloused from bowstrings and training. Her grip was firm, grounding.

"Whoever, or whatever, it was," she said softly. "I've got your back."

Otter swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

Erin was close. Closer than he'd ever really noticed before. The candlelight from the window cast soft gold across her features, highlighting the freckles on her nose, the warmth in her brown eyes.

His heart stuttered.

She must have noticed something in his face, because her expression shifted—something unreadable, something hesitant.

And then—

A voice inside the house.

"Otter? Erin?"

They jolted apart, hands slipping away like the last traces of a dream.

His mother's voice carried through the door. "It's getting late, love. Our guests should head home soon."

Otter cleared his throat. "Uh—yeah! Coming."

Erin looked away, tugging her cloak tighter. "Guess we should head back."

"Yeah," Otter said, voice a little hoarse.

As they made their way toward the door, he risked a glance at her.

She didn't meet his gaze, but he could see the small, almost-smile playing at the corner of her lips.

His pulse thudded.

Yeah. The Binding was about fate.

Maybe some threads were weaving together after all.