I, the slave boy, awaken with the most potent seed!!

Black, short, scruffy hair. Those haggard hands, scarred from years of labor. The wide grin, both teasing and reassuring. That big, commanding presence, impossible to miss.

It was definitely him.

And then her...

The gentle smile, soft and knowing. Eyes that carried warmth like the first glow of dawn. The petite frame standing confidently beside the towering man.

That was definitely her too.

Zafron's throat hitched, and his breath caught in his chest.

"Mom… Dad…"

The words barely made it past his lips.

This couldn't be real. It couldn't. His parents? Here?

His mind raced, trying to reason it away. It had to be some sick effect of Limbo. A trick of the mind. A cruel illusion.

He stood frozen, caught in the sheer impossibility of it, as his father glanced at his mother with that same amused smile Zafron had grown up seeing.

"I told you," the old man said with a chuckle, his deep voice carrying across the stillness of the docks. "Letting him go see off the maiden was a bad idea."

Zafron blinked, his confusion deepening.

His father turned back toward him and whistled casually, gesturing him over. "You alright, boy?" he asked. "You're standing there like you've seen a ghost. Don't tell me you're missing Elizabeth already."

'Elizabeth?' Zafron's mind stumbled over the name.

His father didn't wait for an answer. "She'll only be gone a few days," he continued, his tone teasing. "You know it's important for her to visit her people in Drakoria now and then. I'm sure you understand."

Zafron nodded slowly, piecing it together—or at least pretending to.

'Elizabeth… my wife? I have a wife?'

It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

Mom and Dad were here.

His parents exchanged a look, and his mother covered her mouth as she laughed softly. "He's lost the screws on his head without her, hasn't he?"

"Completely," his father agreed with a grin.

The two chuckled together, their voices rich with the same love and teasing Zafron remembered from long ago.

Then, hand in hand, they turned and began walking away from the shore, their figures bathed in the golden glow of the strange town's light.

Zafron couldn't move. He couldn't speak.

He just watched.

Every step they took seemed to drive home how impossible this was, how overwhelming it felt to see them again, alive and together.

Then his father stopped, turning back with a bemused look. "What are you waiting for, boy? Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you coming home?"

His mother chimed in, her voice light and inviting. "Come on, Zafron."

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Home.

The word hit him like a tidal wave, stirring a longing he didn't know he still carried.

He swallowed hard, his legs finally moving as he took a step forward.

"I'm coming," he whispered, his voice trembling.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Zafron felt something warm and safe begin to spread through him.

The walk home was quiet, except for the rhythmic shuffle of their steps on the cobbled streets. Zafron followed a step behind, watching them. Watching them.

His father, big and broad, moved with the same purposeful gait Zafron had always known. His mother, small and graceful, matched his pace with ease, her hand still clasped in his.

They were real.

This was them.

In the flesh.

And yet, Zafron couldn't shake the feeling that it was all too perfect. Too surreal.

They reached a modest house at the end of a winding street. The walls were chipped, the shutters slightly crooked. It was the same as he remembered: a humble home with no grandeur but plenty of heart.

His father pushed open the creaky door with a grunt. "Still sticks, huh? Told you I'd fix that last week," he muttered, half to himself, half to his wife.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of aged wood and the faint aroma of herbs hanging to dry by the window. It wasn't much, but it was warm.

His father set his coat aside, rubbing his hands together. "Alright, so here's the plan," he began, already launching into a familiar ramble. "Once winter rolls around and the big fish migration comes through, I'll set out to catch enough to sell in the market. That'll bring in the coin we need to start the renovations on the house."

Zafron didn't respond. He didn't need to; his father was already lost in the rhythm of his own words.

"We'll start with the roof," his father continued, gesturing vaguely upward. "That leak's been driving me mad. Then maybe we add a proper porch out front. Something nice for your mother, eh? A little bench where she can sit and read her books."

His mother smiled softly, shaking her head as she began tidying up the room. "You've been saying that for years," she teased.

"This time I mean it," his father said with mock seriousness. "Big fish, big money. You'll see."

Zafron sat silently, taking it all in. The warmth of their voices. The casual banter. The way his mother's hand lingered on his father's shoulder as she walked past him.

It was real. It was them.

But his silence didn't go unnoticed for long.

His mother paused, turning her soft, knowing eyes on him. "What's the matter, Zafron?" she asked gently.

His breath caught in his chest.

He wanted to speak. To tell her everything. To ask how this was possible, to demand an explanation for why they were here and not…

But the sheer fear of it stopped him.

What if he shattered the illusion? What if the moment he gave voice to his doubts, this fragile, perfect reality crumbled around him?

He couldn't.

So he lied.

"I'm just… hungry," he said, forcing a weak smile. "It's been a long day."

His mother's expression softened even further. "Oh, my poor boy," she said, already moving toward the kitchen. "I'll fix you something. You always get cranky when you haven't eaten."

His father laughed, clapping him on the back. "Some things never change, huh? Still my growing lad."

Zafron forced another smile, nodding.

He watched his mother bustle around the small kitchen, his father sitting down with a contented sigh.

The sight of them—so alive, so them—was almost too much to bear.

He kept quiet, holding on to the moment with everything he had.

---

Zafron sat at the small, wooden table, the warmth of the room seeping into his bones. The faint creak of the chairs, the soft clink of utensils against ceramic plates—everything was so vividly familiar it made his chest ache.

His mother's cooking was simple but filled with love. A hearty stew, its aroma rich with herbs and spices, was paired with freshly baked bread that was just slightly uneven in shape. Zafron didn't care. He tore into it with relish, savoring every bite.

Across from him, his father ate heartily, grinning between mouthfuls. "Now, listen here, Zafron," he began, leaning forward conspiratorially, as if sharing a great secret. "Tomorrow, we head to the southern shoals. That's where the real catch will be."

Zafron looked up, chewing slowly. His father's voice had that same rhythmic cadence, the one he used when discussing fishing—a mixture of wisdom, hope, and unshakable confidence.

"The southern shoals?" his mother interjected, her voice laced with concern. "But isn't that where the currents are stronger?"

His father waved her off with a chuckle. "Ah, the currents make it tricky, sure, but that's where the big ones are. The currents pull in the schools of silverfin, and where there's silverfin, there's bound to be the snapper following close behind."

"Snapper?" Zafron asked, raising a brow.

His father nodded enthusiastically, setting his spoon down. "Big fish, sharp teeth, but worth their weight in gold at the market. The trick is to use a strong enough line. Can't let them snap it, or else you lose the bait and the catch."

He paused, scratching his scruffy chin. "Only problem is we're still using that old net with the tear in the middle. And the line's been fraying, too. But we'll make do. We always do, eh?" He grinned, his face alight with that stubborn optimism Zafron had grown up admiring.

Zafron's gaze dropped to his plate. The old man's plans sounded so small, so fragile, yet so full of hope. The tear in the net, the fraying line—it all spoke to their poverty. And yet, his father didn't seem bothered. If anything, he seemed almost eager to face the challenge.

His mother sighed softly. "Just promise me you'll be careful," she said, placing a gentle hand on his father's arm.

"Always, my love," he replied, his grin softening into something more tender.

Zafron's chest tightened. The easy warmth between them, the quiet love that filled the room—it was almost too much.

He could get used to this, he thought.

The peace. The love. The quietness.

He could pretend everything was real.

Hell, he was starting to believe it was real.

His father turned back to him, his grin returning. "You'll come with me, won't you, Zafron? A little hard work never killed anyone. Well, except that one time with old Gerald, but he was more stubborn than smart."

Zafron laughed despite himself, shaking his head. "Yeah, I'll come."

His father slapped the table with a hearty laugh. "That's my boy!"

For a moment, Zafron let himself sink into the illusion. The sound of his father's laughter, the sight of his mother's gentle smile—it all felt so achingly real.

And for tonight, he decided, that was enough.

The morning air bit at Zafron's face as he stood at the shore, the cold wind whipping through his hair. The sun had barely begun its climb into the sky, casting faint orange streaks across the horizon. His father stood beside him, hauling the fishing gear onto their small, weather-beaten boat.

"You feel that chill, boy?" his father asked, grinning through his scruffy beard. "That's the sea saying good morning."

Zafron chuckled softly, already feeling the camaraderie of the moment. He helped load the nets and checked the lines, the motions familiar despite how long it had been. His father's old fishing wisdom crept back into his thoughts like a well-loved melody.

"Make sure the knots are tight," Zafron said, tugging at the ropes.

His father raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Still got it, eh? For sure thought song a merchant has had its toll on you. Good to see my boy still has my grey hair. Maybe there's hope for you yet."

They pushed off from the shore, the creak of the oars and the rhythmic slosh of water filling the silence. The sea smelled of salt and the faint hint of fish.

As they sailed, his father began to hum, a low, gravelly tune that grew into a full-throated song:

"Catch the fish, oh, bring them in,

Fill the nets, let the day begin,

Thalens for the wives, to keep them sweet,

A happy wife makes life complete!"

Zafron couldn't help but join in, their voices blending as the boat rocked gently on the waves. They laughed at the silliness of it, his father clapping Zafron on the back with a grin wide enough to rival the sun.

From a toolbox hidden beneath the bench, his father produced a bottle of old whiskey. "Don't tell your mother," he said with a wink, taking a long swig before passing it to Zafron.

Zafron hesitated, then took a small sip, the burn warming his chest against the cold.

'All the good and the bad,' Zafron thought, watching his father tuck the bottle away with practiced ease, 'all the curves and the straight lines—this was truly them, wasn't it?'

They spoke as they worked, casting the nets and setting up the lines.

"Women, son," his father said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. "They're like the sea. Beautiful, endless, and unpredictable."

Zafron snorted. "And just as likely to drown you if you're not careful?"

His father barked out a laugh. "Exactly! But that's the charm, isn't it?"

They fell into a comfortable silence before his father spoke again, his tone softer. "You know, Zafron, I've always thought the gods were just as confused as us mortals. All their grand plans and schemes… maybe it's just their way of trying to make sense of things."

Zafron glanced at him, intrigued.

"The key," his father continued, "is knowing when to smash through a problem and when to turn around it. Life's all about picking the right approach. But turning tail and running from a challenge? That's not how men operate."

Zafron nodded, the words resonating deeply.

Suddenly, his father's gaze shifted to the horizon, his expression sharpening. "Storm's coming," he said, his voice steady but firm. "You see the way the clouds are forming? And the way the wind's picking up? We're in for a rough time."

"What do we do?" Zafron asked, his stomach tightening.

His father pointed toward the mast. "Hold the sail steady and keep the lines secure. I'll handle the rudder."

Zafron moved to his position, gripping the ropes tightly as the wind began to howl. The boat lurched, the waves rising higher.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Zafron noticed something off—the rudder wasn't responding properly, and his father was struggling against the growing force of the currents.

"Dad, hang on!" Zafron shouted, abandoning his post to rush toward the back of the boat.

"Zafron, stay where you are!" his father bellowed, but it was too late.

A massive wave slammed into the side of the boat, throwing Zafron off balance. The next moment, the world tilted, and he was overboard.

The icy water swallowed him whole, dragging him down with a ferocity that left him breathless.

Zafron kicked and thrashed, but the surface seemed impossibly far away. Panic set in as his lungs screamed for air.

He wasn't just drowning.

No.

Something deeper, something more primal, was pulling him under.