The pale morning light filtering through the window in the cabin didn't bring the comfort Philia prayed for.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn't in his warm, feather-stuffed bed. The sweet scent of dried lavender that always hung in his bedroom sheets was gone, replaced by the sharp, lingering sting of pine smoke, wet mud, and scratchy wool. There was no mother sitting at the edge of the mattress to brush his hair from his forehead. There was no father laughing softly down the hall in his study, turning the heavy parchment pages of his reports.
It hadn't been a bad dream.
His home was gone, burned straight down to its foundation. His mother and father were dead.
