Four months had drifted by since Azar's creaky wooden wagon dropped Philia off at the gate of Havenwood, but for the six-year-old boy, time felt like it was standing dead still.
He didn't speak. Not a single word.
During his first week under the drafty roof, Livya had arranged for an old traveling healer from the lower township to check on him. The man had smelled faintly of dried mint, stale tobacco, and damp earth. He checked on Philia's bony ribs, behind his ears, and peered down his throat with a flickering oil lantern before stepping back to wipe his wire-rimmed spectacles on his sleeve.
"His body is whole enough," the old man had murmured. "No swelling, no damage to his throat or tongue. The boy probably suffered a terrible shock. When trauma hits a child like that, they just go quiet. Give him warm broth, keep his feet dry, and leave him be. If he ever feels like talking, he'll talk."
So they left him be.
