The manor gates loomed ahead—tall stone walls crowned with iron, weathered by years of silence and authority. The horses slowed on their own, as if sensing the weight of the place.
Bereshith stood in the wagon, gripping the wooden edge as he looked up at the estate. It was nothing like the places they had slept before. This place was firm. Unmoving. Certain.
Yet Bereshith wasn't afraid.
He turned his gaze instead to Lucas.
Lucas sat straight at the reins, eyes forward, shoulders steady. There was no hesitation in him—only readiness. Not the sharp readiness of violence, but the quiet kind. The kind that stood between danger and those who could not protect themselves.
Bereshith studied him in silence.
Since the outskirts of the city… since the night of blood and fire… something inside Bereshith had shifted.
Lucas wasn't just the man who guarded them anymore.
He was the man who stayed awake when others slept.The man who ate last.The man who carried fear without letting it touch the children.
And Bereshith—though still a child—felt that truth settle in his chest.
"Mister Lucas?" he asked softly.
Lucas glanced back. "What is it?"
Bereshith hesitated. Words didn't come easily when the feeling was too big.
"…Do you get tired?"
Lucas blinked, surprised. "Of course I do."
"Then why don't you ever rest first?" Bereshith asked. "Why is it always us?"
Lucas was quiet for a moment. Then he answered simply,
"Because that's what you do when someone depends on you."
Bereshith absorbed that.
The wagon came to a stop before the gates. Guards moved in the distance, but none approached yet.
Bereshith climbed down carefully, then reached back to steady Levanah as she followed. He glanced at Yareach, still asleep, wrapped safely in cloth Lucas had tied himself.
Bereshith looked back at Lucas again.
"Mister… when my father was alive," Bereshith said, voice low, "he stood like you do."
Lucas froze.
Bereshith didn't look away. "He stood in front of us when he was scared. He smiled even when he was hungry. And when he died… I thought that was the end of that kind of person."
Lucas swallowed, but said nothing.
Bereshith stepped closer.
"But you're like him," the boy said plainly. "You don't say it… but you already decided. Haven't you?"
Lucas turned fully toward him now. "Decided what?"
"That you won't leave us," Bereshith said."That you'll protect us… even if it costs you."
Silence fell between them.
Lucas knelt, bringing himself level with the child.
"Bereshith," he said gently, "I can't replace anyone you've lost."
Bereshith shook his head. "I know."
Then he added, quietly but firmly,
"I'm not asking you to."
The words struck deeper than Lucas expected.
Bereshith placed a small hand over his own chest.
"God is inside me," the boy said, not proudly, not fearfully—just truthfully. "But God uses people. And right now… He's using you."
Lucas' breath caught.
"You don't have to be perfect," Bereshith continued. "Fathers aren't. They just… stay."
Lucas looked away, eyes burning—not with rage, but with something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Before he could answer, a horn sounded atop the walls.
The manor gates began to open.
Guards approached, cautious but respectful.
Lucas stood, placing himself instinctively between the children and the gates.
Bereshith watched him do it.
And in that moment, the child understood something sacred:
Not all fathers are given by blood.Some are chosen by sacrifice.Some are forged by mercy.
And some—are sent.
The gates opened wide.
And together, they stepped forward.