Lanterns in the Fog

The morning came without warning. A slow bloom of light leaked through the windows, silencing the house in hues of pale gold. It felt unfair—how beautiful it all looked while something was coming to an end.

Sera stood at the edge of the hallway, already in uniform, duffel over her shoulder. The crispness of her attire contrasted with the hush that surrounded them. Her eyes didn't wander. They fixed on something distant, something she'd been rehearsing in her mind since waking. The early light etched long shadows across the wooden floor, like the past refusing to let go.

Callum sat at the bottom of the stairs, hair tousled, limbs still slack from sleep. The silence between them wasn't new, but this morning it ached differently. He rubbed the last of the grogginess from his eyes—though really, it was disbelief that blurred his vision now. Her presence struck him with startling clarity, waking him faster than any alarm.

"You're leaving now?" His voice was barely more than a breath. Raspy, unwilling. Each syllable carried the sting of something he hadn't prepared to lose yet.

Sera nodded. "An intelligence breach at the border. I was requested specifically." Her tone was steady, almost mechanical—like she'd already compartmentalized what she was leaving behind.

Callum stood, slowly, as if rising might change the outcome. "How long?"

"A few days. Maybe more," she said. "Depends on how bad it is." She didn't flinch, but her grip tightened briefly on the duffel's strap.

He didn't move closer, yet something in his body leaned—his hands flexed at his sides, involuntary echoes of all the times he'd reached for her before. Now, he wasn't sure what permission remained.

Sera offered him a small, tender, and fleeting smile. "Don't forget your vitamins. Or Jonas will murder you before the fever does." She tried to keep her voice light, but the joke trembled under the weight of affection disguised as practicality.

He almost smiled back. Almost.

Then she turned, boots thudding softly against the hallway floor, the duffel swinging rhythmically by her side—a metronome to his mounting dread.

"Sera."

She paused. Just enough for hope to hold its breath.

"Be careful."

Her head tilted in acknowledgment, quiet and deliberate. No reply. No promises. Just the gravity of his words soaked into the air between them.

And then, the door shut quietly behind her. Too quiet for all the things left unsaid.

---

Ten nights later, the long dining table at the Virell Estate was full again—at least in numbers. 

The family gathered as usual for Friday dinner, an inherited tradition that outlived love, loyalty, and even honesty. The chandelier overhead spilled warm light across silver cutlery and untouched porcelain. Every detail gleamed with curated wealth, except the seat that remained conspicuously vacant.

Frederick and Dahlia had returned to the country for upcoming trade negotiations. Sera had not.

Callum sat at the far end, spine straight, glass of water in hand—his only anchor in a sea of polished surfaces and unreadable faces. Jonas occupied the seat to his right, silent but watchful. Fred was to his left, already deep in conversation. Across from them, Frederick and Dahlia sat like lacquered portraits. Dahlia was sculpted perfection: ivory silk dress, neckline modest, posture impeccable. But her eyes—cool, deliberate—sliced through pleasantries with surgical precision.

Conversation fluttered like the wings of bored doves—expansions, public reception, trade incentives. Fred offered ambitious projections, Frederick countered with methodical foresight. Dahlia added the occasional polished remark, her tone gliding like glass over marble.

Callum remained quiet. Emotion sat tight-lipped behind his ribs, refusing entry to small talk.

Until Dahlia turned her gaze—sharp and smooth—and addressed him.

"Your wife couldn't make it?" Her voice was feather-light, but carried an undercurrent of something Callum couldn't ignore.

His jaw tensed, breath drawing slowly and shallowly. He met her eyes, calculatedly.

"She's on active duty," he said, voice low and taut. The words tasted like iron.

Dahlia nodded, just enough to be polite. Her face didn't change, but something cold flickered briefly behind her lashes. "That's a shame. I thought she'd enjoy the new vineyard father had installed near the southern gardens."

"She would," he replied, almost a whisper. "She likes country yard beauties." His throat clenched around the sentiment, voice carrying more than he intended.

Frederick glanced up, sensed the pulse beneath the words, but said nothing and returned to his meal.

Dahlia twirled her fork, as if teasing the tension. "Is she stationed far?"

Callum gave a short shrug. The kind you give when the answer hurts more than the question. "Far enough."

A silence hovered. Not quite awkward—just charged.

Then she leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving his. "When is she coming back?... My mother wants to see her."

Something shifted in Callum's grip. His fingers curled tighter around the glass. It didn't tremble—but it could have.

"That... I don't know," he said. Each syllable dropped like a pebble in deep water.

She offered a smile. It didn't even try to reach her eyes.

Fred interjected, his voice loud enough to break tension but careful not to acknowledge it. "Frederick, tell them about the reception in Silvas. We may need to bring Callum as a company face this time."

Frederick nodded, launching into logistics and timelines. Relief or avoidance—it was hard to tell.

But the air between Callum and Dahlia remained thick. History weighed in the silence more than words ever could. Callum didn't speak again. His plate stayed mostly untouched.

When dessert arrived—delicate pastries on bone china—Dahlia stood and excused herself with a smile that resembled diplomacy more than sincerity. She stepped onto the garden terrace, murmuring about a phone call. 

Callum's eyes followed her silhouette through the glass. His instincts told him to stand, to chase clarity. But the ring on his finger—cool against his skin—reminded him of promises not made lightly.

Jonas exhaled, the sound more a judgment than a breath. His gaze flicked sideways, satisfied that Callum remained seated.

Fred swirled his wine and smiled. And his mind whispered, 'This story isn't over.'