To My Dearest Son,

I burned your father’s boots today. They had sat by the door for too long, caked with mud from the marches near Friar’s edge. I did not burn them from spite, but because I could no longer bear the sight of them waiting, as if he might come in again and fill them. The priests tell us fire cleanses, so I let them blacken while I whispered a prayer. Whether Afum heard, I do not know.

The Explorer’s Guild grows louder each month. Their banners fly over the tavern, and their songs echo across the fields. Folk cheer their victories at the Reaper Lance, but it leaves little space for our grief. The guild’s triumphs are not a widow’s triumphs. They cannot fill an empty chair at the table.

A Wolf came by yesterday, muttering about oaths. He asked what I offered as proof, and I gave him bread. He ate it without a word and left crumbs on the step. They call it protection, but I wonder if it is not just another kind of hunger dressed up in holy robes.

And still, I endure. The children must be fed, the soil must be turned, and the house must be kept. These things do not end when the guild celebrates. If the goddesses truly watch us, I pray they see that the quiet work matters too.

Return quickly, my son, and wear your boots lightly. I cannot bear to burn another pair.

—Mother