The sunset was dim and heavy. Deathly twilight seeped through the cracks around the window, making the already gloomy room feel even more oppressive.
The so-called "floor" was earth packed firm by countless footsteps. Against the wall, occupying the driest spot in the room, stood a crooked wooden rack, with several clay bowls and jars bearing obvious signs of repair set upon it. The rust-black iron pot hanging over the firepit was the most valuable possession in the entire house.
Dinner had ended not long ago, and the fragrance of food still lingered in the air.
But the lively atmosphere that should have come with a family gathering had, at this moment, been reduced to silence.
No one spoke.
His father sat alone beside the crude wooden table at the center of the room, head lowered as if carving something, making a soft scraping sound, his brows locked tight.
His older brother huddled in the corner, sharpening the Wood-chopping Knife in his hands again and again, repeating the same motion over and over.
His mother stood before the wooden rack, absentmindedly wiping a clay cup that was already clean, her eyes darting from time to time toward the people in the room, her expression heavy with worry.
At last, unable to endure the room's oppressive silence any longer—
Thud!
Colin slammed the bowl of bean soup in his hands down onto the table and shot to his feet. His face, not yet fully grown into its features and still somewhat round, flushed with emotion as he drew in a deep breath.
"I've decided!"
"Until the Goblin problem near the village is solved, I'm not leaving!"
His mother's rough hands, which had been wiping the cup, could not help but pause. Even though she had expected it, her face still went