Bron Magnus And The Kingdom Of Lilia Chapter 1

The river was dirty.

It had been cleaner when he was younger. Clear and fresh and full of fish, which, while not his favorite food, had still been hearty and filling. But now, it was murky and smelly, and the fish that they caught seemed smaller and smaller each day.

The faint smell of damp earth mixed with the stench of rotting leaves that had collected along the riverbank. The two of them sat on the edge of a small, weathered dock, their fishing lines lazily dangling into the water. The only sign of life was the occasional ripple caused by a small insect darting beneath the surface.

"Bron, we've been sitting here for hours, and we haven't caught anything!"

The younger boy whined, his voice rising in frustration as he tugged at the sleeve of his brother's tunic.

Bron understood why: it was his first time fishing. Father needed Kaleb away from the house —Maeve had a fever— and he figured it was time that Kaleb learned some responsibility, to start taking the steps into becoming a man. So now, he was with Bron, learning how to fish.

It would probably be more beneficial for him if there was something to catch.

Bron, the older of the two, didn't look up from the water. His hands were clenched tightly around the fishing rod, his knuckles pale from the grip. "Be patient, Kaleb. There aren't many fish here anyway, and the last thing we need is you scaring them away."

That was what his father used to tell him the first few times they went fishing. However, through years of fishing by himself and with his friends, Bron had learned something: talking didn't actually scare the fish. His father used to tell him that to make him shut up. And now, Bron was doing the same thing, hoping to get similar results.

But Kaleb never really listened to anybody.

"I'm tired and I'm hungry and I'm bored: We've been here all day, and we haven't caught anything. I don't even like fish!"

Bron sighed. "I don't like fish either, Kaleb. But think of it like this: either we catch fish and get fish soup, which you don't like, or we don't get anything, and we have to eat mushroom and nettle soup, which you really don't like."

Kaleb made a whining noise in the back of his throat, but he seemed to settle down and focus on fishing.

In truth, Bron couldn't help but wonder the same thing Kaleb had. It had been a long while since they had caught anything worthwhile. Usually, they'd have at least a few small fish, enough to feed him, Kaleb, and little Maeve back home, but now—nothing.

Had they finally finished off what little fish were left in the lake? If that were the case, the next few weeks would be even harder than they already were.

Bron shifted uncomfortably, his thoughts wandering, but the sound of Kaleb tugging at his tunic once more broke his focus.

"I'm hungry," Kaleb said, his voice whiny again.

"We're all hungry," Bron replied, though his tone was more resigned than annoyed. "That's why we're here, fishing."

Kaleb slumped forward, his stomach growling audibly. "But... I don't want to eat fish. I want real food."

Bron's face softened. This couldn't be easy for a kid like Kaleb. At least Bron remembered the days when food was plentiful, when they were able to eat bread, meat, and cheese almost every day. All Kaleb had ever known was fish, mushroom and nettle soup, and porridge from oats. The boy hadn't tasted meat in a year, not even birds, and he wasn't sure if Kaleb even knew what a fruit looked like.

Bron's own stomach growled.

Kaleb didn't say anything, but Bron could feel his frustration in the air, hanging between them like a heavy cloud. He glanced at the river again, his heart sinking. The ripples were fewer now, and he hadn't felt even a nibble on his line since morning. It was starting to feel like the fish were disappearing for good.

"Alright, let's pack it up," Bron muttered. "We're not going to catch anything today."

He stood up, gathering his line and carefully winding it up, his fingers stiff with the cold. "Come on, Kaleb, let's go home."

Kaleb sighed deeply but got to his feet, dragging his fishing line through the water before pulling it back up in defeat. "This is stupid," he grumbled but followed Bron as they began the walk back through the thin, wind-whipped trees that lined the river.

"It's not stupid," Bron replies. "One day we'll catch a huge fish, one bigger than anything you've ever seen. You'll see, Kaleb. One day, we'll have so much to eat you'll be fit to burst."

Hunger might be something they all needed to deal with, but for someone like Kaleb, hope was just as necessary.

After all, hope was what kept him going throughout these past few fears.

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The village of Greywick was a huddle of simple houses with thatched roofs, their walls made from wattle and daub. A lot of the homes still bore the scars of the last goblin invasion—small holes peppered the walls where their jagged claws had broken through, and several roofs sagged under the weight of unrepaired damage.

The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and wood smoke, and the chill in the breeze hinted at the coming frost.

Bron barely remembered a time when the village didn't feel half-broken.

As Kaleb and Bron made their way down the main path, they passed a few familiar faces. Isolde, the bent-backed widow, stood outside her home stirring a pot suspended over a low fire. Bron had spent many afternoons helping her cook in exchange for scraps when their own pantry ran bare. She gave them a wave, her gnarled fingers wrapped tightly around a wooden spoon.

Further down, Old Harlan shuffled by with his ever-present walking stick, grumbling to himself as he did most days.

Even Elric, the tanner's eldest son, stood at the edge of the village sharpening a rusted blade—he was barely older than Bron, but already talked of joining the king's army.

As they approached their home—a squat, one-room dwelling near the village's edge—they spotted their father. Magnus stood with a small group of men, their conversation low and serious. His broad shoulders cast a long shadow in the fading light. Even with his threadbare tunic hanging loosely over his frame, he still seemed the strongest man and biggest man in Greywick.

Bron's sharp ears caught the tail-end of his father's words.

"—they're getting too close for my liking. We shouldn't wait for them to gather—we might as well go after them now."

Oh. They must be talking about the goblins again.

In their part of Orcadia, goblins were more than a nuisance—they were a plague. Small, green-skinned humanoids with distended heads and stick-thin limbs, they loved to creep into villages under the cover of night, preying on the weak. Even though a kid like Kaleb would be considered a genius among them, they were clever enough to travel in packs and were known for targeting the elderly, the sick, and children.

Six months ago, a pack came through the village and took Kaleb's best friend in the dead of night. No one had seen the boy since, and it was too much to hope he was still alive after all this time.

Ever since that day, Bron had kept a very close eye on Kaleb.

Bron's thoughts shattered when Kaleb let go of his hand and sprinted forward. "Father!" he called, his voice bright against the grim conversation.

Magnus turned, his face softening as he bent down and swept Kaleb into his arms with a boomlike laugh, settling the boy onto his shoulder. Bron couldn't help but marvel at his father's strength. Despite skipping meals more often than not to keep his family fed, Magnus looked like an ox given human form, and had the strength to back it up. Bron had inherited his father's dark hair and green eyes, but his mother's slightly pointed ears and delicate button nose. He hoped—prayed, actually—that he might gain his father's height and strength, but as it stood, he barely reached his father's chest, even at fifteen.

"My sons! How did the fishing go?" Magnus asked, reaching over with one hand to ruffle Bron's hair.

"Horrid," Kaleb grumbled. "We didn't catch a single thing."

Magnus chuckled, and patted Kaleb's knee. "We didn't catch anything either. Not a single rabbit or pigeon to be found."

One of the other men—a wiry fellow named Alric—snorted. "Plenty of rats, though. Enough to make a decent stew."

Magnus's smile faded. "I told you to throw them away," he said sharply. "Those rats have been dead too long, and there's barely any meat left on them. And every time someone eats rat in this village, they get sick."

Alric scowled, spitting onto the dirt. "I know how to prepare them. Gotta skin 'em first, then you cook 'em. Not a lot of people bother with that. Jus' gotta be careful with how you prepare 'em."

Another man—broad and thick-bearded—chuckled dryly. His name was Wulfric, a former soldier who had taken to farming when his knee gave out. Bron was friendly with his son Titus. "That's because not a lot of us can choke down rats the way you do."

The group laughed raucously, and Bron joined in despite not fully understanding what was so funny. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he wouldn't try eating a rat if hunger gnawed any deeper. But laughter meant belonging—and more than anything, Bron wanted his father and the others to see him as a man, not a child. By now, he was old enough to serve in Orcadia's army, but here, among these men, he still felt as helpless as Kaleb.

Alric spat again, his face sour. "Mock me all you want. Give it a month or two—you'll be digging up their skeletons and grinding 'em into meal."

Magnus's jaw tightened, but his tone remained light. "Things aren't that bad yet," he said. "If it comes to the worst, we'll hunt down some goblins and eat them."

Both Bron and Kaleb grimaced. They'd eaten goblin meat once—tough, stringy, and sour enough to leave a foul taste on the tongue for hours. It wasn't something you forgot, and it definitely wasn't something most people actively hunted for.

With a heavy sigh, Magnus shifted Kaleb on his shoulder and turned back toward their home. "Well, boys, looks like we all went out and caught nothing. You know what that means, right?"

Bron and Kaleb sighed in unison. "Mushroom and nettle soup?"

Magnus chuckled softly. "Mushroom and nettle soup."

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Bron took a reluctant sip of the mushroom and nettle soup, its earthy taste clinging to his tongue as the nettles made the back of his throat itch. The soup, once a rare dish, had become a staple in their household after the crops began to fail. In the early years, it was a treat, something Bron had to choke down once a month, usually when they ran out of meat. But as the seasons wore on and the rabbits, pigeons, and other game slowly disappeared, the soup became more frequent. At first, it was every few weeks, then every other day, until finally, it was all they had.

Every night.

It was bitter, not just from the mushrooms and nettles, but from the fact that this was all they had, and Bron could feel his stomach grumble as he swallowed it down. He hated it. The taste was too strong, and the texture too weird. But there was no other choice choice.

Even as he ate, though, he couldn't help but notice the difference in the portions. His bowl, Kaleb's, and Maeve's were full—fuller than full, in fact, considering the circumstances. But his mother's was smaller than theirs, and his father's? Barely a quarter full. It wasn't hard to figure out what was happening, and it made something tight in his chest.

"Father, I'm kind of full. You can have the rest of my soup if you want," Bron said quietly, pushing his bowl toward his father. It was a lie, of course—his stomach still ached with hunger, and he knew the thin soup wouldn't be enough to keep him from waking up hungry again in the middle of the night. But he wanted to help his father, to do something. This was one of the few things he could offer.

Magnus looked at him, shaking his head. "Give it to Kaleb then. A growing boy needs all the food he can get."

Bron bit back the disappointment that flooded him. His father hadn't even looked at the soup. He hadn't even considered taking it for himself. However, he did his best to stifle his laughter at the betrayed look his brother gave him as the last of Bron's soup was poured into his bowl.

The soft sound of their father taking an exaggerated sip, savoring it like it was the finest wine, caused Bron to look up. "My love, your cooking once again astounds me. Orcadia was a fool not to accept you as a kitchen hand for the castle," Magnus declared with a flourish, holding his spoon aloft.

Maria, his mother, a delicate, pale woman with wisps of grey in her hair, blushed but smiled nonetheless. "Oh, stop. You're embarrassing me."

"I'm only telling the truth. Maeve agrees with me, just look," Magnus insisted, giving Maeve an affectionate glance as she hungrily drank down her soup.

Maeve, their five-year-old sister, clutched her bowl as if it were the most precious thing in the world, slurping the soup with such intensity that it looked as if she were trying to drink the very essence of life itself. The others watched her in silence, a quiet admiration for the small girl's zeal, before she put the bowl down, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and nodded proudly.

"Is good!" she said, her voice bright and innocent.

Their family burst into laughter. Even with the hunger gnawing at him and the way things were slowly getting worse, moments like this still made everything worth it. He smiled, letting the sound of his family's laughter ease the ache in his chest. His family was his world, and as long as they had each other, that was enough. It made the hunger bearable, if only for a little while longer.

But then Magnus cleared his throat, and the mood shifted. The smile that had lingered on Bron's face faded as his father turned to Maria, his voice heavy as he spoke.

"My love, with how little meat and food there is, we've been thinking about going out for a hunt in a couple of weeks. Just a few days."

Maria's face shifted, a flicker of concern crossing her features. "A hunt?" she asked slowly, as if trying to come to terms with the implications. "But... most of the men would be gone, would they not? I thought you were worried about the goblins?"

Magnus nodded grimly. "Of course we are. We'll wipe out the closest colonies, starting tomorrow, and make sure it's as safe as possible. Bron will stay behind to watch the house while we're gone."

Bron's heart sank, the words feeling like a heavy weight in his chest. "What?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

His father looked up, brow furrowed in confusion. "What is it, boy?"

"I thought I was coming along with you to hunt."

"I can't leave your mother and siblings alone like that. You must stay behind and protect them," Magnus explained as if it were a simple fact, a decision already made.

"But Father, I want to help you! I can't do that if I'm just sitting at home!" Bron protested, his voice cracking with frustration.

Magnus sighed, setting his spoon down. "Bron, if a goblin gets into the village while we're out hunting, we'd be leaving them defenseless. You know we can't risk that. This is the best way to help. I'll rest much easier knowing you're here."

"But you're going to wipe them out. You said so," Bron pointed out, his voice rising.

"You know how goblins are. Like rats. You kill five, and there are seven more hiding in the dirt. I can't risk leaving the village exposed while we go hunting." Magnus's voice had turned stern, the kind of tone that made it clear there was no room for argument. "You won't be alone. Elric and Oswin are staying behind as well. This hunt is a job for men, not boys."

Bron's chest tightened, his hands curling into fists. He wanted to argue more, to make his father see that he was no longer a child, that he could fight, that he could help. But the words caught in his throat, and he finally dropped his gaze to his half-empty bowl.

He knew this was coming; he had known about the hunt for weeks. It had always been planned that way, but Bron had foolishly assumed that he would be a part of it. But somehow, hearing it now, hearing his father's insistence that he was still a child, it hurt. It felt like a mark against him that he couldn't escape.

When will I be seen as a man? When will I get the chance to prove myself?


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Bron," Kaleb whispered to him that night. "Are you mad at Father?"

He and his brother shared a mattress of dry, scratchy hay, while their mother, father, and baby sister Maeve slept on the other. From the sound of his father's thunderous snores, Bron figured the three of them were still asleep. He was awake because, as he had predicted, hunger had clawed him out of his dreams. Kaleb, however, was awake for a different reason—he always had too much energy to burn, and a fruitless day of fishing hadn't been enough to wear him out.

Bron shifted, trying to get comfortable despite the gnawing ache in his stomach. "I'm not mad. Just go to sleep," he whispered, perhaps a bit more sharply than he meant.

Instead of obeying, Kaleb moved closer, pressing himself against Bron's side. His small hand clutched the faded linen of Bron's tunic, fingers curling tight as if he feared his older brother might slip away.

"I'd be scared if you left," Kaleb confessed quietly. "I don't want the goblins to eat me and Maeve. Like Alden."

Alden.

The name struck Bron like a fist to the chest. The only other boy in Greywick close to Kaleb's age. The two of them had been inseparable since they were babes, thick as thieves in a village where friends were as rare as full bellies. Bron had been jealous of their bond more than once, wishing he had a friendship as easy and deep with one of the other boys his age. Kaleb and Alden had been brothers in all but blood.

And then the goblins had come.

It had been the worst raid Greywick had seen in years. Almost thirty of the filthy creatures, all of them armed with jagged rocks and heavy clubs, had swarmed the village, driven by hunger and a taste for human flesh. Bron could still hear the screams echoing in his ears if he let his mind wander too long. It had been the first time he had fought for his life. The first time he had wielded a weapon against a living, thinking creature.

The first time he had killed something that resembled a person far too much for his liking.

At first, he'd felt proud. He had stood shoulder to shoulder with his father, the two of them cutting down any goblin that tried to claw its way into their home. In the moment, he'd felt like a man—strong, capable, fearless. He had defended his family. He had done his duty.

But when the battle was over and the village gathered to count the living, that pride turned sour in his stomach. Three people were missing.

Alden.

His father, Oswin.

And his mother, Seraphina.

Oswin had a bad back. That meant he couldn't farm or hunt.

Or fight.

Seraphina was a woman. No one had expected her to pick up a blade. But she must have tried, because they found her bloody ear and a severed finger in the wreckage of their home.

And Alden—Alden had been a boy. The same age as Kaleb. Too young to know how to defend himself. Too young to die.

There weren't even bodies to bury. Just bloodstains and broken walls and silence where three lives had once been.

Kaleb had kept to himself after that. The goblins had taken more than his best friend that night: they'd stolen his innocence that night, that false confidence that the elders around him could protect everyone, the childish hope that one day, things would be better.

Bron sighed and wrapped an arm around his little brother, pulling him close. He could feel how small and fragile Kaleb was beneath his touch. No wonder he was scared. Goblins would see him and Maeve as a delicacy—as tender and tempting as venison was to humans.

Of course he was afraid.

"I won't let a single goblin touch a hair on your head," Bron promised softly. "You, Mother, Maeve—I'll keep you safe. I swear it."

Maybe their father was right. Maybe his pride, his desire to prove himself a man, didn't matter as much as keeping his family alive. The hunt didn't matter all that much to him right now. He could wait to prove himself as a man.

Just a bit longer.

Bron rubbed slow circles on Kaleb's back, feeling his brother's breath grow steadier, slower, until at last, he drifted off to sleep. Only then did Bron allow himself to close his eyes and follow his brother into the realm of the Dream God, his promise heavy on his heart.

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Bron woke up with a fire burning in his chest. Today, they were going to catch something. Not just a few measly fish bones, but a real haul—enough to fill their bellies for once. Tonight, he and his family would sup on fish and mushroom stew. Tonight, he would make sure Kaleb came home with a smile on his face and a bundle of fish cradled in his arms. And when their father asked, Bron would give all the credit to his little brother. He'd tell him that Kaleb had caught most of them, make him feel proud. Maybe that pride would chase away the shadow in his eyes—the one that crept in every time he remembered Alden, the one that lingered after the goblins came. Bron just had to keep him busy.

As they ate their morning porridge, thin and watery like always, Bron laid out his plan.

"We'll try three things today," he said, keeping his voice light but firm. "First, we go downstream and place one of Mother's baskets there—one with a tight weave—to catch any fish that swim past us. Then, halfway up the river, we'll build a weir. Just a simple one—a few stones to make a barrier and guide the fish toward the basket. Finally, we'll fish upstream, as far as we dare, and work our way down. If nothing bites in an hour, we move. If we do it right, we'll catch enough to fill the stew pot. Maybe even enough to dry and store."

He tried to ignore the bitter thought that slipped in—as if. Having enough to store was a pipe dream. These days, having enough to eat at all felt like a blessing. But today, he wouldn't settle for scraps. Today, he'd make sure no one in their family went to bed hungry.

"Kaleb, grab the basket and the poles. We're going back to the river," Bron said as he scraped the last of his porridge from the bowl.

His younger brother groaned. "Again? We never catch anything."

"Today, we will," Bron promised, pushing back from the rough-hewn table. "Just get the things. We'll be back before dark."

Their mother, Maria, wiped her hands on her apron. "Take a bucket and bring back some water while you're there," she added, her tone weary but gentle. "It's been far too long since you and your siblings cleaned yourselves."

Kaleb wrinkled his nose. "It's only been a week."

"If the river wasn't so far, you lot would bathe every day," Maria said dryly. "But your father doesn't want anyone washing in it anymore. You know why."

Bron did know. Everyone did.

Once, the river had been a blessing—a place to wash, to draw water, even to play when the weather was warm. Once a month, the whole village would gather there to bathe and dump their waste downstream. It had been a rare reprieve from the drudgery of life—a day to scrub themselves clean, share gossip, and forget about empty larders and aching backs.

But then the river began to change. Magnus had been the first to notice. How the water turned cloudy in the spring and stank like rot when summer came. How the fish grew smaller, thinner—when there were fish at all. People who drank from the river grew sick. Some never got better. By the time Magnus ordered the village to stop bathing and dumping waste, it was too late. The river was already spoiled, and no one knew how to fix it.

Now, well water was for drinking and cooking—precious and rationed carefully. River water, when they dared to use it, was boiled first for cleaning clothes or washing dirt from their skin. Even that felt like a luxury they couldn't afford.

"Just be back before it gets dark, boys," Maria finished, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. There was a tiredness in her eyes that hadn't been there a year ago.

"We will," the boys chorused.

Bron leaned down to kiss his mother on the cheek, tickled Maeve under her chin until she giggled, and then grabbed the fishing poles from Kaleb. His brother still wore a sour look, dragging his feet as they headed for the door.

"This is a waste of time," Kaleb muttered. "We should set snares for rabbits."

"We're more likely to catch rats than rabbits," Bron shot back. "And stop complaining. If everything goes right, you'll have a full belly before you go to bed."

And if the gods were kind, maybe—just maybe—they'd have enough to store for another day.