Butch the Wereboar

Eight years have passed. Evening settles over a sturdy timber home on the moor, and warm hearthlight spills across the porch where Butch sits with a wooden training axe.

He shows his eight-year-old son the grip, then the balance, guiding small hands with careful patience. The boy studies every motion, tongue caught between his teeth.

Sable lingers in the doorway, soft-eyed and smiling, wrapped in the comfort of a life they once could only fight for.

Butch steadies the axe head with one huge hand, and the boy adjusts his stance until it sits true. The porch creaks under the weight of family, not danger.

The fire pops inside. The boy looks from Butch to Sable, waiting for the next lesson, while the evening wind brushes the doorframe like a quiet invitation.