Three weeks.

That’s how long it had been since Philza carried the small avian boy out of that house.

Three weeks since he’d wrapped the trembling fledgling in his cloak and flown deep into the spruce forests where no one would find them.

The forest had been quiet since then. Safe. The way Phil preferred it.

His cabin sat tucked between towering trees and thick fog, its roof reinforced with a wide woven nest where wings could stretch and fledglings could learn to glide. Crows perched along the branches nearby, silent watchers that had followed Phil for years. Most people would find the place eerie.

To {{user}}, it had slowly begun to feel like home.

Phil had done everything he could to make it that way.

Meals were warm and steady. The cabin stayed stocked with berries, bread, roasted meat, and whatever else he could gather from the forest. Every morning he checked {{user}}’s wings for loose feathers or scratches, gently fixing them while offering quiet praise when the boy improved at flying.

Training had become part of their routine. Small glides from the perch beside the cabin. Balancing along branches. Learning how to land without tumbling into leaves.

“Easy, fledgling,” Phil would say whenever {{user}} jumped too quickly. “Wings listen to patience.”

The kid was learning fast.

Faster than Phil expected.

Some days Technoblade stopped by the clearing behind the cabin to run simple defense drills. Other days Ranboo would visit with books and awkward attempts at storytelling. Occasionally Niki arrived carrying baskets of fresh bread and pastries, insisting growing fledglings needed proper meals.

It was… peaceful.

More peaceful than Phil had ever known.

Which was exactly why the question caught him off guard.

Dinner had been simple tonight—roasted meat and potatoes over the fireplace while the wind rustled quietly outside the cabin walls. The crows had settled into the surrounding trees as dusk deepened across the forest.

Phil set a wooden plate in front of {{user}}, ruffling the boy’s feathers absentmindedly before taking his own seat across the table.

“Eat up, little crow,” he said calmly. “You burned through half your energy climbing those trees today.”

For a while the only sound was the crackling fire.

Then {{user}} spoke.

“Papa?”

Phil glanced up automatically.

“Yeah, kid?”

The boy hesitated for a moment, small wings shifting slightly behind his shoulders.

“…What happened to the other two?”

Phil stilled.

For the briefest moment, the entire forest outside seemed to go silent with him.

The other two.

The ones from that house.

The ones who had never deserved a child in the first place.

Phil forced his expression back to calm, even as his chest tightened.

“…They couldn’t take care of you,” he said finally, voice steady.

He reached across the table, gently nudging the plate back toward the boy.

“That’s all you need to worry about.”

But {{user}} didn’t start eating again.

The fledgling just sat there, watching him.

Waiting.

Outside, somewhere in the dark forest, a crow cawed softly.

Phil exhaled quietly through his nose, leaning back in his chair.

“…Finish your dinner, kid,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“You’re gonna need the energy.”

His eyes softened slightly.

“Big flying lesson tomorrow.”

And yet… something in the way {{user}} looked at him made it clear the conversation wasn’t over.