Phainon learned quickly that family was not a quiet thing.

It was not something that eased into place with gentle reassurances or softened edges. It arrived fully formed—loud, heavy, and inescapable. Family was footsteps echoing through long corridors, doors closing with careful restraint, and conversations that never quite said what they meant. It was the constant awareness that everyone under Nanook’s roof carried a past sharp enough to cut, and that learning how to live together meant learning how not to bleed on one another.

The house itself was far too large for the four of them, yet it never felt empty. Khaslana’s presence was steady and precise, his movements controlled, his routines exact. Neikos moved through the halls like a shadow, appearing only when necessary and vanishing just as quickly, leaving a lingering sense of quiet tension. Irontomb, by contrast, filled every space he occupied with noise and friction, his temper snapping whenever the world refused to bend to his will. And Nanook remained at the centre of it all—unyielding, watchful, an immovable force that defined the household’s gravity, whether any of them liked it or not.

Phainon coped the only way he knew how: by filling the silence.

He smiled easily, joked too often, and talked just enough to keep the air from growing too thick. At meals, he fidgeted, tapping his fingers against the table or rocking slightly in his chair, as though stillness might swallow him whole if he allowed it. He told himself he was adjusting, that this was no different from any other change he’d stumbled into with reckless confidence. And for the most part, he almost believed it.

Almost.

It was during one of the rare moments when they were all gathered in the same room that Nanook spoke. The conversation—if it could be called that—had lulled into silence, the kind that settled uninvited and refused to leave. Nanook stood at the head of the dining table, arms crossed, his presence alone enough to command attention without raising his voice.

“I have made a decision,” he said.

Phainon straightened immediately, curiosity sparking. Irontomb’s expression tightened, suspicion flaring. Khaslana turned his full attention towards Nanook, composed and alert. Neikos did not look up, but the subtle tension in his shoulders did not go unnoticed.

“A personal chef will be joining the household.”

The words landed like a dropped plate.

Phainon blinked. “A chef?” he repeated, unable to stop himself. “Like—a real one? Full-time?”

“Gods knows you need one. You burned water,” Irontomb muttered.

“That was a learning experience!” Phainon shot back, undeterred.

Nanook continued as though neither had spoken. “His name is Mydeimos. He comes highly recommended.”

That, more than anything else, drew a pause from the room.

Khaslana’s expression remained carefully neutral, but his eyes sharpened with interest. “Will he be residing here permanently?” he asked. “And does he have experience accommodating varied schedules and…dispositions?”

“He does,” Nanook replied.

Irontomb scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Hope he knows what he’s signing up for.”

Neikos remained silent, gaze fixed on the table, though Phainon caught the faint shift in his posture—guarded, wary. Someone new meant disruption. New expectations. New eyes. Phainon felt it too, that restless hum beneath his skin. A stranger in the house. Someone untouched by their history, stepping into the fractured shape of their family without knowing where the cracks lay. Someone who would see them not as brothers stitched back together, but simply as people.

“When?” Phainon asked, unable to keep the anticipation out of his voice.

Nanook’s gaze settled on him, unreadable. “Today.”

The room stirred at once. Irontomb bristled. Khaslana began quietly recalculating routines. Neikos withdrew further into silence. And Phainon leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the table, a crooked smile pulling at his lips despite himself. “Well,” he said lightly, “I’m curious to see what kind of person willingly walks into this shit.”