The air behind the house smelled of dust and sweat. The training area was little more than a wide stretch of packed dirt with a few wooden posts and old targets set up. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the yard, and the sound of heavy breaths echoed.

Joshua swung a wooden staff with precision, striking the post until the wood groaned. Maverick stood nearby, arms crossed, his sharp eyes following every move. "Again," he barked.

Joshua obeyed without hesitation. His strikes were strong, controlled—exactly how Maverick liked.

A few steps away, Modric leaned lazily against a fence, twirling his staff like it was nothing. Alan sat on the ground, scrolling through his phone despite the glare of sunlight on the screen.

Angela stood near the edge of the yard, her hands folded together in front of her apron. She had brought water for them all, but no one touched the cups yet. Her heart thumped nervously; training days often ended in arguments.

"Modric," Maverick's voice cut like steel. "Your turn."

With a smirk, Modric pushed off the fence. "Finally." He twirled the staff again, striking the post with exaggerated flair. Dust flew.

"Sloppy," Maverick snapped.

"It got the job done," Modric shot back, his sarcasm dripping.

Maverick's eyes narrowed. "Discipline. Control. You think your enemies will be impressed with your little tricks?"

Modric grinned, shrugging. "Maybe they'll laugh themselves to death."

"Enough jokes!" Maverick's voice boomed across the yard.

Angela stepped forward, her voice soft, almost pleading. "Maverick, please—he's only trying to—"

"Stay out of it, Angela," Maverick snapped without looking at her.

Her lips pressed together. She lowered her gaze, the words dying in her throat.

Alan finally looked up from his phone, his voice dripping with annoyance. "Why does it matter? None of us even want this."

Maverick turned sharply, his fury sparking. "You'll train whether you want it or not. You're not weak. I won't raise weak men in my house."

Alan scoffed, standing to his feet. "Maybe I don't want to be the kind of man you want."

Angela's breath caught. Her hand flew to her chest. "Alan..."

Joshua immediately stepped forward, his hazel eyes flashing. "Show some respect, Alan."

"Respect?" Alan shot back, his voice cracking with frustration. "For a father who only knows how to bark orders?"

Maverick's fist clenched. For a terrifying moment, Angela thought he might strike. She rushed forward, placing herself slightly between them.

"Maverick, please," she whispered. "He's just upset—"

"Step aside, Angela."

Her green eyes filled with tears, but she shook her head. "Not like this. Not in front of them."

From the edge of the yard, a small figure stood silently, half-hidden behind one of the wooden posts. Wide eyes followed every sharp word, every harsh movement. The presence was heavy—like a silent witness to all the cracks running through the family.

Angela pulled her daughter into her arms, hugging her tightly as if she could protect her from the truth. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks as she whispered against her daughter's hair: "I'll always forgive him. Even if it breaks me."

The training posts stood silent around them, the dust settling on the empty ground. And the countryside evening carried on, indifferent to the storm that lived in their family's heart.