Dawn's First Light
The fifth watch had just sounded. From the back garden arose the hoarse cry of a rooster, piercing the misty veil of the early morn that still clung to the curved, yin-yang roof tiles. Trần Sĩ stirred and opened his eyes. Though unfamiliar with this dwelling, years of disciplined training had long instilled in him the habit of waking with the sun.
The room was humble yet tranquil, the faint scent of pinewood lingering in the air. Pale morning light filtered through a half-closed lattice window of woven bamboo, casting shadows that danced gently across the wooden floor. Autumn's crisp breath slipped through the leaves outside, carrying with it the faint perfume of wildflowers cradled in dew.
Beside him, Vân lay still in slumber, her raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders, cheeks flushed with a gentle rose hue. Her breath rose and fell beneath the thin blanket she wore, soft and rhythmic, like the lull of petals asleep beneath the changing season. In that moment, she resembled a plum blossom slumbering through the first stirrings of late autumn.
Sĩ rose quietly, draping a silk robe over his shoulders. With familiar tenderness, he brushed a stray lock of hair from Vân's brow. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"Poor girl… She's weary from the long road. Let her rest a while longer," he thought, stepping soundlessly out of the room so as not to disturb the gentle dreamscape she wandered.
The traditional wooden house, though simple, held a comforting warmth. The floorboards of the hallway, worn with age, were nonetheless well-kept and clean. The breeze from the garden stirred the beaded bamboo curtain, its rustle like silk responding to a melody played by unseen strings. With every step, Sĩ moved with the grace of one mindful not to break the hush of dawn.
The front courtyard lay bathed in the pale glow of early sunlight. Yellowed leaves of the phách tree rustled in the wind, while distant birdsong mingled with the quiet breath of the season's turning.
In the far corner, by an old stone well blanketed in moss, stood a slender figure drawing water. Her sky-blue robe swayed with the breeze, long strands of hair dampened with dew clinging gently to her back. It was Hạ Cát.
The maiden bore a graceful presence, her eyes tranquil like the still surface of an autumn lake—deep, clear, and filled with quiet strength. Under the ghostly sheen of dawn, her face seemed carved from glazed porcelain: serene, luminous, and alive with gentle warmth.
Sĩ approached, his voice calm and low.
"Good morning, Lady Hạ Cát."
Startled slightly, she turned, her eyes wide as dew-beaded pearls.
"Ah… Good morning, honored guest. You rise so early?"
"An old habit," Sĩ replied with a soft smile.
"You needn't trouble yourself… I can manage alone."
"It's no trouble. I have no duties this morning," he said, already reaching for the coarse rope.
Hạ Cát hesitated, as if to protest, but then merely lowered her gaze and nodded. Side by side, they drew water. The dull sound of the wooden bucket striking the stone echoed in a soothing rhythm. Before long, three full pails stood neatly by the well.
"Thank you… I feel guilty making you do this," she said gently, wiping a drop of water from her cheek.
"It's but a simple help," Sĩ answered, his eyes kind and steady.
"You truly are a noble soul…"
"And where are you taking the water?"
"To the kitchen. Aunt An is preparing breakfast. She's old and frail now—carrying water is too much for her, so I help."
"Then I shall carry these for you."
"Please, you don't have to—" she said, flustered.
But Sĩ had already taken two buckets in hand and strode ahead, leaving her no room to argue. With a small sigh, Hạ Cát picked up the remaining one and followed. Their footsteps rang lightly along the silent corridor, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of the water.
"Sir…" she said, catching up beside him.
"Yes?"
"May I ask where you and Lady Vân are traveling?"
"We journey to Đại Liên Academy, nestled in the ridges of the Great Mountains."
Her eyes widened. "Oh… That place is renowned throughout the realm. It suits someone like you."
"I am no sage or scholar—merely fortunate to be born to a noble house," he replied with a touch of sorrow.
A silence lingered before Hạ Cát spoke again, softly.
"You're still very fortunate… I've never left this village since the day I was born."
"Is that so?" His gaze softened.
"Yes. I only know of the capital from my father's tales and the traders who pass through our village."
"And what do they say?"
"They speak of wonders—streets lined with enchanted lanterns, bustling crowds, strange beasts and valiant warriors. I've always dreamed of seeing it once… just once, to buy the most beautiful hairpin for my mother."
Sĩ's heart stirred. "Your mother… I did not see her last night."
"She is paralyzed from an accident long ago. She cannot walk, but her spirit remains strong and kind."
There was love in her voice, clear and unwavering. The moment lingered, and a quiet ache welled in Sĩ's chest.
"How lucky I am… to hear such words from a daughter's heart. And yet… how it stings."
His own father had fallen on the battlefield. His mother, frail and ill, suffered from lost.That thought made his throat tighten.
They reached the kitchen. The wooden door creaked open, releasing the fragrance of steaming porridge. Inside, an old woman with hair white as snow sat by the hearth, tending to the fire.
"Auntie, I've brought the water," Hạ Cát called.
The woman turned, her wrinkled face breaking into a kind smile.
"Thank you, little miss…"
She caught sight of Sĩ and blinked in surprise.
"Oh my… and who is this fine young gentleman?"
"I am Trần Sĩ," he said with a respectful bow. "A guest, graciously welcomed by your household."
"He is from the capital, Auntie," Hạ Cát added.
"Heavens… forgive me, child. These old eyes don't see as they once did."
"There's nothing to forgive, madam. On the contrary, I should thank you for preparing our meal."
His words were simple, but sincere, and they warmed even the old woman's heart.
"Such grace and humility… a true scholar."
Bowing once more, the two excused themselves. Just then, the rooster crowed again, heralding the brightening dawn.
From the guest room, the door creaked open. Vân stepped out, stretching, her hair tousled and robe askew. Sleep still lingered in her eyes, but the sight of Sĩ beside Hạ Cát sharpened her gaze.
"Well, well… Master, flirting with the local maiden at daybreak?" she teased, playfully tugging his sleeve.
"N-no, it's not like that!" Sĩ stammered, flustered.
"Such a rogue!" she said, giving his shoulder a mock pinch.
Hạ Cát turned aside, her cheeks flushed, but she said nothing—only smiled gently.
Then Vân's stomach rumbled loudly. She puffed her cheeks and patted her belly.
"I'm starving! Fine, I'll spare you… for now!"
Sĩ laughed aloud. "Come, let's go eat."
"I'll show the way," Hạ Cát offered, stepping ahead with quiet poise.
The three made their way to the dining hall, where a graceful woman awaited. Her golden hair glowed like sand at dusk, and though confined to a wheelchair, she bore herself with serene elegance. Beside her stood a young attendant.
"Good morning, Mother!" Hạ Cát chimed.
"Good morning, my child… and welcome, honored guests," the woman replied with a smile.
"Good morning, Lady," Sĩ greeted her with a bow.
"Forgive me for not receiving you properly last night…"
"Please, milady, the honor is ours to be welcomed into your home."
"Then let us break our fast together."
Aunt An and another maid laid out the morning fare: warm rice porridge, soft steamed buns, shrimp dumplings fragrant with spices, and crispy fried dough twists. The meal was humble, yet rich in flavor and comfort—perfect for an autumn morning.
Once the meal was done, Sĩ and Vân excused themselves to pack their belongings. They would soon take their leave from the Hạ household, carrying with them the warmth and kindness of that tranquil dawn in a village tucked beneath the golden breath of fall.