The moon barely filtered through the dark clouds, leaving the forest shrouded in heavy gloom. Four people moved forward without speaking, but their quick glances to the sides betrayed their tension. It wasn’t common for smugglers like them to use those paths.

They were part of a group known as the Blue Daggers—discreet, but feared both on land and sea routes. Avoiding the main roads had always been their method, but this time they were carrying high-value cargo. Staying unnoticed was essential; otherwise, the consequences would go far beyond a simple reprimand.

“Anyone else feel like their feet don’t exist anymore?” muttered Eira, a short, square-faced woman with cropped hair, shaking one leg as if that could bring the blood back. “If this keeps up, someone’s going to have to carry me.”

Daryanne, the youngest of the group—a sharp-faced girl with dark hair tied in a high ponytail—let out a low laugh. She was dressed in tight brown leather clothes designed for silent movement, and her dark cloak fluttered with the cold wind that was beginning to blow.

“I’m not carrying you. I’ve got enough trouble dragging my own bones around.”

“Bones?” said Gavros — a middle-aged man with short black hair already flecked with gray and a prominent nose — without taking his eyes off the path. “You’re the youngest here. Wait until you’re my age, then you’ll know what real back pain feels like.”

“You always say that, but you’re still the first to jump up when there’s a fight,” Daryanne shot back with a half-smile. “Maybe you just pretend to be old so we’ll respect you.”

“Neither old nor respectable,” Eira snorted. “Just grumpy.”

Thoren, a tall, broad-shouldered young man with messy hair and thick fur clothing, had stayed silent until then. He murmured from behind them:

“I could carry you, if needed.”

The three of them looked at him. Eira raised an eyebrow, unsure if he was joking.

“Was that… an offer?” she asked with a teasing smile.

Thoren shrugged, not slowing his pace. “Only if you faint. I don’t want us falling behind.”

Daryanne laughed again. “Huh, he does have a sense of humor after all. I thought you were part of the forest.”

“I don’t talk much, but I listen,” Thoren said with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You lot make enough noise for everyone.”

Gavros shook his head in resignation. “If someone finds us, it’ll be because of your chatter, not our footprints.”

“But how boring would it be without us, right?” said Eira, nudging Daryanne with her elbow.

Daryanne nodded. “Someone once said: if you’re going to die, better not do it alone.”

Thoren snorted, almost a laugh. “I’d rather not die at all, honestly.”

“That would be ideal too,” Eira replied, pretending to think. “But it’s not in the contract.”

“We had a contract?” Daryanne murmured with a crooked smile.

“I signed in blood,” Gavros said flatly. “Other people’s blood, of course.”

The group laughed quietly, and for a moment, the weight of the forest seemed to lift.

“Damn,” muttered Daryanne, pulling up her hood to shield herself from the sudden, biting cold that was growing stronger. “This part of the kingdom wasn’t supposed to be this… freezing.”

Gavros didn’t answer; his eyes were fixed on the trail ahead. It was easy to get lost in those woods. Years of smuggling between kingdoms had taught him to trust his instincts, and right now, something felt terribly wrong.

“It’s not natural,” added Eira, rubbing her gloved hands together. “We’re too far from the north to feel this kind of cold. Something’s off…”

Thoren stayed silent, scanning the surroundings carefully. Though his face showed a calm that bordered on unsettling, his eyes were sharp, tracing the dark forest for any sign of movement.

“We should’ve taken another path,” Daryanne went on, frustration edging her tone. She glanced sideways at Gavros, hoping for a reply, but he didn’t seem inclined to speak.

Eira stopped for a moment too, looking toward the horizon with unease. “This cold… I don’t like it. It’s not normal.”

Daryanne nodded, her eyes forward but her mind drifting. She’d heard rumors of places where time and weather twisted strangely, as if nature itself were corrupted by something unnatural.

“We know,” said Gavros, his tone firm but tinged with unease. “But we can’t turn back now. Edgar already paid us in advance for the spice delivery — and the gods know he’s not someone you want to disappoint.”

The wind stopped. The sudden calm was more terrifying than any storm. Not a leaf stirred, not a sound broke the air. Only silence — the kind that foretells death.

Gavros raised a hand, halting the group. He tilted his head, listening. His hardened gaze narrowed, and slowly, he drew his sword — though he doubted steel would help against whatever was out there.

Then they heard it. A low, deep sound, as if the earth itself groaned under an impossible weight. It came from the trees beyond their sight — a muffled roar, like ice fracturing. The four smugglers exchanged quick, fearful looks, not daring to speak. Only one thing could make that sound, and it was something none of them believed could exist outside of fairy tales.

“It can’t be,” whispered Eira, her voice trembling. “It just can’t…”

The trees in the distance began to shake — not from the wind, but from something massive moving among them. Branches bent and snapped under its weight as a dark shape slid through the gloom. Gavros took a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever was about to emerge from the forest’s darkness.

The creature stepped out, and its sheer size stole the breath from all four of them. At first, they only saw the enormous wings folded against its white-scaled body. Then, two pale blue eyes — like frozen orbs — lit up in the dark. It was colossal, far more terrifying in life than in any tavern tale ever told in Roystone. Its icy breath turned the ground and trees into a frozen landscape with every step it took toward the smugglers.

Daryanne instinctively stumbled back, reaching for the bow slung across her back.

“What… what is that?” she murmured, her voice trembling. “That’s not possible!”

“I know,” said Gavros through clenched teeth. “But that doesn’t matter right now. If that thing sees us as a threat, we’re dead. We can’t fight it.”

Thoren already had his axe in hand but didn’t move. His face was a mask of focus, though cold sweat trickled down his forehead.

“So what do we do?” Eira asked, her eyes locked on the monster. “Wait for it to leave?”

Before anyone could answer, the beast let out a roar that made the ground tremble beneath their feet. Its head rose toward the sky, and a freezing mist began to pour from its jaws. Within seconds, the air around them turned frigid, their clothes and armor frosting over.

“Run!” Gavros shouted, shoving Daryanne forward.

The four bolted into the forest, weaving between trees as the creature’s roar grew louder, echoing through the night. Each breath burned their lungs with cold, and their steps faltered as ice began to form beneath their feet.

Eira glanced over her shoulder. The thing was right behind them, moving with terrifying speed. Its claws tore the ground apart with every stride, splintering branches and trunks like paper. Despite its immense size, it was swift — and it was gaining on them.

“Head for that cave!” Gavros shouted. Maybe, if they reached it in time, they could hide — survive.

But the beast didn’t give them the chance.

With one final roar, it spread its massive wings and leapt into the sky, vanishing into the darkness for a heartbeat. The smugglers didn’t stop. But the inevitable came. From above, a torrent of ice crashed down upon them, freezing the ground, the trees — and the smugglers themselves. Gavros and Eira were frozen in an instant, turned into brittle statues that shattered when they hit the ground.

Thoren ran behind Daryanne, his eyes fixed on the cave ahead. It was so close. But the creature exhaled again, and this time, the frost hit him squarely. He froze mid-stride, mere steps from the entrance, his body locked in the last desperate push for safety.

Daryanne was the only one who made it into the cave. The cold crept through the entrance, but the natural shelter gave her just enough protection to escape her companions’ fate.

She stayed there, motionless, trembling, listening to the sounds of the beast tearing through the clearing. After what felt like an eternity, the thunderous beating of its wings faded into the distance. The thing had moved on.

When Daryanne finally dared to move, the forest outside was blanketed in glittering frost. The bodies of Gavros and Eira lay scattered across the ground. Thoren was near the cave’s entrance, frozen in a pose that spoke of his struggle to reach safety. Still gasping from fear, Daryanne knew she was the only one left alive — but also that she would never be the same after that night.

Not after coming face to face with an ice dragon.

Ormsport stretched out before them—a fishing village built upon the rocks, where wooden houses rose defiantly against the salty wind sweeping the coast. It wasn’t a wealthy or large town, but the kind where everyone knows one another. Waves crashed forcefully against the nearby cliffs, and the smell of the sea filled the air. Small boats rocked in the harbor, their tattered sails fluttering gently as fishermen unloaded nets full of the day’s catch.

“I swear to you, Roxxane, salmon will always be my favorite,” said Marilyn, a fourteen-year-old girl, watching the bustle at the port. Her straight red hair glowed beneath the gray sky, freckles standing out against her pale skin.

“Salmon?” Roxxane laughed, adjusting her wavy black hair that the wind constantly tossed. “It’s delicious, sure—but I assure you there’s nothing better than a trout fresh from the river. It’s pure perfection,” she said, gazing into the deep, dark waters that seemed to hold unfathomable secrets.

Marilyn crossed her arms, the squawk of seagulls overhead mingling with the port’s noise. “I've tried trout, but it doesn't have that richness,” she replied skeptically. “Besides, it dries out way too fast if you don’t cook it just right.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to cook it,” Roxxane countered with a playful glance, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “If you did, you’d change your mind. The secret is not to overcook it—just a touch of heat, and it’s done.”

The wind toyed with their simple dresses, shaking them like the nets hanging on the docks. Marilyn arched an eyebrow. “And since when are you an expert cook, huh?”

Roxxane smiled, revealing the small beauty mark beneath her right eye. "Always! Or at least since I saw my father prepare it. But don’t get me wrong, I like salmon—I just think that…,” she leaned toward Marilyn, lowering her voice as though sharing a secret amidst the clamor, “I prefer more… intense flavors.”

Marilyn laughed, the sound blending with the waves lapping at the harbor. “Always so demanding, Roxxane.”

“Demanding, but with good taste,” Roxxane replied, grinning proudly. “And, believe me, life isn’t just about what you like—but how you enjoy it. A well-prepared trout is a pleasure few know.”

Marilyn eyed her skeptically, though a mischievous smile played on her lips. “Maybe. But I’ll bet you anything that if someone offered me smoked salmon or your famous trout, I’d always choose salmon.”

“Ah, I don't doubt it,” Roxxane said, laughing softly. “You’re the most stubborn girl I know.”

“Do you think we’ll ever leave this place?” Marilyn asked suddenly, her tone tinged with nostalgia as she stared at the distant horizon.

Roxxane was silent for a moment, contemplating the question. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind staying. Other times I feel there’s something out there waiting for us.” Her eyes gleamed with a mix of excitement and fear. “Maybe one day we'll find out.”

The sun shone overhead at midday. Marilyn sat on the dock, watching her younger brother—only two years younger than her—Harlan, play with an old rope, trying to tie knots like the ones their father had taught him. Though life in Ormsport was quiet and simple, there was always something about the constant movement of the water that drew Marilyn’s gaze to the horizon.

“Not bad for being so small,” Marilyn teased, watching Harlan tangle the rope into something more knot than loop.

“I’m twelve already—I'm not small anymore!” he replied confidently, though his knot was more a jumble of rope than anything useful. Harlan shared his sister’s red hair and freckles, though he was leaner.

“Don’t worry, you’ve got time to get better,” Marilyn said with a smile, rising to her feet. “Come on—the day’s lunch will be ready any time, and you know how Mom gets if we’re late.”

As they walked back toward the small cabin they shared with their parents, the familiar sounds of the village surrounded them: fishermen unloading nets, boats tapping the dock, the distant murmur of the marketplace where families sold the morning’s catch.

Isla, Marilyn’s mother, was already making lunch when they entered. The kitchen smelled of fish stew—a scent familiar from many such mornings.

“You’re just in time, Marilyn,” Isla said without turning, her tone warm but pragmatic. “Harlan, could you find your father? He’s been chatting too long with the other fishermen and I don’t want our lunch to get cold.”

Harlan nodded enthusiastically and ran off.

Marilyn joined her mother at the table, helping to portion out the modest but well-used provisions of the day. Though they lived by the sea and what it provided, life in Ormsport wasn’t easy. Hard work, occasional storms, and relentless weather made each day a challenge. But the Crasten family always found reason to smile.

“You seem quiet today,” her mother observed gently. “Something on your mind?”

“No, Mother. I was just thinking… well, about what lies beyond the village,” Marilyn said, looking out the small window toward the sea.

Isla smiled wisely. “The sea always makes people dream,” she said, serving soup onto a plate. “But don’t forget, this place, small as it may be, has its own treasures. Sometimes you don’t need to go far to find what you’re looking for.”

Marilyn nodded, though in her heart she felt there was something more waiting for her—something she couldn’t find by staying in Ormsport.

When Harlan returned with their father, Bastian, laughter and conversation filled the cabin. Bastian was tall and strong, with close-cropped red hair speckled with gray at the temples. They spoke of fishing, boats needing repair, and rumors of a storm possibly approaching from the north. The sun continued its high climb across the sky, and all seemed at peace, as always.

The rest of the day passed like any other in Ormsport. The scent of the sea lingered in the air, and the distant sound of waves breaking against the rocky shore echoed the town’s steady rhythm. Marilyn walked the path from her family’s cabin to the harbor, where fishermen still worked on their nets or prepared boats for the next outing.

Her father, Bastian, stood by one of the vessels, adjusting a loose rope. His calloused hands spoke of years at sea, but his warm smile always made Marilyn feel safe.

“Marilyn, could you pass me that net over there?” Bastian asked without taking his eyes off his work.

Marilyn hurried on the dock’s planks, steps light and quick. Handing him the net, she noticed his focused expression as he worked almost instinctively.

“I think the wind is shifting,” she said, glancing toward the horizon where clouds gathered slowly.

Bastian frowned briefly before relaxing. “Yes, something is coming—but it doesn’t look serious. We just need to make sure the boats are properly anchored tonight.”

Marilyn was silent a moment, watching her father. Though she had grown up by the sea, she found it hard to imagine him anywhere but Ormsport. It was as if he and the ocean were bound in a way she could never fully grasp.

“Have you ever thought of going beyond Ormsport’s waters?” she asked suddenly, unable to hold it in. The question hung in the air like the seagulls above them.

Bastian paused, surprised, then shaken his head with a weary smile. “The sea is big enough for me here.” He looked out at the water. “I’ve sailed farther than you can imagine—but I always come back. This is our home.”

Marilyn nodded, though inside she felt differently. Ormsport was just the beginning for her, not the end. She kept her thoughts to herself as Bastian returned to his nets.

Later that evening when Marilyn returned to the cabin, Isla was in the doorway, Harlan peeling carrots energetically. Isla, her hair tied back and her apron stained from preparing fish, looked calm as ever—as if nothing could disturb her balance.

“Have you helped your father yet?” Isla asked softly, looking at Marilyn.

“Yes, everything is in control at the port. Dad says the wind will change tonight, but nothing serious.” Marilyn replied as she entered.

As the family gathered around the table for dinner, the sea’s constant presence filled the air—a reminder that though tides might shift, some things in Ormsport remained unchanged.

Darkness had already descended on Ormsport, and the village braced for a peaceful night. Lights flickered on in homes, and the sound of waves breaking quietly on the shore became the only relief from gathering silence. Marilyn was in the kitchen helping her mother prepare dinner when an unusual noise shattered the calm: the clamor of multiple vessels approaching the harbor.

“What is that sound?” Marilyn asked, raising an eyebrow as she looked toward Isla, who had also heard it.

Isla frowned, visibly worried. “There shouldn’t be more ships arriving at this hour. I’ll go see what’s happening.”

Marilyn hastened after her mother toward the harbor, where the murmur of voices and the roar of ships grew louder. As they neared the docks, they saw several large vessels anchoring near the shore, their dark-colored sails and unfamiliar flags flapping in the wind.

“Merchants?” Marilyn asked, alarm growing in her voice.

“No, they don’t look like merchants,” Isla replied shakily. “Merchant ships usually arrive during the day, not in such a rush.” The concern in her eyes mirrored that of villagers gathering at the port to investigate.

Lights in the homes began turning on as more residents gathered, trying to see what was unfolding. Movement aboard the ships was swift and coordinated, but in the dim light details remained unclear.

Suddenly a scream split the air. Men clad in black leather poured from the ships, armed with swords and axes. Panic swept through the villagers as the attackers advanced, screaming war cries and overrunning the harbor’s edge.

“They're not merchants—they're raiders!” one fisherman shouted, stepping back in alarm.

Terrified, Marilyn and her mother watched as raiders began storming the first houses. Cries of panic and the sound of wood breaking filled the night. Bastian appeared, determination etched on his face, running toward the harbor with local men attempting to defend their home.

“Make sure the children are safe!” he yelled to Isla before joining the others to resist the invaders.

Isla grabbed Marilyn’s hand, pulling her toward the house as chaos unfolded. Harlan, terrified, clung tightly to her.

“What do we do?” Harlan asked, voice trembling.

“We must hide and stay safe,” Isla replied firmly, though her heart pounded with fear and despair.

They took refuge in a hidden corner of the house while Isla calmed Harlan and Marilyn peeked through a crack to see raiders pillaging the village. The scene was a whirlwind of chaos: burning, looting, and destruction, with villagers outnumbered and overpowered.

Marilyn witnessed a horror she had never imagined. Her mind raced, wondering how long the attack would last and what would remain of Ormsport.

As fires began to light up the village from multiple points, Marilyn felt that her life in Ormsport had irrevocably changed. The peace she once knew had vanished, replaced by tragedy and fear. She realized that her family's survival now hinged on her courage and determination in the darkest of times.

Marilyn and her mother, Isla, were preparing to flee in search of safety.

“We must leave now!” Marilyn urged, her heart pounding with urgency.

“I know,” Isla replied, voice trembling as she held Harlan.

Flames cast an unsettling glow over the night. Isla led her children toward the back of the house just as raider footsteps grew nearer. The pain of escaping while avoiding the main streets weighed heavily upon them.

“Quick, let’s go before they find us!” Marilyn whispered.

They managed to slip out, but before they could go far, a series of blood-curdling screams tore through the quiet. Marilyn saw raiders break into their house, and a paralyzing fear gripped her as she saw Bastian menacingly confronting them.

“Dad!” Marilyn cried out, but her voice was lost in the chaos.

Isla, Marilyn, and Harlan tried to move toward the outskirts of the village, avoiding the main lanes where the disturbance was fiercest. But the raiders, clearly organized, were everywhere. The clash of swords, anguished cries, and roar of flames filled the night.

Suddenly a man appeared from nowhere in front of them. In an instant shadows moved swiftly, and Marilyn saw her mother fall, gravely wounded in the head. Isla struggled to remain conscious as the man grabbed Marilyn.

“Mom!” Marilyn screamed, attempting to reach her mother, but the man holding her knocked her brutally in the stomach.

Marilyn tried to fight back, but her efforts were futile. The man, cold in cruelty, dragged her toward the beach just as her mother lay unmoving in a pool of blood. Harlan, terrified, had hidden in a barrel inside one of the houses, trembling in darkness.

As raiders forced Marilyn aboard one of the anchored ships, she realized other villagers had been captured too—including her friend Roxxane, who sat silently, tears staining her cheeks. From the deck, they watched Ormsport burn in the distance, flames mirrored on the water. The home that had been full of laughter and love was now engulfed in infernal glow.

Night fell over Ormsport in a shroud of tragedy and loss. Raiders took what they wanted, leaving behind devastation and heartbreak. The Crasten family, once united, was now broken and scattered.

Dawn came slowly, as if the sun itself feared to illuminate the desolation that spread over Ormsport. The first rays of light filtered through the wooden slats of the barrel where Harlan had spent the night. The cold had settled deep in his bones, but fear kept him still and silent. He barely dared to breathe.

From his hiding place, the acrid smell of smoke and burnt flesh filled the air. The echoes of screams and clashing steel had already faded, replaced by a terrifying silence, broken only by the crackle of the last flames devouring what little still stood.

Harlan clenched his teeth, choking back a sob. The barrel he’d hidden in was nothing more than an improvised refuge — a desperate escape when, amid the chaos, he’d slipped inside after seeing his mother, Isla, fall beneath the raiders’ swords. The image was burned into his mind like a knife wound. He couldn’t move, paralyzed by the mixture of pain and fear. He wanted to scream, but instinct kept him quiet.

With his heart pounding, he slowly pushed the lid of the barrel open. The light blinded him for a moment, and when his eyes adjusted, the sight before him was worse than he had imagined. The wind carried ashes, a dark snowfall covering the lifeless bodies scattered across the ground. Ormsport — his home — was nothing but ruins.

The wooden huts lay in shambles. Fishing nets, now useless, fluttered torn in the wind. The harbor, once full of life, now showed only broken boats and splintered planks drifting in the water. But the hardest thing to face were the bodies — men, women, and children Harlan had known all his life, now lying scattered like broken dolls.

Heart clenched, his eyes searched the corpses for two familiar figures. Then he saw them, a few meters from the house where he had hidden. Isla lay face down, her hair — once shining like sunlight — now blackened and matted with blood. Beside her was Bastian, his father, his eyes vacant and a deep wound slashed across his side. Their hands were stretched out, almost touching, as if in their final moments they had tried to find comfort in each other.

A lump rose in Harlan’s throat. His eyes burned, but he couldn’t cry. Not now.

He crouched behind the barrel, glancing around. He knew he couldn’t stay there. The raiders might return — but above all, he needed to escape. Yet the thought of being completely alone in the world was almost as terrifying as death itself.

Harlan stayed crouched for a few moments more, his heart still pounding in his ears. Gathering what little courage he had left, he stood up slowly, keeping his eyes low so he wouldn’t linger too long on the bodies around him. Hunger and thirst gnawed at his stomach, and all he could think about was finding something to eat — anything to keep him standing a little longer.

He made his way toward one of the nearby houses, or what was left of it. The walls were blackened by fire, and the roof had partially collapsed. The door hung from a broken hinge, swinging lazily in the breeze. Harlan pushed it gently and stepped inside.

The interior was no better than the outside. What hadn’t been consumed by fire was buried under ash and debris. His footsteps echoed in the dead silence as his eyes searched for anything useful. In a corner, among what seemed to have been a shattered table, something caught his attention — a small shovel lying among the ruins. It wasn’t a sword or a spear, but it was better than nothing. He picked it up, feeling its weight in his hands. Rough as it was, it could serve as a weapon if he needed to defend himself.

A loud crack made him spin around. One of the ceiling beams collapsed, sending up a cloud of dust. Harlan stepped back, hand clutching his chest as he tried to steady his breathing. After a few seconds of stillness, he refocused on what mattered: he needed food.

He headed toward the small pantry. He rummaged through the fallen shelves and broken pots until he found what he was looking for — a piece of hard bread, half-covered in ashes. It wasn’t much, but he took it with trembling hands and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Harlan knelt on the cold, damp ground, his hands caked in dirt. His fingers, numb from exhaustion and pain, barely managed to grip the small shovel he had found among the village’s remains. The sun was higher now, yet the day felt endless. Before him, two roughly dug graves waited in silence. He had spent more than an hour digging through the relentless chill, each strike of the shovel stealing more of his strength.

He stood unsteadily, looking down at the graves he had dug for his parents. Their bodies lay covered with a tattered blanket — all he could find to give them a semblance of dignity. The wind whispered through the ruins of Ormsport, an echo of what had once been his home.

Harlan lowered his gaze, biting his lip until he tasted blood. He wanted to cry, but his tears had dried hours ago. All that remained was emptiness — and resolve.

He knelt beside the graves and, in a trembling whisper, murmured:

—Lumar, guard their souls in the peace of your eternal night. Solara, receive their bodies in the light of day. In the union of both, may they find rest and balance.

Then, with shaking hands, he began to cover them with earth, burying his parents beneath the clear morning sky.

—I’ll find you, Marilyn —he whispered, his voice breaking.

He knew he couldn’t stay any longer. With the shovel in hand and the bread as his only sustenance, he decided it was time to leave. Ormsport was nothing but a graveyard now, and staying meant death. He didn’t know where he would go or how he would survive, but he had to get away — from the raiders, from the corpses, from everything that had once been his home.

He stepped out of the house, taking one last look at the destroyed village. Ashes still fell like gray snow, and the air reeked of death. Harlan swallowed hard and turned away, walking toward the forest that stretched beyond the hills. With every step he took, the weight of the shovel reminded him that survival would not be easy — but at least now he had a chance, however small.

There was no clear destination in his mind, only one word: Away. Away from here.

***

A day had passed since Harlan had fled from what was once his home. The sun had already set, leaving the forest in a dim half-light, broken only by the pale glow of the moon filtering through the branches. Harlan walked slowly, exhausted, his head hanging low and his stomach growling. The only thing keeping him moving was fear—fear of what might find him if he stopped.

The bread he had taken from that ruined house was now just a hardened piece in his pocket, barely half its original size. And though he had tried to ration it, hunger had made him eat more than he had planned. It didn’t even taste right—it carried the bitter flavor of the ashes that had covered it, and every bite reminded him of Ormsport’s devastation. But what tormented him most wasn’t hunger, it was thirst. His lips were cracked, and his throat burned every time he tried to swallow. The water in his flask had long run out, leaving him completely helpless in the middle of desolation.

The night’s cold had sunk into his bones. As he trudged through the forest, each gust of wind made him shiver violently. He had no cloak to protect him, and his jacket did little to keep him warm. He wanted to stop, to find a place to sleep, but fear—of raiders, of wild beasts—kept his feet moving.

The trees loomed taller, their silhouettes stretching like dark shadows around him. The silence of the forest was broken only by the crunch of leaves beneath his feet and the occasional distant howl of a wolf. Each sound made Harlan tense, his fingers tightening around the hatchet he had carried since his escape. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer like this. He needed water, shelter—anything to survive one more night.

With each step, his vision began to blur. His legs felt heavy, and the cold was becoming unbearable. He thought of his parents—of how Isla used to tell him that forests could be dangerous, but also comforting, if you knew where to look. But Harlan had no idea where he was or where he was going. He was alone, lost, and weak.

At last, he collapsed at the base of a great tree, his back pressed against the trunk. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady his breathing, but the cold kept creeping in, making him tremble even harder. He didn’t know if he would make it through the night, but he didn’t have the strength to go on.

Resting his head against the trunk, he looked up at the sky. The moon shone cold and distant, the stars flickering faintly above him. Harlan let out a shaky sigh and, wrapping his arms around himself, tried to hold onto what little warmth remained.

“Just… hold on a little longer,” he whispered to himself, barely audible.

But even as he said it, the darkness around him seemed to grow, and Harlan wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure.

***

He didn’t feel the night pass. When he finally opened his eyes, sunlight already bathed the world around him. The first thing he noticed was the rattling of wheels and the creaking of wood. His body was lying on something hard, but he no longer felt the chill of the ground. Blinking in confusion, he looked around.

He was on a wagon. The sacks of hay beneath him shifted gently with the sway of the vehicle as it rolled along a dirt road. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the fog from his mind. How had he gotten there?

Turning his head, he saw at the front of the cart an older man with a weathered face, tanned and wrinkled from years under the sun. His cheeks were ruddy, and a few days’ worth of gray beard covered his chin. The man wore a worn linen shirt, woolen trousers, and leather boots that had seen better days. A straw hat shaded his sparse gray hair, tousled by the breeze.

As they moved along the path, the farmer whistled a light, carefree tune. Harlan slowly pushed himself up, still dazed. The man must have noticed the movement, because he turned his head and gave Harlan a warm, friendly smile.

“Ah, you’re awake, lad!” the farmer said cheerfully. “Thought you’d frozen solid last night. Found you curled up by that tree when I stopped to, well, take care of a little business.”

“What?” Harlan asked, still confused.

“Relieving myself,” the farmer said with a chuckle. “Couldn’t just leave you there, so I loaded you up.”

Harlan stared at him for a moment, trying to process it. He remembered collapsing the night before, certain he wouldn’t make it. But this man—this farmer who’d happened upon him—had saved his life.

“Thank you…” Harlan murmured, his voice hoarse with thirst. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Think nothing of it, son,” the farmer said. “Name’s Fergus Robinson. What’s a boy like you doing alone out in the woods?”

Harlan didn’t answer right away. The images of his destroyed village, of his dead parents, flooded back into his mind, and his chest tightened with a pain he still didn’t know how to bear.

“My home… was attacked,” he said quietly, avoiding the man’s gaze. “I’ve nowhere to go.”

Fergus glanced at him sideways, his expression softening.

“I’m sorry, lad. The world’s a cruel place… too cruel for someone your age. But don’t you worry for now. We’re on our way to the city. It’s not much, but you’ll have a place to rest, a roof over your head, and some water and food. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

Harlan nodded silently. The weight of his loss still pressed down on him, but at least for now, he had a moment of respite. He looked up at the clear sky, at the road stretching ahead, at the sacks of hay shifting gently with the wagon’s rhythm. He had been found when he least expected it, and though the pain still lingered, at least he wasn’t completely alone.

As the wagon rolled along the road, Harlan gazed at the landscape ahead. Slowly, something began to rise in the distance — a great city, its towers and walls reaching toward the sky.

The murmur of the wind carried faint echoes of life within its walls: the shouts of merchants, the laughter of children — a world untouched by the grief he carried. Harlan felt a flicker of hope, imagining that perhaps there, he might find refuge. That maybe his story didn’t have to end in tragedy.

Noticing his gaze fixed on the horizon, Fergus smiled and said,

“We’ll be there soon, lad. Roystone awaits.”