Harlan I

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.”

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