The darkness was suffocating.
I clawed my way toward consciousness like a drowning man fighting toward the surface. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass. My lungs burned. My throat was raw.
Air. I needed air.
My eyes snapped open to unfamiliar ceiling beams. Clean white walls. Soft morning light filtering through windows I didn't recognize.
This wasn't home. This wasn't anywhere I knew.
Panic hit like a physical blow. I tried to sit up too quickly. The room spun. My stomach lurched.
Where was I? How had I gotten here?
My hands reached out desperately. Grasping for something. Anything familiar. But there was nothing. Just clean sheets and soft pillows and the terrible wrongness of waking up somewhere safe.
The memories came flooding back. The great hall. The marble floor. The sound of my parents dying.
"No," I whispered. Then louder. "No, no, no."
I rolled sideways off the bed. Hit the floor hard. My knees cracked against wooden planks but I barely felt it.
They were dead. My parents were dead. Cut down like animals while I watched.
The door burst open. Footsteps crossed the room quickly.
"Easy now," a voice said. Gentle. Concerned. "Everything's going to be all right."
A hand touched my back. Started patting softly. Like my mother used to do when I had nightmares.
But my mother was dead.
"Where are they?" I screamed. The words tore my throat. "Where are my parents?"
The hand kept patting. Keep soothing. But it was wrong. All wrong.
"They're gone," I sobbed. "They're gone and it's my fault."
"Shh. You're safe now. You're safe here."
Safe. The word was meaningless. How could anywhere be safe when monsters like him existed? When tyranny could reach into any village and steal everything you loved?
I cried until I had no tears left. Screamed until my voice gave out. Pounded my fists against the floor until my knuckles bled.
The stranger just sat beside me. His hand never stopped moving. Never stopped trying to comfort a boy who couldn't be comforted.
Eventually the fury burned itself out. Left me empty. Hollow.
"Better?" the man asked quietly.
I looked up at him for the first time. Long blonde hair. Kind blue eyes. The sort of face that belonged in storybooks about heroes and happy endings.
"I'm Henrik," he said. "What's your name?"
I almost told him. Almost gave him the name my parents had chosen. But that boy was dead too. Died with his family in a marble hall that reeked of perfume and blood.
"I don't know," I whispered.
It wasn't exactly a lie. I didn't know who I was supposed to be now. Didn't know what happened to children whose entire world got torn away in a single morning.
"That's all right," Henrik said gently. "Names aren't the most important thing. Are you hungry?"
My stomach answered before I could. A long, desperate growl that reminded me I hadn't eaten since... when? How long had I been unconscious?
"Come on then," Henrik said, standing up with easy grace. "Let's get some food in you."
I followed him through the house. My legs were unsteady but they held me up. The rooms were warm and comfortable. Filled with books and maps and paintings of places that looked peaceful.
Everything was so normal. So civilized. Like the rest of the world hadn't gone completely insane.
The kitchen was at the back of the house. Henrik moved around it like he actually enjoyed cooking. Not just the necessity of staying alive but the actual process of preparing food.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to a chair by the table. "This won't take long."
I sat. Watched him work in the flickering candlelight. It was deep night outside. The dead of night when honest people should be sleeping.
But Henrik didn't seem bothered by the hour. Just went about his business with calm efficiency. Stoking the fire. Gathering ingredients. Humming quietly under his breath.
"You were in the river," he said as he started preparing something that smelled amazing. "My neighbor's daughter found you. Nearly drowned."
The river. Vague memories surfaced. Cold water. Desperate swimming. Branches tearing at my clothes as the current carried me away.
"How long?" I asked.
"Three days you've been sleeping. We were starting to worry."
Three days. I'd been unconscious for three days while this stranger took care of me. Fed me. Kept me warm. Expected nothing in return.
Why? Why would anyone do that?
"Are you... are you a healer?" I asked.
Henrik chuckled. "Of sorts. I know enough to keep people alive. Had some training in my younger days."
He cracked eggs into a pan. The sound was warm and domestic. Completely at odds with everything I'd experienced recently.
"Where are you from?" he asked casually.
The question hit like a physical blow. Where was I from? The village where I'd grown up? The hall where my family died? The forest where monsters left children to starve?
"North," I said finally. It was vague enough to be meaningless.
"Long way to travel for someone your age. Were you with family?"
I tried to answer. Opened my mouth to tell him about my parents. About what had happened to them. But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, everything came pouring out at once.
The hall. The throne made of bones. The way my mother had begged for mercy. The sound my father made when the blade found him. The feel of my little brother's hand in mine as the guards dragged us away.
All of it. Every terrible detail. While Henrik cooked eggs and listened with the patience of a saint.
"He killed them because we wouldn't kneel," I sobbed. "Because my brother called him a tyrant. Because we thought we could resist."
"And you?" Henrik asked gently. "What happened to you?"
"He said it was bad luck to kill children. Had his guards dump me in the forest. Told them if I was meant to live, the gods would provide."
The eggs were ready. Henrik slid them onto a plate along with fresh bread and cheese. Simple food that tasted better than anything I'd eaten in weeks.
"Sounds like the gods did provide," he said, sitting down across from me.
"Did they? Or did I just get lucky?"
"Does it matter? You're alive. You're safe. You have a chance to decide what comes next."
What comes next. Like there was a future beyond surviving until tomorrow. Like children who'd lost everything could somehow build new lives.
"I don't know how to do that," I admitted.
"Nobody does," Henrik said kindly. "We all just make it up as we go along."
We ate in comfortable silence after that. The food helped. Not just the nutrition but the normalcy of it. The simple human ritual of sharing a meal.
"Can I ask you something?" I said eventually.
"Of course."
"Why are you helping me? You don't know me. Don't owe me anything. Why take in a stranger?"
Henrik was quiet for a long moment. Considering his answer.
"Because someone helped me once," he said finally. "When I needed it most. Didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Just saw someone in trouble and chose to care."
"What happened to you?"
Another pause. "I made some mistakes. Trusted the wrong people. Had to leave everything behind and start over."
He didn't elaborate. Didn't offer details. But I could hear the pain in his voice. The echo of old wounds that hadn't quite healed.
"This village," I said. "Is it safe?"
"As safe as anywhere gets. We keep to ourselves. Don't bother anyone. Don't attract the wrong kind of attention."
"And if that changes? If dangerous people come looking?"
Henrik met my eyes directly. "Then we deal with it. Together. That's what communities do."
Community. The word felt foreign. Like something from a language I'd forgotten how to speak.
"I don't know if I remember how to be part of something like that," I said.
"You'll learn. Or remember. Either way, you don't have to figure it out alone."
The kindness in his voice almost broke me all over again. When was the last time an adult had spoken to me like I was worth protecting? Like my life had value beyond what I could provide them?
"Henrik," I said quietly. "The man who killed my family. He's not just some local tyrant. He's building something. An empire. Villages are falling to him one by one."
"And you think he'll come here eventually?"
"I think he'll go everywhere eventually. Until someone stops him."
"And you want to be that someone?"
The question hung in the air between us. Did I? Was that what I wanted? Or was I just a traumatized child looking for revenge?
"I don't know," I said honestly. "I don't know what I want. Except for my parents to still be alive."
"That's normal," Henrik said gently. "Grief makes everything else seem impossible."
"Does it get easier?"
"It gets different. The sharp edges wear down over time. But you never stop missing them."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've lost people too. Everyone has, if they live long enough."
We finished eating as the first hints of dawn appeared outside the windows. The night was ending. A new day was beginning.
Just like my old life had ended and something new was starting.
I didn't know what that something would be. Didn't know if I had the strength to build anything worthwhile from the wreckage of my childhood.
But for the first time since the great hall, I had a place to sleep. Food to eat. Someone who cared whether I lived or died.
It wasn't much. But it was a beginning.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.