The morning sun blazed mercilessly over the scarred land, its heat pressing down like a weight. The boy stumbled forward, his bare feet dragging across the dirt road leading to the next town—the one he hoped might still have herbs, might still have something.
But deep down, he knew.
Even if he had found medicine yesterday, even if he had sprinted back in time... his mother would still be gone. The sickness had taken too much from her. The war had taken everything.
His stomach twisted violently, a hollow ache that had long since turned into agony. His vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges. The "Unfortunate Town"—that burned husk of a place where he and his mother had suffered—was behind him now. Ahead lay only uncertainty.
Just a little farther...
His legs buckled.
The world tilted.
And then—
Darkness.
...
"Ahah! What a morning... hotter than I thought."
An old man's voice cut through the silence, gruff but warm. He trudged along the road, his back slightly bent under the weight of his cast nets and a meager basket of fish. Four. Only four catches today. Not enough to last, but enough to stave off hunger for now.
"Guess I'll save two for tonight..." he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
Then—he froze.
A figure lay crumpled in the dirt ahead. A child.
The old man dropped his nets and rushed forward, his calloused hands turning the boy over. Dirty clothes. Bruised skin. Pale lips parted in shallow breaths.
Alive—but barely.
The old man's breath hitched. Despite the grime, the boy's features were striking—sharp cheekbones, smooth skin, a face that spoke of noble blood or foreign lineage. But his body was frail, starved, broken by the world.
"Damn it all..."
Without hesitation, the old man hoisted the boy onto his back, muscles straining but holding firm. He grabbed his nets and basket, then turned—not toward the neighboring town, but toward Novaran, the capital of the Kingdom of Sanen.
A city of contrasts.
The center gleamed with wealth—marble towers, silk banners, nobles who feasted while others starved. But the outskirts? That was where the commoners scraped by. Where he scraped by.
His home was a small wooden hut, barely standing, but it was shelter.
...
The boy didn't stir as the old man laid him on the lone bed—a threadbare mattress stuffed with straw. The old man exhaled, running a hand through his graying hair.
"Abandoned, huh? Or worse..."
He glanced at the boy again. No fever. No wounds. Just exhaustion, hunger, and grief etched into every shallow breath.
The fish wouldn't last. Four for two people? Impossible. But the boy needed it more.
"Two fish per person... but the kid's probably starving."
He set to work, gutting and cleaning the fish with practiced hands. The fire crackled to life in the hearth, its weak flames licking at the pan.
...
The aroma of freshly cooked fish curled through the small wooden hut, rich and savory. It was this scent—warm, familiar—that tugged the boy back to consciousness. His eyelids fluttered open, his vision swimming as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings.
"Where… am I?"
His body felt heavy, his breaths shallow. The last thing he remembered was collapsing on the road, his vision fading to black. Now, he lay on a thin mattress, the rough fibers scratching against his skin. Across the room, an old man stood by a rickety table, placing a plate of four golden-brown fish onto its uneven surface.
For a fleeting moment, the boy's blurred vision deceived him. The man's silhouette overlapped with a memory—his father, standing by their old hearth, turning fish over a fire. A choked breath escaped him.
Home.
But the illusion shattered as the old man turned, his weathered face breaking into a smile.
"You're awake, now, kid." He pushed three of the fish toward the boy. "Here. I know you're hungry."
The boy's stomach clenched painfully at the sight. His voice came out weak, barely audible.
"Did you… save me?"
The old man chuckled, the lines around his eyes deepening. "You see, this old man may be poor, but he'll help young ones."
A fragile smile tugged at the boy's lips. Tears pricked at his eyes—not just from hunger, but from the sheer kindness in the man's voice.
"Thank you," he whispered, his throat tight."I thought I was going to die."
The old man's expression softened. He sat beside him, his voice gentle. "What happened to you?"
The boy's hands trembled. "My parents are gone. Because of the war. The Letterune… they killed my family."
A shadow passed over the old man's face. Without a word, he pulled the boy into a firm embrace. The boy stiffened—then melted, his face pressing into the man's shoulder. It had been so long since he'd been held by a man.
"I understand, boy," the old man murmured. "I lost my daughter and my wife too. But at least you're alive."
The words were a balm to the boy's shattered heart. When the man pulled back, he wiped his eyes roughly.
"What's your name?" the old man asked.
"Rezoun. My mother named me. We didn't have a surname."
"Your mother named you well." A calloused hand ruffled his hair affectionately. Then—
Grrrr.
Rezoun's stomach roared. The old man burst into laughter, and despite everything, Rezoun found himself laughing too.
They ate together, Rezoun insisting the old man take two fish instead of just one. The hut, though small and worn, felt warm for the first time in what seemed like forever.
...
The Big Lake – Far from Novaran
The cast net arced through the air before sinking into the shimmering water. To their astonishment, when they hauled it back, ten fat fish thrashed within its folds.
Rezoun whooped, the old man grinning beside him. For a moment, the weight of grief lifted.
But fate was cruel.
Three figures emerged from the treeline—bandits, their blades glinting in the sunlight. Before Rezoun could react, a knife pressed against the old man's throat.
"Don't hurt the kid," the old man growled, his voice tense.
The bandit leader smirked. "Then I think you know what this means, old man. Give us everything you have."
"I-I don't have any money!"
A tilt of the leader's head—a silent command.
The two other bandits seized Rezoun. A fist slammed into his stomach. Pain exploded through him, his vision whiting out as blood sprayed from his lips. He crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
"You bastards—!"
The old man twisted, driving an elbow into the leader's ribs. But age had stolen his strength. A knife plunged into his side.
He staggered, blood soaking his tunic. His fading vision locked onto Rezoun's still form.
"Kid…"
Then—hooves. Shouts.
Sanen soldiers crashed through the brush, swords drawn. The bandits barely had time to scream before steel silenced them.
But it was too late.
The old man slumped to his knees, his life bleeding into the earth. The last thing he saw was a figure on a white horse—a Marquess in gleaming armor—dismounting, his voice commanding.
"Take the boy and the old man's body. Bury him in my graveyard. Carefully."
Darkness swallowed the old man whole.
And Rezoun, unknowing, was carried away.