The Mercenary's Home

The boy did not remember how long he had been walking.

His legs ached, his throat was raw from the cold air, and his feet—bare and bloodied—left faint red prints in the snow. The wind howled through the trees, whispering through the pines like a voice just out of reach. It might have been calling his name. It might have been calling him to rest. But he could not stop.

Not yet.

The last thing his mother had told him was to run. To run and never look back.

So he ran.

He had fled through the burning ruins of Frosthold, slipping between the bodies of fallen knights and broken banners, into the deep woods beyond the castle walls. He had heard the horns of the imperial soldiers behind him, searching. He had heard the crackling of flames consuming the last remnants of his home. And still, he ran.

Now, he could barely keep moving.

The trees stretched endlessly in every direction, their thick trunks forming a dark maze around him. His small hands gripped at the bark as he stumbled forward. He no longer knew where he was going. He only knew that if he stopped, he would never rise again.

Then, through the haze of exhaustion, he heard it—hooves crunching through the snow.

The boy's breath caught in his throat. Fear flared in his chest. Had the empire found him? Had the riders caught his trail? He turned his head, vision swimming as he tried to spot the source of the sound.

A figure on horseback emerged from the trees.

The man rode slowly, his dark cloak blending into the shadows of the forest. His mount was a shaggy northern destrier, built for the cold, its breath steaming in the freezing air. A long sword hung from the rider's belt, its scabbard worn and scratched.

The boy tried to move, tried to flee deeper into the woods, but his legs buckled beneath him. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, blinking against the swirling snow. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the rider pulling on the reins, stopping just a few feet away.

Then, silence.

* * *

Rhaedric woke to warmth.

It was the first warmth he had felt in days. A thick woolen blanket covered him, rough against his skin but blessedly warm. A fire crackled nearby, casting long shadows across the wooden walls. The scent of burning pine filled his nose.

He shifted, his body aching as he tried to sit up. His surroundings were unfamiliar—a small cabin, the walls lined with shelves of tools, weapons, and old maps. A wooden table sat in the center of the room, cluttered with scraps of leather and half-finished arrow shafts.

Someone moved near the fire.

The boy tensed. His fingers curled into the blanket as he turned his head, eyes locking onto the man who had found him.

The mercenary was seated on a stool, tending to a pot hanging over the fire. He was a broad-shouldered man, his dark hair streaked with gray at the temples. A scar ran down the side of his jaw, disappearing beneath the rough collar of his cloak. His sword lay within easy reach, propped against the wall.

The man glanced over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp but not unkind.

"You're awake," he said simply.

Rhaedric swallowed, his throat dry. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure if he could say anything at all.

The mercenary stood, crossing the room with measured steps. He crouched beside the cot and placed a wooden cup in the boy's hands. "Drink."

Rhaedric hesitated, then took a cautious sip. Warm broth slid down his throat, soothing the rawness. He hadn't realized how desperately thirsty he was.

The man watched him for a moment before leaning back against the wall, arms crossed.

"You were half-dead when I found you," he said. "What's a boy like you doing alone in the forest in the middle of winter?"

Rhaedric gripped the cup tightly. His mind raced, torn between telling the truth and keeping silent.

The mercenary's eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't have to answer now. But you're safe here."

Safe.

The word felt foreign to him.

The last time he had been safe was before the empire came. Before his father—his entire family—was taken from him. The weight of it crashed over him all at once, the memories breaking free like a flood.

His hands trembled.

The mercenary saw it. His expression softened, but he said nothing. Instead, he stood and returned to the fire, stirring the pot in silence.

After a long pause, he spoke again.

"Name's Garran," he said. "I'm a sellsword. Sometimes a hunter. I live out here, away from trouble." He glanced back at the boy. "And you?"

Rhaedric hesitated. He had never introduced himself as anything other than a lord's son. But he was not that anymore. The empire had seen to that.

So, he said the only thing that felt true.

"Rhaedric."

Garran studied him for a moment, then nodded.

"Get some rest, Rhaedric," he said, turning back to his work. "You've got a long road ahead of you."

The boy clutched the blanket tighter around himself, watching the flames dance in the hearth.

For the first time since the fall of his home, he let himself close his eyes and sleep.