I finally look down at the bundle in my arms. The baby's face peeks out—a small tuft of black hair, pale skin smudged with dirt and ash. I'm out of breath, my chest burning like I've run for days. I don't know why I saved this child. I can barely take care of myself. I'm half dead, starving, and soaked through with sweat and swamp water.
War is cruel. So cruel it breaks a boy before he's even grown. I regret being so young, so full of strength I never learned how to use. I regret the easy days when the world seemed smaller. I had no parents, no home worth calling mine anymore, yet still I left behind everything I knew to fight for a cause I barely understood.
The baby starts to cry. Small, sharp, and hungry. I press my lips together and pray, whispering to the god of land, the only god I trust. Please. Please let something happen. But the forest stays quiet. My prayers go unanswered.
I keep walking, aimless and slow, the weight of the baby a constant pull against my chest. The trees grow taller. The air is colder. My feet drag along a rough dirt path. The forest is darkening. Shadows stretch long and thick between the trunks.
After what feels like hours, the path bends and I spot something—a flicker of movement, a small caravan parked on the roadside.
Five of them. Four men, a child. Their clothes are worn but not ragged, mostly dark colors and thick leather. They sit by a campfire, their faces covered by scarves and hoods, only their eyes visible. Watchful, hard.
I swallow hard and step forward, my voice barely a croak. "Please. I need help."
The baby wails again and I cough, trying to clear my throat. "Help. Water. Food. Anything."
They watch me. Silent, still. The men speak softly among themselves, quick words I can't catch. But the child—the one who looks almost my age—stands and walks over.
"Where are you from?" the boy asks. His voice is low, wary but not unkind.
I shift the baby, struggling to keep it calm. "I came from a village. It's gone. Burned to the ground."
His eyes flicker with something I don't understand. "What happened?"
I take a shaky breath. The words catch in my throat. "I was in an army. Count Baumgartner's men. We were marching through the borderlands when they ambushed us. We didn't stand a chance. They had fire, arrows, traps. They killed everyone. I barely escaped."
The boy's gaze sharpens. Behind him the men quiet down, listening now.
"They weren't soldiers," I say. "They were something worse. Cruel, quick, and without mercy. I saw men I fought beside fall one by one. I saw my commander die. I ran. I thought I'd be caught, but I got away. For a moment, I was caught by others—the mercenaries with the blue hair. They tried to drown me in the swamp, but then they let me go. Like I was nothing."
I glance down at the baby again, cradling it tighter. "Then I found her. This child. Outside the burning village. A woman came running out of the flames, on fire. She pushed the baby away before she collapsed. I grabbed the child and ran."
The boy nods slowly. "You came too late."
"Too late," I whisper. "And now I don't know what to do."
The men murmur among themselves. One offers me a cup of water from a leather flask. My hands tremble as I take it. The cold liquid is a blessing on my dry tongue.
The boy watches me drink. "You should come with us. We're heading back to the nearest fortress."
I look at the baby's closed eyes and nod. I'm too tired to argue.
They offer me a place by the fire, some jerky for the baby, and a few kind words in quiet voices. The fire crackles low. I feel my eyelids grow heavy.
Before sleep takes me, I think of the village, the woman, and the war. Of all the things lost, and of what little I still hold onto.