The Nameless Child

— Damn Lord Velshar and his filthy servants — muttered old Odrem, tightening the reins of his aging black steed.

He was around fifty years old, but still as strong as a bull, constantly scratching his long red beard, now streaked with white. Since childhood, he had known no other life but that of a soldier for House Thyris, loyal to his last breath.

Beside him rode a young man, slender, as handsome as he was strong.

— Those bastards will get what they deserve, I swear it — muttered young Gareth Thyris, his large brown eyes fixed on the narrow path ahead, winding along the mountain range, whose shadows stretched over the frozen ground.

The path was flanked by trees stiffened by the intense cold, their crystalline branches glinting at the faintest hint of light. It was a treacherous place: slippery rocks jutted out from the ground here and there, while layers of accumulated snow hid them like traps.

The young lord, barely nineteen, was the youngest son of Torvin Thyris and had been raised for such responsibilities.

The nobles of House Thyris had always been allies of the realm and direct descendants of the first civilization. They were known as the king's shield, always loyal to House Luminar, the dragon slayers. At least, this was what the young noble still believed.

In the early evening, the sky was an opaque sea of dense clouds descending upon them, blending with the mist. Shadows stretched from the mountains as the wind hissed through the frozen trees. 

— At nightfall, the souls of the dead wander these lands — the locals would say. Words of superstitious old men? Perhaps. Yet even Odrem, despite his age, couldn't suppress the chill that crept along his neck. 

— We need to hurry, milord — Odrem warned, tightening the reins of his old black steed. 

— We still have plenty of time. The cowards won't dare follow us through these lands — Gareth replied. 

— Nor should we be here, milord... especially with that child — Odrem muttered, nodding toward the newborn cradled in Gareth's arms. 

Gareth kept the baby carefully hidden within the folds of his heavy cloak, crafted from the thick, velvety fur of a black bear. Subtle golden embroidery adorned the edges of the cloak, reflecting the crest on his chest: a black raven with piercing yellow eyes, woven in threads of gold and obsidian. Its partially spread wings seemed poised to take flight. Beneath the cloak, a dark woolen tunic, reinforced for warmth, shielded him from the biting cold. 

— Nonsense — Gareth said sharply. 

Despite his youth, Gareth wasn't easily swayed by tales told around a campfire—though, deep down, he sometimes found himself believing them. Regardless, he had no time for old legends. "But on nights like these, old legends were written," he thought to himself. 

The young lord pressed on, ever watchful. His deep brown eyes, sharp and alert, moved swiftly among the frozen trunks of the trees. 

— We are safe. I assure you of that. No one knows these lands as well as the nobles of House Thyris, — declared young Jack, Gareth's servant. 

Jack was a somewhat scrawny young man with a shaved head and coppery skin. An orphan, he had long ago been adopted by Lord Torvin Thyris, Gareth's father, during a business trip to Samarte. Young Jack had been a beggar and thief until the day fate intervened and brought him into the path of the Thyris family. That day, while stealing a leg of boar to eat, Lord Torvin showed mercy and decided to adopt him. Since then, Jack had served the Thyris family with unwavering loyalty. 

— We'll soon reach our destination. Stay strong, — said Gareth, pressing his legs against the sides of his horse to quicken its pace. 

— My wet nurse used to tell frightening stories about the mountain border of Aleminia, — remarked Odrem. 

— Old friend, you shouldn't believe the words spoken when your mouth is at a woman's breast. They're not always truthful, — Gareth laughed heartily. 

— But all the same, by Drain, we do need to hurry. We must deliver this little one to the Samartian woman, — Gareth added, spurring his black horse into a faster gallop. 

The night was already beginning to claim the last rays of sunlight, which timidly hid behind the mountains. 

— Milord, I don't understand why we're taking such a risk for this child, — Odrem questioned. 

— Things are happening in the kingdom, my friend. I fear that soon, he might be the last living one with Luminar blood. 

— Do you truly think that's possible, milord? — he asked again. 

— Those damned Velshars and Stonys have managed to turn nearly every house against the Luminars. Even our own house is divided on the matter. 

— Perhaps that's precisely why our duty is so crucial now, — said Gareth, adjusting the newborn in his arms. 

The vivid memory of the king himself, kneeling and begging to save the boy, haunted his mind. 

— If Luminar bloodline is extinguished, the kingdom will plunge into complete chaos, — he concluded. 

Odrem furrowed his brow, pulling the reins of his horse to match pace with Gareth. — And what do we have left, then? What could a child do against all of this? 

— He's not just a child, — Gareth shot a firm look at his friend. — He is the heir to the ancient throne, of the bloodline of dragon slayers. And one day, the world will know this. 

The way Gareth spoke seemed almost like a religious devotion to the Luminars. In fact, despite belonging to House Thyris, he had been raised as a ward of the Luminars in the royal city since he was five. Sometimes, he felt closer to King Gray Luminar than to his own father. 

— Besides, a Thyris never turns back, — declared the young lord, his gaze unwavering as he looked at the old soldier, recalling King Gray Luminar, kneeling and begging them to save the heir. 

Silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of the horses' hooves crushing the hardened snow. Jack looked at Gareth, his fingers restless on the hilt of the sword at his waist. 

Jack, for the most part, preferred to remain silent and observe. He usually wasn't afraid of anything, but strangely, this place unsettled him. 

Odrem, glancing sideways, noticed the young squire's hesitation and smiled faintly. 

— Milord, the Aleminian border isn't known just for its mountains... — began Odrem, letting a tone of mystery creep into his voice. He wouldn't pass up the opportunity to frighten the young man, not for anything, he thought to himself. 

— There are stories... creatures that dwell in those dark peaks, — Odrem continued, almost enjoying himself. 

— Stories to scare children, — Gareth interrupted, his voice firm, but he quickly noticed Odrem's intent. He smirked, taking the bait. — We've been through worse places, haven't we, Jack? 

— Yes, yes... definitely, milord, — Jack replied hastily, trying to conceal the unease gnawing at him from within. 

The three of them laughed for a brief moment, and for an instant, the journey seemed lighter. However, the things Odrem had heard in the city still unsettled him. 

With a nervous sigh, he adjusted the reins of his horse. He had something to say, and he knew this was the right moment. 

— Milord, everywhere we go, there are rumors about what you said. In the taverns and brothels we've passed, all we hear are conspiracy stories. 

Gareth looked up, frowning. — Conspiracy stories? 

— Yes, planted by the Velshar, — Odrem continued. — Saying that King Gray Luminar is weak, incapable of holding the reins of the kingdom. Many believe this lie, milord. 

Gareth snorted, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. — Weakness? They call weakness the wisdom of a king who avoided wars and ensured decades of peace? These lies are poisons that the Velshar spread to justify their treason. 

— Treason that could destroy the peace between the noble houses, — murmured Odrem. 

Silence fell over the group for a few moments. Gareth looked down at the baby in his arms. 

— Gray knew they would come to take everything. He knew his virtues would be used against him. That's why this child must survive, — Gareth said firmly. — He is the last thread of hope for the blood of the dragon slayers. 

Before they could continue, the group stopped upon seeing a female figure emerging from the frozen trees. A woman with dark hair and a serious expression, wearing a simple cloak, walked toward them with steady steps, carrying an old basket in her hands. 

— Who are you? — Gareth asked, drawing his sword in a swift motion, shielding the baby against his chest. 

The woman raised her gaze calmly. Her demeanor was tranquil, even with the swords pointed at her. The Samartian accent in her words left no doubt about her origin. 

— My name is Amélia. I am here on the orders of Ária Luminar. 

Ária Luminar, the younger sister of King Gray Luminar, had disappeared from Aleminia years ago. Since the death of her husband, many believed she was dead. Only a handful of people knew her true whereabouts in Samarte. 

Odrem narrowed his eyes, as a good and old soldier of House Thyris would. 

— Why would a Samartian risk her life for the Luminars? — he shot, his hand firm on the hilt of his sword. 

— Perhaps this will answer your question, — she replied, pulling from inside her cloak a carefully rolled-up scroll sealed with yellow wax. In the center of the seal glowed the emblem with the seven-pointed sun, the royal symbol of the Luminars. She extended the document toward Gareth. 

— Stay calm, my friend. She is the woman we were looking for. 

Odrem exchanged a brief glance with Gareth, lowered his sword with a heavy sigh. 

— Then let's go. We need to reach the coast quickly. 

Amélia nodded her head, as if silently thanking him, and then turned her gaze to the child in Gareth's arms. 

— So this is the boy? 

— Yes. I hope he feels more comfortable with you, — Gareth replied. 

Gareth dismounted from his horse and carefully handed the baby to her, who gently cradled the child in her arms. The little man, with rosy cheeks and a few strands of hair on his tiny head, showed his fragility. Amélia, with the experience of an old mother—clearly, this was not the first time she had held a child—her more than five children had granted her such experience and dexterity. She looked at him with an expression of deep sorrow. She examined him for a moment, as though seeing in him all the fragility of fate. 

— What is his name? 

— The poor child doesn't have a name yet, — Gareth said. — We had to flee the city in a hurry. His mother, the king's concubine, barely had time to see him. May Drain have mercy on her in Valrasing. 

— The damned Velshars have already taken the Lower City. We barely managed to escape in time, — Odrem muttered. 

— I fear that, in no time, this madness will reach the royal city, — Gareth added. 

— As long as the Drakar and Thyrsis houses are on the king's side, this madness won't go far. 

— I wouldn't count on that, my friend, — said Gareth. 

Amélia closed her eyes for a brief moment, and then, with a heavy sigh, looked at the baby's small face. 

— Poor thing, — she murmured. She placed the baby in the basket she had, the soft, warm fabric offering him a little relief in the middle of that freezing hell. 

They continued along the treacherous mountain trail. The path, winding and covered in thick snow, stretched for many miles until the coast, where they hoped to find their ride to Samarte. 

There was nothing left but frozen trees, their twisted branches resembling skeletal hands raised against the sky, and the mountainous elevations towering like walls of ice. Ice owls, with eyes shining like precious stones, watched them in silence, motionless like sentinels. 

The biting wind howled through the stones, roaring like a hungry beast, bringing with it distant, strange, and unsettling sounds, as if something from another world lurked in the shadows. 

Odrem's horse whinnied nervously, its hooves slipping slightly on the hardened ice. 

— Stay calm, boy, — murmured Odrem. 

— Milord, something moves in the shadows... — Jack stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on a rocky formation ahead. His body was tense, his eyes blinking nervously. 

Gareth tightened the reins of his horse, squinting into the growing mist that engulfed the horizon. The silence stretched, as if the entire world was waiting for something inevitable. Then, before he could react, a piercing scream echoed across the slope, coming from all sides at once, cutting through the air and freezing the soul of everyone present. 

— Prepare yourselves! — Gareth shouted. 

From the shadows, figures began to emerge, clad in black armor, moving with the precision of predators. They were assassins trained from childhood in the southern lands, the trump card of House Velshar, known as the Saegrim, the Head of the Serpent. 

— The Saegrim... — murmured Odrem. 

— They can't be real! — Jack shouted, his blade trembling in his hands. His knees visibly wobbled. 

Gareth did not hesitate. He tightened the reins and advanced with his sword raised, the fury of a true Thyris. 

— They're real enough! — he shouted, his voice hoarse and filled with rage. — Protect the boy, at all costs! 

The battle erupted with an unexpected violence. The sound of steel slicing through the air mixed with battle cries, and the silence of the mountain was shattered by the deadly dance of blades against frozen flesh. The Saegrim were fast, their swords known as the sharpest and deadliest in the Five Lands, their movements inhuman and precise, as if they were just another extension of the serpent's own fury. 

Gareth felt a growing sense of desperation as he fought, his eyes always on the baby in Amélia's arms. The little one was oblivious to the chaos around him, but Gareth knew he could not fail him. Not now, not after everything he had lost. 

The young noble of House Thyris had fought in countless battles alongside his companions, but this one was different. The fear that it could all end was real. 

— You're our last hope... — Gareth murmured to himself. He turned to Odrem, shouting over the roar of the battle. — Take them to safety. Now! 

— Milord, I can't leave you! — protested Odrem, his voice faltering. 

— Go! For Drain's sake, take him to Samarte! 

Odrem hesitated, but knew there was no time. He quickly mounted, pulling Amélia and the baby onto his back. They started galloping, moving quickly, but the mist seemed to close in around them, the shadows of the Saegrim surrounding them. They had barely moved a few meters when they were already being encircled once again. 

— For Drain... — Amelia murmured. 

— Protect the boy! — Gareth shouted. 

The confrontation was a deadly dance. Swords clashed, sharp blades meeting flesh and blood. The sound was a mixture of screams and steel ringing, a cruel lament. Gareth advanced with fury, but his arms were already trembling from exhaustion. Jack fought by his side, each strike heavier than the last, while the Saegrim continued to advance, tireless. They were living shadows, eyes like glowing embers, blades like animal fangs. 

Odrem, further back, tried to protect Amelia, but his movements were clumsy, the sword trembling in his hand as if it weighed tons. His eyes reflected the fear of someone who knew death was near. Amelia, in turn, remained strangely firm, or at least tried to, but desperation was stamped on her face, every tear freezing as it slid down her pale cheeks. 

Gareth felt the end. He couldn't lose. Not now. Not the baby. The blood of the dragon slayers was the last hope of his people; the Velshar assassins couldn't erase it. The sword in his hand cut through the air and snow, a fury that barely seemed human. But they were surrounded. 

— More are coming! — Jack shouted. 

Amelia saw her chance. While Gareth and the others held the Saegrim back, she moved with short steps to the edge of the creek that ran behind the frozen trees. Her hands trembled as she adjusted the baby in the basket, the small fragile body wrapped in cloth. 

— What are you doing?! — Odrem shouted. 

She didn't respond. Not immediately. Frozen tears stained her skin when, with one last sigh, she pushed the basket into the current. Her heart seemed to break, but her mind screamed that there was no other choice. 

— This is the only way to save him! — she shouted. 

Gareth saw the basket being carried away by the current, and a scream tore through his throat. He tried to move forward, but the weight of the battle held him back. New Saegrim emerged from the shadows. He couldn't stop. Not now. 

— No! — he roared, as his blade cut through the chest of one of the assassins. Blood spilled onto the snow, but two more replaced him. 

Odrem staggered, his sword striking an enemy's shoulder, but soon a blow pierced his chest, and he fell to his knees. Blood stained the snow around him, creating a grotesque painting of red on the ground. 

— Fall back! — Gareth shouted, the order filled with almost savage desperation. They were losing. The battle was lost. But he couldn't accept it. He couldn't give up. 

The blades continued to dance in the cold night, the sound of steel like ice cracking over a lake. But the screams began to cease, one by one. When silence finally settled, only the bodies remained. Gareth and his companions lay in the snow, the red blood standing out against the pure white, while the night consumed everything. 

The current carried the basket, flowing down the mountains until it finally reached the sea. The isolated beach, the child's last refuge, was calm as if nothing had happened that night. 

Suddenly, gentle hands touched the basket with caution. These hands belonged to a young woman, no more than 23 years old, dressed in rustic clothes, with a worn, faded dress, like a typical peasant. Her hair was black as night, her skin bronzed with the marks of hard labor. The young woman was a shellfish gatherer, near the shore, who saw the basket coming in her direction. 

— By the gods... Who are you, little one? — she whispered, her voice trembling, as the winds of the night tousled her hair.