The chill of the winter night bit harder than usual in the forgotten alleyways of Carthain, the bustling capital of the empire. Among the abandoned crates and piles of discarded cloth, a tiny figure huddled, trembling beneath the dim light of a crooked lantern. His name was Arren—or at least, that was what he called himself. He had no memory of parents or home, only the rough stone walls and the ever-present hunger gnawing at his belly.
Arren was no stranger to the cold. He had spent his life in these desolate streets, scavenging scraps to survive, avoiding the gaze of city guards and the jeers of merchants. Yet tonight, the frost seemed crueler, and his body weaker. His small hands clutched at his knees, his thin frame shuddering with every icy gust. His strikingly handsome features were a stark contrast to his disheveled state. His jet-black hair fell in untamed locks, streaked with silvery strands that caught the dim lantern light, giving him an otherworldly air.
"Please," he whispered to the heavens, his breath a wisp of vapor, "just a little warmth..."
As if in answer, the clatter of armored boots echoed through the alley. Arren froze, shrinking further into the shadows. He had learned the hard way that people meant trouble, especially those with authority.
"Who's there?" a deep voice called out, laced with authority yet surprisingly gentle. The glow of a torch illuminated the alley, casting long shadows across the walls.
Arren tried to make himself invisible, but the figure spotted him. It was a man clad in polished armor, the insignia of the imperial knight order emblazoned on his chest. His dark brown hair, streaked with silver at the temples, framed a face of noble features. Lemonade-green eyes shone with sharp awareness, and a jagged scar, a souvenir of a brutal sword strike, ran across his left eye—a testament to battles survived and stories untold. Despite the scar, he carried an aura of striking handsomeness, tempered by years of hardship and duty.
"You're just a boy," the knight murmured, crouching to meet Arren's gaze.
Arren's lips parted, but no words came out. His body betrayed him, a violent shiver racking through his limbs. The knight frowned, removing his heavy cloak and draping it over the boy. Warmth enveloped Arren, and for a moment, he dared to look up into the man's face.
"What's your name, lad?"
"Arren," he managed to croak, his voice hoarse from cold and disuse.
"Arren," the knight repeated, nodding. "I am Sir Thalric Valen, High Commander of the Imperial Vanguard."
Arren didn't understand the weight of the title, but the kindness in Thalric's tone was undeniable.
"Why are you out here alone?" Thalric asked, his brow furrowing.
"This is where I live," Arren whispered, averting his gaze.
Thalric's expression darkened, not with anger but with sorrow. "No child should live like this," he said firmly. Rising to his feet, he extended a gauntleted hand toward Arren. "Come with me. You'll not spend another night in the cold."
Arren hesitated. Trust was a foreign concept in his harsh world. But the warmth of the cloak and the genuine concern in Thalric's eyes stirred something unfamiliar within him—hope.
Tentatively, he placed his small, trembling hand in Thalric's. The knight's grip was firm and steady, a stark contrast to Arren's frailty.
"You'll be safe with me," Thalric promised.
As Thalric led Arren out of the alley, the boy glanced back at the shadows that had been his only companions. For the first time, he dared to believe he might leave them behind.
Little did Arren know, this was only the beginning. The knight who had rescued him was not just a man of honor but a figure intertwined with the empire's destiny. And through Thalric, Arren would come to discover a purpose far greater than mere survival—one that would shape the fate of the realm itself.
The warm water rippled around Arren's fragile frame as he sat in the large copper tub, steam curling in the chilly air of the chamber. He flinched at first, the unfamiliar sensation of warmth startling after years of cold and grime. His small hands grasped the edges of the tub as if afraid the comfort might disappear at any moment.
Sir Thalric watched from the doorway, his arms crossed but his expression gentle. A servant worked carefully, scrubbing away the layers of dirt that clung stubbornly to the boy's skin. As the filth gave way, a picture of hardship and resilience emerged—his pale skin marred with bruises, scratches, and scars from years of survival in Carthain's unforgiving streets. His ribs showed clearly, his body a testament to malnutrition and neglect.
Despite it all, Arren's striking features shone through. His wet jet-black hair clung to his face, the silvery strands shimmering faintly in the light of the fire burning in the hearth. His high cheekbones and sharp jawline, though gaunt, hinted at a natural handsomeness that even hardship couldn't erase. His deep-set eyes, a stormy gray flecked with hints of silver, held a guarded but piercing intensity, as if they had seen too much for a boy his age.
The servant hesitated, noticing a particularly dark bruise on his shoulder. Arren stiffened but said nothing, his head lowering slightly.
"Easy," Thalric said, stepping into the room. He knelt by the tub, his lemonade-green eyes meeting Arren's. "You've no need to fear here, lad. Those scars... they're proof you've fought hard to survive. They're nothing to be ashamed of."
Arren blinked, his lips pressing into a thin line. He wasn't used to such words—kindness felt foreign, almost as strange as the warmth of the bath.
Once clean, the boy's transformation was astonishing. Wrapped in a thick, soft robe, he looked less like the ragged street urchin Thalric had found and more like the young noble he might have been in another life. Yet the marks of his past remained, etched into his body and his wary gaze.
Thalric placed a reassuring hand on Arren's shoulder. "You've endured much, but you'll not face the cold alone again. We'll see to it you grow strong, lad. Stronger than even the hardships that tried to break you."
Arren didn't respond, but for the first time, a flicker of trust softened his stormy eyes.