Rhaedric woke to the sound of the wind howling outside the cabin.
It wasn't the desperate, biting cold that had plagued him in the forest, nor the distant echo of battle that had haunted his sleep in the days before. It was softer, muted by thick wooden walls and the warmth of the fire that still crackled in the hearth. For a long moment, he simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his body aching but alive.
Alive.
That word felt strange to him now.
He had no home. No family. No title.
What did it mean to be alive when everything that made him who he was had been stripped away?
His thoughts were interrupted by the creak of footsteps on wooden planks. He turned his head slightly, watching as Garran moved about the room, setting a bundle of firewood down beside the hearth. The sellsword had been awake long before him—his clothes dusted with fresh snow, his boots leaving wet marks on the wooden floor.
Garran glanced toward the cot. "You're up."
Rhaedric swallowed, shifting beneath the thick woolen blanket. "Yes." His voice was hoarse, rough from days of exposure to the elements.
Garran nodded, reaching for a wooden bowl from the table. He ladled a portion of steaming broth from the pot over the fire and walked over, handing it to Rhaedric. "Eat."
Rhaedric sat up slowly, his muscles stiff. He took the bowl carefully, his hands still shaking slightly. He brought the spoon to his lips and tasted the broth—warm, rich with venison and herbs. His stomach clenched as the first real food he'd had in days settled inside him. He forced himself to eat slowly, even as his body begged him to devour it.
Garran watched him for a moment before taking a seat by the fire. He stretched out his legs, rubbing his hands together. "Storm's rolling in," he said casually. "Won't be safe to travel for a few days."
Rhaedric lowered his spoon, looking up. "Travel?"
Garran met his gaze, eyes sharp. "You didn't plan on staying here forever, did you?"
Rhaedric stiffened. He hadn't planned on anything.
He had spent the last few days just trying to survive, running on nothing but instinct. Now, forced to sit still, to think—he realized he had no idea what came next.
Garran studied him for a long moment, then sighed, leaning back against the chair. "You don't have anywhere to go, do you?"
Rhaedric didn't answer. He simply looked down at his bowl.
Garran didn't press. Instead, he let out a low hum, rubbing his chin. "You're too small to be a farmhand. Too soft to be a hunter." He tilted his head. "But I found you in the middle of the forest, half-dead, and you didn't cry once when you woke up."
Rhaedric frowned. "Why would I?"
Garran smirked. "Most boys your age would've. You're different."
Rhaedric didn't know how to respond to that. He wasn't sure if it was a compliment or something else.
Garran stood, stretching his arms. "Well, for now, you'll stay here. At least until the storm passes."
Rhaedric hesitated, gripping the edge of the blanket. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you helping me?"
Garran chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't like leaving kids to die in the snow. Bad for the conscience."
Rhaedric wasn't sure if that was the real reason, but he didn't argue.
For now, it was enough.
The storm rolled in that night, fierce and unrelenting.
Snow piled high against the walls of the cabin, and the wind howled like a starving beast. Rhaedric sat by the fire, staring into the flames as the storm raged outside.
Garran had spent most of the evening checking the supplies—piling wood near the hearth, sharpening his hunting knife, and ensuring the door was secured against the wind. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years surviving on his own.
"You ever used a knife before?" Garran asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Rhaedric blinked, looking up. "A little."
Garran tossed something toward him. Rhaedric caught it on reflex—a small hunting knife, the blade worn but still sharp.
"Hold it properly," Garran said.
Rhaedric adjusted his grip, fingers wrapping around the hilt. It was lighter than his father's ceremonial dagger but far more practical.
Garran nodded approvingly. "Good. Tomorrow, I'll teach you how to use it properly."
Rhaedric frowned. "Why?"
Garran smirked. "Because the world isn't kind, boy. And if you don't learn to fight, you won't last long."
Rhaedric's grip tightened on the knife.
He already knew that. He had learned it the night his family fell.
But now, for the first time since then, he had something he hadn't dared hope for.
A chance.
A chance to grow stronger. A chance to survive.
A chance to one day reclaim what was his.
As the fire crackled beside him, and the storm raged beyond the walls, Rhaedric made a silent vow to himself.
He would not remain a lost boy in the snow.
One day, the empire would pay.