The sky wept.
Cold droplets cascaded from the heavens, drumming against the earth in a mournful rhythm. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low growl that sent tremors through the sodden ground. The scent of iron and damp soil filled the air, mixing with the decay of battle's aftermath.
Beneath a twisted, leafless tree, a woman lay still. Her lifeless eyes reflected the stormy sky, her body half-submerged in the mud. The tattered remains of her cloak clung to her frail form, dark with blood—her own, and perhaps that of the monsters that had taken her last breath.
But she was not alone.
A soft cry rose above the downpour—a desperate, fragile sound. A baby, no older than a month, nestled against the cold corpse, its tiny fingers curled into the fabric of the woman's tunic. The child's face was scrunched in distress, its cries swallowed by the relentless rain.
A figure loomed above them, broad-shouldered and clad in battle-worn armor. A great hammer rested upon his back, its silver head etched with glowing runes. A battered shield was strapped to his left arm, the sigil of the Frostborn Order barely visible through the dents and scratches of war.
The warrior knelt, his piercing gaze fixed upon the child. His comrades stood a short distance away, their wariness evident as they surveyed the area for lingering threats.
"She is gone," Johan, their healer muttered, looking at the woman with a grimace. "Just another casualty of this cursed war."
The warrior did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached down, his gloved hand brushing against the child's soaked swaddling. The infant flinched but did not recoil from his touch. There was warmth—faint, but there.
"She lives." His voice was deep, steady. "And she is alone."
A tense silence settled between the soldiers. They had all seen too much death. Lost too many comrades. And yet, even in the heart of war, something in this moment felt different.
"We cannot leave her here," one of them finally said.
The warrior nodded, carefully lifting the child from the corpse's embrace. The baby whimpered, tiny fists trembling against the cold. He pulled his cloak tighter around her, shielding her from the rain.
"What will you do with her, Valgrion ?" a female warrior asked.
The warrior—Valgrion —looked down at the child, his expression unreadable. He had fought demons, crushed monstrous foes beneath his hammer, and endured wounds that would have slain lesser men. Yet, as he held this fragile life in his arms, he felt an unfamiliar weight settle in his chest.
"I will protect her," he said at last, his grip firm. "For as long as I draw breath."
The storm howled around them, but within Valgrion 's grasp, the child quieted, as if sensing that she was no longer alone