Mira had always loved the early morning hours by the river. The water moved differently when no one else was watching—more alive somehow, catching the first rays of sunlight and turning them into dancing diamonds. At twelve years old, with her water attribute awakened for nearly two years now, she could feel the river's current calling to her in ways that still amazed her.
Her master, Eldara the Herbalist, had sent her to collect morning dew from the riverside plants. "The potency is strongest just after dawn," the old woman had explained for the hundredth time. "Before the sun burns away the night's essence."
Mira didn't entirely understand the theory, but she enjoyed the task. It meant she could escape the stuffy herb shop and spend time in the quiet beauty of the riverbank. The woven basket in her hand was already half-full of dew-covered leaves when she spotted something unusual among the reeds.
At first, she thought it was driftwood—some large branch or log that had washed downstream from the forests upriver. But as she moved closer, her stomach clenched with the sudden realization that driftwood didn't have arms.
A person. A child, from the size of it, lying face-down in the shallows where the current had deposited him among the cattails.
Mira's first instinct was to run. Dead bodies were for grown-ups to deal with, not apprentice herbalists who were supposed to be collecting plants. But something about the figure made her pause.
The chest was rising and falling. Barely, almost imperceptibly, but definitely moving.
He's alive.
The knowledge hit her like a physical blow. Not dead—dying, but not dead yet. And if he was still breathing, that meant...
"Master Eldara says every life is precious," she whispered to herself, repeating one of the herbalist's favorite sayings. "Every breath is a chance for healing."
Mira dropped her basket and splashed into the shallows, not caring that her apprentice robes were getting soaked. The figure was a boy, maybe her age or a little older, covered in blood and wounds that made her stomach turn. But his chest continued its weak, irregular rise and fall.
She couldn't move him—he was too heavy, and the wounds looked too severe for an untrained child to risk making worse. But she could get help.
Run. Get the guards. Get Master Eldara. Get someone who knows what to do.
Mira sprinted back toward the village faster than she had ever run in her life, her wet robes slapping against her legs and her heart hammering with panic and purpose.
Captain Henrik was explaining, for the third time that morning, why the village patrol schedules needed to change when a small figure came tearing through the market square like her hair was on fire.
"—and that's why we need more coverage on the northern approaches," he continued, gesturing at the map spread across the table. "The bandit activity has been increasing, and—"
"Captain! Captain Henrik!"
The voice was high and urgent, cutting through his tactical explanation like a knife. He looked up to see young Mira, the herbalist's apprentice, running toward them with her eyes wide and her usually neat hair streaming behind her in tangles.
"What in the seven hells?" muttered Sergeant Thorne, Henrik's second-in-command. "Looks like the girl's seen a ghost."
Henrik stood up from the table, his hand automatically going to his sword hilt. In a hidden village like Millhaven, children only ran that fast when something was seriously wrong. The community had remained secret for generations precisely because they were isolated—their location was known only to those born here or brought in by existing residents. Strangers simply didn't find them.
"Slow down, girl," he called out as Mira skidded to a stop in front of their table. "Catch your breath and tell us what's happening."
"River," Mira gasped, pointing back toward the water. "There's a boy. In the river. He's hurt bad but he's still breathing and I couldn't move him and—"
"Wait, wait," Henrik interrupted, crouching down to meet her eyes. "Start from the beginning. You found someone by the river?"
Mira nodded frantically. "I was collecting dew for Master Eldara and I found him in the shallows. He's all bloody and torn up but he's still alive, Captain. Barely, but alive."
Henrik exchanged a deeply worried glance with Thorne. In all his years as captain of Millhaven's guard, they had never found a body in their river. The village had remained hidden from the outside world for generations—their location was a closely guarded secret known only to those born here. No outsider had ever found them by accident. A half-dead child washing up on their shores was impossible.
"Thorne, grab the stretcher from the barracks," Henrik commanded, already moving toward the river. "And send someone to fetch Eldara. If this boy is as badly hurt as Mira says, we'll need the herbalist's skills."
"Already on it, sir," Thorne replied, signaling to the other guards. "Should I also alert the council immediately? They need to know that our secrecy may have been compromised."
"Do it. This changes everything."
Henrik followed Mira at a brisk pace as she led them back toward the riverbank, her small legs working hard to keep up with his longer strides. The morning peace of the village was broken by the sound of running feet and urgent voices as word spread that something significant was happening.
They found the boy exactly where Mira had described—a small figure lying among the reeds, so still that Henrik might have assumed he was dead if not for the girl's insistence. But as they approached, he could see the faint movement of breathing.
"Mother of mercy," Thorne breathed, arriving with the stretcher and getting his first look at the body. "In twenty years of guard duty, I've never seen anything like this."
The boy was a mass of wounds and dried blood. His clothes were torn to rags, and a particularly vicious gash ran diagonally across his chest from shoulder to hip. His right hand looked mangled, and there were dozens of smaller cuts and bruises covering every visible inch of skin.
But most disturbing were the older marks—scars and half-healed injuries that spoke of prolonged abuse rather than a single violent encounter.
Henrik crouched down to examine the boy more closely, and that's when he saw it. Around the child's neck, nearly hidden by dried blood and torn cloth, was a metal collar. The kind used to mark property.
"Slave," Henrik said grimly, his voice heavy with recognition. "This boy escaped from somewhere, and someone worked him over pretty thoroughly before he got away."
They loaded the unconscious figure onto the stretcher with careful efficiency, Henrik's military training taking over as he assessed the injuries and prioritized immediate concerns. The boy was alive, but barely. Without proper treatment, he wouldn't last much longer.
"Double-time back to Eldara's shop," he ordered the stretcher bearers. "And someone send word to the Village Chief immediately. Our village has been hidden for over a century—if this boy found us, others might follow."
As they carried the broken figure back toward the village, Henrik felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. Millhaven's greatest strength had always been its secrecy. No one could threaten what they couldn't find. But now an escaped slave had somehow washed up on their doorstep, bringing with him the terrifying possibility that their sanctuary was no longer safe.
Whatever this boy's story was, it might have just doomed them all.
But those questions would have to wait. Right now, the priority was keeping the child alive long enough to tell his tale.
Whatever that tale might be.