Act 1 Childhood
The rain fell in slow, steady curtains across the valley that night, the kind of rain that hushed the fields and softened the lantern glow spilling from the windows of scattered farmhouses. Maren Duskvale pulled his cloak tighter across his shoulders as he trudged the muddy road homeward, his boots sinking with every step. The storm had caught him out longer than he'd planned, and though the ache in his knees begged him to hurry, there was a strange tug in the air that slowed him.
"Elira will skin me if I don't get back before the stew burns," Maren muttered under his breath, though even he knew she'd do no such thing. His wife was gentler than spring rain, always waiting with patience even when worry knotted her brow. Still, the thought of her pacing by the hearth pushed him along.
The wind shifted. Over the patter of rain came a sound he couldn't place at first—thin, quivering, fragile. A cry.
He stopped. Listened. The sound came again, clearer now: the cry of a child.
Maren turned, lantern raised high. The road stretched empty behind him, and the trees swayed like dark sentinels. Yet the sound pulled him, insistent. He followed it into the brush, heart pounding with a rhythm that had nothing to do with age or the weather.
There, beneath the twisted roots of an old oak, lay a bundle of soaked cloth. The wail came from within it, piercing and desperate. Maren knelt, fumbling with calloused hands until he uncovered the child's face—green-tinged skin, small tusks jutting faintly from the gums, eyes of molten gold blinking up through rain and shadow.
A half-orc.
Maren's throat tightened. Orc raiders had plagued the borderlands for years. Villagers whispered of their brutality, their savagery. But this was no raider—this was an infant, shivering and abandoned to the storm.
"By the Light…" Maren whispered, his voice caught between awe and dread.
The child reached toward him with tiny fingers, wailing louder. Against every instinct born of caution and old fear, Maren scooped the baby into his arms. The small body was frighteningly cold, fragile in a way that made his heart clench.
He turned toward the road, toward home. Toward Elira.
---
Elira Duskvale was stirring the stew when the door burst open, Maren dripping and wide-eyed, cradling something against his chest. Her first words died on her lips when she saw the bundle.
"Maren… what have you done?"
"Not done. Found," he answered, setting the child gently on the table near the fire. The baby whimpered at the sudden change, and Elira leaned close, brushing wet cloth aside. Her breath caught.
The tusks. The green hue of the skin. The unmistakable mark of an orc's blood.
Elira's eyes flicked up to her husband's, full of questions, full of fear. "The neighbors won't accept this. They'll say it's cursed. That it's dangerous."
Maren shook his head, his weathered face hard but not unkind. "It's a child, Elira. Left to die in the mud. What danger lies in that?"
For a long moment, the only sound was the rain beating against the shutters and the bubbling of the pot. The child's cries softened, as if sensing the fire's warmth, as if waiting for the choice to be made.
Elira reached out, hesitant, and touched the infant's hand. The fingers curled around hers with surprising strength. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there was resolve behind the worry.
"Then we will raise him," she said quietly. "And the world can think what it will."
Maren exhaled, relief loosening his chest. He smiled, faint and weary, and placed a hand over hers. "So it's settled."
Elira nodded, looking down at the child who had already stolen her heart. "What shall we call him?"
The baby squirmed, loosing a soft sound that might almost have been a laugh. Elira glanced at Maren, the flicker of humor breaking through her solemnity. "If the world insists on cruelty, then let's make a shield of it. Let them call him what they will, but in this home, his name will be spoken with love."
Maren tilted his head. "And the name?"
Her lips curved, tender despite the weight of it. "Shithead," she whispered, shaping the strange syllables as if blessing them. "Pronounced Shi-theed. He will grow into it, and one day they'll choke on the laughter they mean it for."
Maren barked a laugh, deep and warm, surprising even himself. He kissed her brow. "Then Shithead it is."
The baby quieted, eyelids heavy, as if at peace for the first time since the storm. Elira drew the cloth tighter around him and lifted him close to her chest, humming softly.
The rain still fell. The world outside still held its harsh judgments. But inside that small farmhouse, by firelight and gentle song, a new story began.
The farmhouse smelled of firewood and herbs, the steady bubbling of stew filling the silence that had fallen after the child drifted into sleep. Elira rocked him gently, her voice a low hum, but her eyes were on Maren.
"You know what they'll say," she whispered.
Maren pulled off his sodden cloak, draping it across a chair near the hearth. His shoulders sagged with the weight of years, and tonight, with the storm soaking him through, he looked every bit of his age. Yet when he glanced at the child in her arms, something softer flickered across his weathered face.
"They've said plenty before, about me, about you," he murmured. "This won't be the first whisper to chase us."
Elira's lips pressed tight. "Whispers are one thing. Fear is another. You bring this babe to the village green, and they'll see tusks before they see innocence."
Maren set a hand on the table, leaning against it. "Aye. But I saw more than tusks. I saw him reaching out. Wanting to live. If the Light sees fit to put him in our path, who are we to turn away?"
For a moment, Elira said nothing. Her gaze traveled the child's tiny features—softer now in slumber, the faint curve of tusks hardly frightening, the skin a gentle hue of green against the firelight. She brushed damp hair from his brow with a trembling hand.
"He doesn't even know what he is," she said softly. "And yet, the world will remind him at every turn."
"Then we'll remind him louder," Maren answered. His voice was firm now, the decision a weight lifted from him.
The stew boiled over, hissing against the hearthstone. Elira set the baby in the cradle they'd once used for another life, long ago lost, and moved to save the pot. She stirred slowly, shoulders tense, then sighed.
"I worry for us," she admitted. "But more than that, I worry for him. A child grows best with friends, with a place in the world. What place will he have?"
Maren crossed the room and placed his hands on her shoulders. "The place we give him. Our home. Our fields. Our name."
Elira closed her eyes. For a moment, the storm outside faded, and the only sound was the gentle rhythm of Shithead's breathing.
---
Later, when the stew was eaten and the fire burned low, they sat together at the table, Shithead cradled between them. His tiny hand clutched Maren's finger, strength surprising for one so small.
"He's stubborn already," Maren chuckled quietly. "A fighter, this one."
Elira smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "A fighter will draw battles."
"Then let him fight for something better," Maren said. He glanced at her. "And let him know he never fights alone."
For the first time that night, Elira's expression eased. She bent and kissed the child's brow.
"Shithead," she murmured, shaping the syllables with care. "May the world learn to see you as we do."
The fire crackled. The rain lessened. The night seemed ready to settle into peace.
Then came the knock at the door.
Three sharp raps, heavy and insistent.
Maren and Elira froze. The child stirred in the cradle, a soft cry rising in his throat.
Elira's eyes darted to her husband. "At this hour?"
Maren rose slowly, reaching for the old woodcutter's axe that leaned near the door. His jaw set hard as the knock came again, louder this time, rattling the frame.
"Stay with the boy," he said.
Elira gathered Shithead close, rocking him as the cry built. Her heart pounded as the storm outside seemed to hush, leaving only the sound of the door shuddering under the stranger's fist.
Maren placed a hand on the latch, breath steady but taut. He glanced back at Elira once, eyes meeting hers.
Then he pulled the door open.
The door creaked wide, letting in a gust of wet wind and the sharp scent of pine and mud. Maren's grip tightened on the axe, but his shoulders eased a fraction when the lantern light revealed not a raider, nor a soldier, but a man hunched beneath a travel-stained cloak.
The stranger's beard was soaked, water running in rivulets down his face, and his boots squelched on the threshold. He blinked against the sudden brightness of the hearth's glow.
"By the gods," he rasped, voice hoarse from cold, "you'll let a man in, won't you? Or leave him to drown standing up?"
Maren hesitated. Behind him, Elira clutched the child closer. "Who are you?"
"A traveler," the man said simply, teeth flashing in something like a smile. "My horse threw a shoe two miles back. Lost the beast in the dark. Been wandering since. Saw your light. Thought to beg shelter till morning."
The axe stayed in Maren's hand, though he leaned it slightly against the frame. His eyes searched the man's face, weighed the honesty of his story.
Elira's voice trembled from the hearth: "Let him in, Maren. The storm will kill him."
Maren exhaled, stepped aside. "You'll have food and fire. But no trouble."
The man ducked inside, dripping water onto the floorboards. He stretched his hands toward the flames, sighing in relief as warmth seeped into his bones. His eyes, sharp despite his exhaustion, scanned the room—lingering a moment too long on the cradle near Elira's chair.
---
"Your kindness does me a mercy," the traveler said after a silence. "Folk out this way aren't known for open doors."
"We're not folk," Maren replied flatly. "We're farmers."
The man chuckled low. "Aye. And farmers know better than most what storms can take from a body. Name's Veyl."
Maren grunted. "Maren." He gestured faintly toward his wife. "Elira."
Elira gave only the briefest nod, tightening the cloth around the bundle in her arms. Shithead squirmed faintly, a soft sound escaping him.
Veyl's brows lifted. "A babe? Out here?"
Elira's heart stumbled. She shifted, half turning her body to shield the child from his view. "Our… son."
The words trembled in the air, fragile as spun glass.
Veyl leaned back, studying her with unsettling interest. "Strange. Thought the two of you long past swaddling years."
Maren's hand curled into a fist on the table. "You've had your food and fire. Leave your questions at the door."
For a while, the crackle of the fire filled the silence. Veyl spooned stew into his mouth, watching them over the rim of the bowl. His eyes darted once more toward the cradle, toward the glimpse of small green skin where the cloth slipped loose.
His smile returned, thinner now. "Not every babe is born with skin like that."
Elira's breath caught. She pulled the blanket tighter, heart hammering.
Maren rose slowly, the axe back in his hand, though his tone stayed even. "Eat your fill. Sleep by the fire. And when morning comes, you'll be on your way. With no words spoken of what you think you saw."
Veyl tilted his head, eyes glittering in the firelight. "Think I saw? Oh, I saw enough. An orc's get, under a farmer's roof. That'll stir more than whispers, my friend."
Elira's voice broke, desperate: "Please. He's just a child."
Veyl's gaze softened, just a hair. "A child now. But children grow. Folk remember. And fear's a deep root to pull up." He set the bowl down, wiped his beard with the back of his hand, and leaned forward, voice low. "You'll not keep him hidden forever."
The wind howled against the shutters. Shithead whimpered, sensing the tension.
Elira rocked him gently, eyes wet. Maren stepped between her and the traveler, axe gleaming in the firelight.
"Then tonight, you'll keep your tongue," Maren growled.
Veyl's smile faded, replaced by something unreadable. He leaned back, raising both hands as if to show peace. "Aye. Tonight."
He stretched out by the fire, cloak steaming, and closed his eyes.
But Elira knew, as surely as she knew the storm would pass by dawn, that the danger had only begun.
The storm had broken by morning, though the world outside still wept with drizzle. The roof drummed with it, a steady patter that mixed with the soft crackle of dying embers. Maren stirred from his stool, stiff-necked from half a night of watching. He hadn't closed his eyes once.
On the hearthrug, Veyl stretched, cloak steaming from the fire's warmth, boots drying nearby. His eyes snapped open the moment Maren shifted. There was something fox-like in him—always alert, even in rest.
"You watch like a guard," Veyl muttered, voice rough from sleep. "Not a farmer."
Maren's jaw worked as he set a pot back on the hook above the coals. "Farmers know the value of keeping watch."
Veyl's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. His gaze slid toward Elira, who sat swaying with the babe in her arms. She had not slept either. Shithead stirred, a soft whimper breaking from him before settling again.
"You keep him quiet," Veyl said softly. "Good habit. But habits slip, especially with little lungs like those."
Elira's grip tightened on the child. "We keep what's ours safe."
Veyl sat up slowly, brushing ash from his cloak. His eyes lingered, curious and sharp, on the small green fingers that had pushed free of the swaddling. "Safe. Hm. That's a hard word out here. Safety's never certain."
Maren set a bowl of porridge in front of him with a thunk. "Eat. Then go."
Veyl dipped his spoon, but his gaze never left them. "You've a dangerous burden in that cradle. Orc blood draws eyes, and blades sharper than mine. You think you can keep him hidden?"
Elira's voice cracked, trembling but fierce: "He's our son."
Veyl leaned back, chewing, then laughed low. "Your son, eh? Then you'll have to decide quick what to tell the village when they see. Folk don't forget faces—or skin like his."
Maren's fist struck the table. "Enough. You'll take your tongue and your feet down the road when the rain lets up. You'll not come back."
Veyl tilted his head, studying him. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise," Maren growled.
The room tightened like a bowstring. Even the drizzle outside seemed to hush. Shithead whimpered again, and Elira rocked him desperately, as though her gentleness alone could shield him.
At last, Veyl scraped the bowl clean, set it aside, and stood. He pulled his damp cloak tight about him and slung his pack over his shoulder.
"Storm's passed," he said lightly. "Time for me to pass too. But…" He lingered at the door, his hand on the latch. "…if I were you, I'd pray harder than any priest that word doesn't spread. Folk love a secret to sharpen into a weapon."
He opened the door. Cold gray light spilled in, along with the whisper of rain. Veyl looked back once more, his eyes narrowing at the cradle. "And secrets never stay buried long."
Then he stepped out, the door closing behind him with a hollow thud.
Elira pressed her face to the child's head, whispering brokenly: "Maren… what if he tells?"
Maren stood silent a long moment, axe still in hand, his shadow stretching long in the dim light. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and certain. "Then we'll stand between him and the world. Whatever it brings."
Elira looked up, searching his face. He met her gaze, steady but weary, and laid a hand on her shoulder.
Outside, Veyl's footsteps squelched in the mud, fading into the mist.
Inside, Maren and Elira listened to the retreating sound—knowing each step carried with it the weight of a future they could not control.
And though the storm was gone, the danger had only just begun.
The cottage was still long after Veyl's footsteps faded. Only the drip of rain from the eaves marked the hours as dawn light crept pale and weak across the fields.
Elira laid Shithead back into his cradle. The child stirred, tiny fists curling in his blanket, and let out a soft, rattling breath. She lingered, fingers brushing over the green hue of his cheek.
Her voice was no louder than a prayer. "Maren… what if he speaks? What if he tells them all?"
Maren stood at the window, broad shoulders filling the frame. His hand rested on the haft of the axe, as though it had grown there overnight. "Then we'll face it."
Elira turned, fear shining in her eyes. "Face it? They'll come with pitchforks and torches. They'll call him monster before he can even walk."
Maren's gaze did not leave the fields. "Let them call what they will. A name doesn't make a monster. A man's deeds do."
Elira sank into the chair, burying her face in her hands. "I wanted peace, Maren. A quiet life. And now—" She broke off, looking again at the cradle. "Now we've taken in the storm itself."
He crossed the room, kneeling before her, taking her trembling hands into his calloused ones. "No, Elira. We've taken in a child. He didn't choose his blood, nor the world's hate. But he has us. And by my oath, we'll not fail him."
Tears welled, and she shook her head. "You sound certain. But you don't see their eyes, Maren. The way they'll look at him."
"I see them well enough," Maren said quietly. "And if their eyes burn with hate, then mine will burn back with steel. He'll grow knowing love before fear, strength before shame. That's what we can give him."
The child whimpered, as if stirred by their words. Elira rose and lifted him, pressing him against her breast. She kissed his brow, whispering, "He doesn't even know what waits for him."
"No," Maren said, his voice like stone. "But we do. And we'll stand between him and it, as long as we breathe."
The fire crackled low, smoke curling into the rafters. Outside, the rain slackened, leaving the air heavy and still. The world seemed to pause, listening.
Then—three sharp knocks at the door.
Elira froze, clutching the child tight. Maren rose slowly, hand tightening around the axe.
The sound came again, heavier this time.
Elira whispered, voice breaking, "He's told them already…"
Maren's eyes hardened, and he stepped toward the door.
The knocking thundered once more, and Maren's hand tightened on the axe. Elira pressed Shithead close, her breath sharp and uneven.
Slowly, Maren drew the latch and pulled the door wide.
An old woman stood on the step, wrapped in a shawl damp from the storm. Her eyes were clouded with age, her back stooped. She squinted against the dim light of the hearth behind him.
"Maren?" Her voice was thin but steady. "I saw your smoke still rising. Wanted to be sure the storm hadn't taken your roof clean off."
Relief rushed through Elira so quickly she nearly wept. But Maren only nodded, masking the surge of tension in his chest. "We're well, Widow Tamsin. Roof held."
The woman sniffed, peering past him. "And your wife? She fared the night?"
Elira forced her voice calm, smoothing the blanket tighter around the child. "I'm well, thank you."
Tamsin's eyes narrowed faintly at the sound of a whimper from the bundle. "Ah. So it's true what I heard—that there's a babe under your roof again."
Elira's heart lurched. Maren's body filled the doorway, his voice even. "We've been blessed. A boy."
The widow smiled faintly, though her gaze lingered, curious. "A boy, then. Strong lungs, by the sound of him. A blessing in hard times." She patted the doorframe with a wrinkled hand. "May he bring you joy. I'll not keep you longer."
With that, she turned, shuffling back into the gray drizzle.
Maren shut the door, sliding the bar back in place. Elira sagged into the chair, trembling. "Gods, Maren—I thought—"
"I know," he said quietly, setting the axe aside. His eyes were hard, though his voice gentled. "It wasn't them. Not today."
Elira pressed her lips to the child's forehead, whispering. "But one day, it will be."
Maren crouched before her, hand resting over hers as she held Shithead. "Then when that day comes, we'll be ready. For now, he is ours. That's enough."
The child stirred, cooing softly, unaware of the weight of their fears. His small fingers curled around Elira's thumb, a gesture so simple it broke her heart anew.
Maren watched him, a storm of love and dread in his eyes. "He'll grow," he murmured. "And when he does, the world will come knocking again."
The fire sputtered low, shadows crawling up the cottage walls. The rain eased, but the silence that followed was heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Elira kissed the child's brow, rocking him slowly. "Then let him grow in love, before the world can touch him."
And in the quiet of that fragile morning, they both knew: they had won a night, not a future.