Haugstad, Kingdom of Divinium, Eastern region of Rohana Federation, 2035 S.C. 289th day
"Yuri, I'm heading out for another pass along the fence. While I'm gone, log the notes from the night shift."
"Got it," Yuri replied, already settling down to his task.
This was a brief exchange between two young warriors, Yuri and Malcolm, who served as guards for the small village of Haugstad, located on the far eastern edge of the Divinium Kingdom. As in every star-cycle, past days had been marked by snowstorms, leaving little room for monster activity. Because of this, most entries in the logbook ended with the simple note: No incidents.
Just as Yuri finished filling out the logbook, as he did every morning, shouting was heard outside the small wooden guardhouse by the village gate. When he stepped out to see what was happening, he spotted Malcolm, a few hundred meters away, calling out to him.
The village, apart from its cleared pathways, was surrounded by snow that reached up to Yuri's waist, slowing his progress as he fought his way toward his fellow guard. When he finally reached Malcolm, he saw a depression in the snow near him, shaped like a human figure.
At its center lay a man, cocooned in tattered rags, his side turned to them. He appeared unconscious, yet even in this state, the man's arms were clasped tightly, holding something to his chest, also wrapped in cloth.
"I was finishing my round when I saw movement coming out of the forest," Malcolm said. "I couldn't tell what it was at first, so I stayed back and watched. Halfway to the village, it just collapsed. When I made my way over, I realized it was a person."
"Malcolm, help me lift him," Yuri said, crouching down beside the man. Then he saw a tightly bundled cloth clutched against the stranger's chest.
"We need to free his hands first."
Yuri bent down and took the tightly wrapped bundle the unconscious man was clutching. As he unwrapped the cloth, he was met with a surprise. Nestled within the folds was a newborn baby, its fragile form pale, which made Yuri worried, but when he checked its pulse. Its heart was still beating. He let out a deep sigh of relief.
"Change of plans," Yuri said, his tone sharpening with urgency. "Can you handle this man on your own? I need to get this child to Father immediately. It's breathing, but I've no idea what it's been through—the situation is critical!"
"You can rely on me," Malcolm replied, his voice steady. "If you see anyone from the morning shift, let them know to head this way. The man's condition looks dire—he needs attention just as urgently."
"Understood. That's settled, then," Yuri called over his shoulder, his legs driving through the snow as he pushed against the white drift, hoping he would not be too late.
* * *
"Uuumm..." Baritone sound was faint, but it echoed softly in a small room, which seemed to be a part of a wooden cabin. A bed stood next to a fireplace that crackled with warmth and radiated it into the cabin walls. And in that bed lay a middle-aged man; his hair black, his beard untidy, and his skin tone just regaining its darker tones. His face illuminated weariness, and his breathing was still fragile.
It took another minute, but the man jolted awake and, with what little strength his voice had, he shouted hoarsely, "My son! Where..." But his words crumbled into a fit of violent coughing, his body wracked with dehydration and teetering dangerously close to delirium.
As he struggled to catch his breath, a wooden cup appeared near his face.
"Drink this," said a voice, low and soothing. "It's valerian extract. It will help restore your fluids and give strength to your voice."
The cup was held by a man, who, from the looks, was already in deep old age, as his face was covered by wrinkles, but it still radiated warmth. Despite his advanced age, the man carried himself with surprising steadiness, though one hand rested on a wooden cane topped with a spherical carving as he stood atop the man lying in the bed. He also wore a dark blue fedora that shaded his silver hair.
The man grabbed the cup and drank its contents in one gulp, desperate to regain his voice.
"Slowly, now—slowly," the old man chided gently, his tone unchanging in its warmth. "Even something as restorative as valerian can cause harm if taken so recklessly..." But before he could finish, the man's body rejected the remedy. He doubled over, retching violently, the liquid spilling to the floor before he fell back into unconsciousness.
Hours passed. The fire had burned low, casting dim shadows across the room, when the man stirred again. His eyes fluttered open, and this time, the old man leaned forward, speaking first.
"Yours is a stubborn heart," he said with a faint smile. "I feared that losing even that small bit of fluid might be the last tether holding you to life. But you've proven me wrong. Before I give you another drink, I need you to listen carefully: sip it, calmly. Your son is safe. He's in good hands. Take your time, let the drink work its way through you, and then we'll talk."
This time, the man took the cup carefully, bowing his head in silent gratitude. Over the next hour, he sipped the mixture slowly.
The old man returned with fresh water and silenced him gently each time he tried to speak.
"Not yet," the old man said. "There's no need for haste. Let your body recover. When your strength returns, we'll talk—there is much to discuss."
As the night deepened, the old man finally said, "Now, I'd advise you to lie down and rest. It's already night. I'll leave a canteen of water by your bed—drink it slowly if you can't sleep. I'll check up on your condition in the morning."
With that, the old man rose and left the cabin.
The clock on the wall marked the passage of noon when the man finally woke up. The layout of the cabin had changed since he was last awake. In the opposite corner of the room, there was a now cradle. And next to the fireplace, the old man, seated in a wooden chair by a small table, sipped slowly on a warm drink. Everything had been brought in while the man slept.
"Are you well enough to speak?" the old man asked, with a patient voice.
"I think... I'll manage," the man replied, his voice unsteady, barely more than a whisper. He reached for the canteen and drank slowly, the water soothing his parched throat.
"There's no rush. You'll likely need more time, Haran," the old man said.
The man's head snapped up, his expression shifting to surprise. He hadn't introduced himself—how could this stranger know his name? But as his lips parted to form the question, the old man raised a hand, anticipating his words.