-----Sebastian POV-----
My body swaying side to side with each heavy step.
Slowly, my eyes opened, and the ground came into view far below, shifting in and out of sight.
Through the haze I caught the outline of thick muscles that wrapped around me, shoulders and arms so large they made my small frame seem weightless.
I shifted my neck upward. Above me loomed a face framed by thick strands of white hair that fell unevenly across his brow like a mane weathered by years of battle. A scar carved across one eye while the other shone with a piercing light blue hue that caught even the dim mountain air.
His jaw was square, his expression alive with vigor, and though age lined his features, there was nothing frail about him. His sharp gaze swept the perimeter, analyzing every shadow and movement with practiced caution.
Then, noticing my eyes open, his sight softened.
"Awake, little one!" His voice boomed. "You were snorting like a bear cub back there!"
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "W‑where are you taking me? Put me down!" I squirmed.
He only laughed.
"Down? Ha! You'll see better from up here."
With one effortless motion, he shifted me from dangling like baggage to sitting astride his shoulder.
From that height, the horizon expanded. The forest rolled in waves of green, broken by jagged cliffs with mountains towering above, their peaks lost in drifting clouds, and the air carried a sharpness that made every breath feel alive.
For a while, I admired the view.
The steady rhythm of Reinhardt's steps carried me higher along the mountain path and the cold wind brushed against my face carrying the scent of pine and stone.
From this height, the world seemed gentle, so I let myself simply breathe.
My small hands gripped the edge of his shoulder to hold onto this precious moment.
"Reinhardt…"
"Mhn?"
"How... How did you blow away that wall of snow earlier?" I asked, still staring at the endless peaks.
He grinned, flexing his massive arm.
"Why ask the obvious? These muscles of mine, boy!"
"That's it? Magic is way more complicated than that…" I muttered.
Reinhardt scoffed, shaking his head.
"Simple, yes, but not once it was easy to obtain this beauties of mine! This one's path was torturous from the first step to the last."
Intrigued, I leaned forward. "How so? How hard was it for you to acquire such strength?"
His grin faded into something heavier, though his voice remained strong.
"When I was young, I was hopeless with magic. So I turned to the sword, thinking that the blade would answer me. But my teacher told me I had no talent and that I should become a farmer or a lumber.
But I was too stubborn to wield...
I had a dream, boy. I wanted to stand among the crusaders, to wear their crest and march beneath their banners.
So every day I would exercise my body to its limits until my hands were filled with calluses and my muscles crammed.
Then war came, my country was too small to spare anyone so all men were drafted, throwing me along the frontlines."
He spoke with animated gestures.
"So I took up a shield in one hand, and a spear the other.
Heavy armor weighed me down, but I carried it regardless to rally together with my brothers!"
But the battlefield was merciless.
Enemies struck my shield with blades sharper than my skills, and many of comrades were cut down before my eyes as I struggled to hold the line.
Each death weighed on me like a curse. I would think, if only I had more talent, perhaps I wouldn't have to watch my brothers fall."
"You cursed yourself?"
"Yes. Many times."
"So… you were frustrated?"
Reinhardt shifted his head, his gaze locking with mine before dropping low.
"Yes. Deeply frustrated. There were nights I could not lift my shield, when my muscles screamed and my will faltered."
"Then… how did you rid yourself of that feeling?"
A bittersweet smile crept across Reinhardt's face.
"You fight. Every time I was knocked down, I rose again. I pushed my body further, until I became the fortress my comrades leaned on!"
He clenched his fist and flexed his biceps.
"That is the strength I've honed through all these years."
His words lingered in the air as he bring his fist close to his heart.
I looked towards my fist, clenching it tight just like Reinhardt, and a strange warmth filled my chest.
My thoughts lingered that feeling so I must have looked too serious since suddenly his massive hand ruffled my hair, mussing it into a mess.
"Hey!" I protested, flustered, trying to fix it.
Reinhardt laughed carefree.
"Hahaha! Remember boy! Strength begins with spirit!"
Still chuckling, he raised his chin pointing towards a cluster of stone houses layered along the mountain slope.
"And here we are, boy. Welcome to Montanus!"
My sight followed his gesture.
The village rose in layers, built into the natural steps of the mountain. Stone houses stood at uneven heights, connected by stairways and fences of rough‑hewn rock. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the sound of tools striking echoed faintly in the crisp air.
As we entered, I shrank against Reinhardt's shoulder. Strangers' eyes followed me with curiosity, but their faces lit with joy when they saw the one carrying me.
"Reinhardt's back!" someone shouted.
Villagers gathered, greeting him like a hero returned from war.
They asked favors with easy familiarity: help with hauling timber, watching mischievous children, settling disputes. He answered each with booming laughter, promising aid as though their burdens were his own.
Then the crowd parted. An old man stepped forward, his garments marked with intricate patterns with woven designs like feathers and beads.
"Welcome home, Reinhardt," the chief said warmly. His eyes shifted to me, sitting awkwardly on the giant's shoulder. "And who is this new face?"
Reinhardt chuckled, voice full of mischief. "Ah, this one? Fell from the sky and I plucked him out before the mountain could claim him!"
The chief's eyes widened, then he scoffed with a smile, shaking his head. "Only you would tell such a tale, Reinhardt."
He turned to me, gentler now. "What is your name, child? Where do you come from?"
I swallowed, shy. "Sebastian… from Ranoa Magic City."
The chief's brows lifted. "Ranoa? That is far beyond these mountains. Were you alone? Surely your parents—"
His words cut deeper than he intended. My shoulders slumped, eyes falling to the ground. The weight of loss pressed heavy, and I could not answer.
The chief studied me quietly, then nodded with understanding. "We will speak more tonight, Reinhardt. The boy's fate will be decided with the village council."
Reinhardt nodded. "Aye. I will look after him."
With that, he carried me toward his home, a stone house at the edge of the village, surrounded by trees.
We entered his small, humble home. It was simple, yet carried the weight of years. In the center stood a stone fireplace, its warmth spreading across the room. Wooden benches circled it, worn smooth by use, their surfaces marked with faint scratches and dents from countless meals and gatherings.
In one corner, shelves of rough‑hewn timber held vases, clay jars, and cooking utensils. A few iron pots hung from hooks, their blackened edges telling of many winters endured.
Against another wall rested a massive bed of sturdy wood, its frame thick and unadorned. And in the farthest corner, looming like a relic of war, stood a suit of armor. Its plates were scarred and dulled, bearing the marks of battles long past. Beside it leaned a shield so large it seemed to rival the walls themselves, its surface worn but never broken, a silent testament to the man who carried it.
Reinhardt lowered me onto one of the benches before the fire. The warmth seeped into my bones, chasing away the mountain chill. He moved with practiced ease, crossing to a shelf where he retrieved dried meat and a jug of water.
"Eat," he said simply, placing them before me.
Without hesitation, I devouring the food.
When I became full, fatigue settled over me like a heavy cloak. My eyelids drooped, the fire's glow blurring into haze.
Reinhardt noticed. With surprising gentleness for a man of his size, he lifted me from the bench and carried me to the bed. His voice rumbled low.
"Rest now. You've earned it."
I tried to protest, mumbling half‑formed words, but exhaustion claimed me before they could leave my lips. My body surrendered, and I drifted into sleep, the last thing I felt was the weight of the blankets.
-----Narrator-----
The air grew sharp and cold, each breath carrying a bite that clung to the lungs. Moisture gathered on the stones, and the wind whispered through the narrow paths, rattling fences and tugging at loose shutters. Fires crackled faintly across the village, their warmth a fragile defiance against the night.
Through the dim light, a towering figure emerged, shoulders broad as boulders beneath a heavy cloak. Each step landed with a steady weight, with muscles carved by years of battle shifted beneath the fabric, and scars traced faint lines across his silhouette.
He approached the largest building in the village. Unlike the rectangular homes stacked along the slopes, this hall was circular, its walls broader, its roof rising higher than the rest. At its entrance hung a thick cloth, heavy and embroidered with intricate designs of feathers and winding lines.
The figure lifted the cloth. Voices spilled out, warm air rushing against his skin, carrying the scent of smoke and parchment. Inside, a great fire burned at the center. Around it, pillows were arranged in a half‑circle, where four elders and the village chief sat. Behind the chief, shelves of wood sagged under the weight of papers, notebooks, and tools of governance.
All eyes turned to him. The chief gestured toward a pillow larger than the rest.
"Reinhardt, please sit." The chief said.
Reinhardt lowered himself politely, the firelight painting his scarred face in shades of gold and shadow.
"How was your patrol today?" the chief asked.
Reinhardt's voice rumbled low.
"I spent the day as I always do, patrolling the southern ridges, until the silence of the mountain was shattered. A sound unlike any I had ever heard thundered across the peaks, and I turned to see a column of fire tearing skyward. From that blaze came a boy, cast down from the heights. I thought the rocks would claim him, yet before death could reach him he summoned a wind so vast it slammed against the earth, softening his fall. The impact shook the mountain itself, sending a wall of snow crashing down, in which I stepped in to saved the boy's life."
The elders stirred, murmuring among themselves. The chief leaned forward, brows furrowed.
"So the child is a magician…"
"Aye," Reinhardt confirmed. "He spoke it himself."
"Did you see anyone else with him?"
"No. He was alone."
Silence lingered, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Shadows stretched across the walls, flickering over the elders' lined faces as doubt began to spill into the room.
"A child no older than ten, casting a spell strong enough to cause an avalanche? Impossible," one elder scoffed.
"If the child is from Ranoa, that would explain his skill with magic," another countered, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps he hails from a prominent mage family."
"What proof do we have that he is truly from Ranoa?" a third pressed, leaning forward. "Words alone are not enough. And how does such a young child travel through these harsh mountains alone?"
"Regardless of his origins," a fourth elder said, his tone heavy with caution, "The boy holds great power. Power that could impose danger upon our village. We should not accept him under our wing."
"But the boy is just a child." murmured another, though doubt lingered in the eyes behind it.
An elder's voice cut through bitter.
"Do not forget what happened ten years ago, when we welcomed adventurers as refugees."
The fire popped, sending sparks upward. Reinhardt remained silent, his gaze fixed on the flames, his massive frame unmoving.
The chief raised a hand, steadying the room.
"Regardless of the boy's situation, we must care for him. And when the time is right, we will send him back to his home."
The elders shifted uncomfortably, their murmurs fading as they acknowledged the chief's word. Yet unease lingered, curling in the smoke above the fire.
"Who is going to send the boy back home?" one elder finally asked, his voice breaking the quiet.
"We cannot spare the hands," another said firmly. "The harvest season is upon us, and every man must work if we are to survive the winter. To send one of ours away now would be folly."
"How about we hire traveling adventurers?" one suggested, her tone hopeful.
Other snapped back, suspicion sharp in his voice. "You would trust them to carry the boy? Rumors spread of children sold into chains. I will not see our village complicit in such a fate."
The hall fell into silence again, their worry etched deeper into the lines of age, until a voice like stone breaking the earth rumbled through the chamber.
"I will take him."
The elders stiffened, their expressions tightening with worry. None dared protest, when Reinhardt spoke, his words carried the weight of inevitability. Only the chief found the courage to answer.
"Are you certain?" His voice was almost pleading. "It is three months' travel, back and forth. You would not return until next year."
Reinhardt did not answer. He stared into the fire, its glow reflecting in his pale eyes, the silence heavier than words.
The chief pressed on, his voice faltering.
"Can you afford such a risk? Your daughter…"
He stopped, the words hanging unfinished, yet everyone in the room felt their weight.
The fire cracked, sparks leaping upward. Reinhardt's jaw tightened, but still he did not speak.
At last, one of the elder's broke the tension, her voice softer than the rest.
"We should not decide this hastily. Speak to the boy first. Let him stay among us for a time."
The chief nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping the circle.
"Agreed. We will continue this conversation at a later date. For now, the boy remains."
Reinhardt's eyes stayed fixed on the embers, yet behind them lingered a weight no fire could burn away.