The wind was the only mourner, and the rocky, mossy plains felt too big for a grave.
Wind pressed against his back, cold and restless, tugging at the dark cloak wrapped around the small bundle in his arms, as if telling him to look away. The infant didn't move. He couldn't. He only whimpered once, a soft, confused sound swallowed by the wind.
His lord father stood beside him like a carved statue, face unreadable, eyes fixed on the ghostly pale, black‑haired woman being buried in dirt. The infant didn't understand the stillness, the silence, or the way no one cried. He only felt the cold and the strange tension in the arms that held him.
His mother looked wrong like that; everything was too still and too quiet, and no one around him was crying—they all just watched. The clouds too, they were there to watch with them, but they too were not crying.
The infant squirmed weakly, a tiny fist pushing against the cloak. His father hadn't made a sound since they arrived. Hadn't looked at him either. Just stood there with his curly auburn hair stirring from the wind.
"May the gods accept her into their kingdom," the lord finally said, voice composed and steady.
No one but him looked sorrowful; rather, it all looked like they had already forgotten her.
The infant didn't know her. He didn't know anything. He only felt the cold air on his cheeks and the steady, distant thud of his father's heartbeat through the armor.
"Say your goodbye," the lord flatly said.
The infant made a small, breathy noise, not quite a cry, not quite anything. His tiny face scrunched as the last glimpse of his mother's pale, pretty face disappeared beneath the earth.
The men finished burying her, and the lord was the first to turn away.
Then his father's boots. Slow, deliberate steps on the soft earth. The infant didn't turn; he only shifted as the man adjusted his hold and moved toward the horses.
Without a word, the lord lifted him up by the waist and set him onto the saddle before mounting behind him, one large hand steadying the small body against his chest. The horse shifted beneath them, snorting at the wind.
He turned; over their heads flapped the banner of the Skjoldr's of Rimefell: a silver shield crossed in black iron, bearing a white wolf's head.
The infant blinked up at the movement of cloth and light, then pressed his cheek against the cold leather of the saddle.
His lord father gave a small tug on the reins, and his horse began to move.
The soldiers followed close behind, their voices carrying over the wind. They spoke loudly, carelessly, as if they hadn't just buried a woman.
"What're you guys gonna do first thing in Rimefell?"
"First thing I'm doing is finding a warm bed, with a warm naked woman by my side…" one of them laughed.
"A warm ugly bastard, ya mean!" another corrected, earning a round of laughs.
Their horses clattered over the stones; their neglected armor clinked, still dented and dirt-stained from the war they'd only just returned from. They were happy they were finally home.
The War of the Black Sun had taken them far from Rimefell, far from anything the infant knew—or could know.
Another voice chimed in behind them. "Rimefell's whores'll be busy tonight. I betcha they'll scream louder than the cries of men in battle!"
"They'll all be disappointed when you enter!" Laughter erupted, louder this time.
The men were giddy with the relief of survival, of returning home in one piece, of leaving the battlefield behind. Their jokes finally spilling out like they'd been holding them in since the start of the war a couple of months ago.
"Disappointed?! They'll all be dead asleep before he's even finished!" another eruption of laughter.
The infant only whimpered once, then fell quiet again, rocked by the horse's steady gait.
His father didn't speak or react.
He rode with the same rigid posture he'd held at the grave. His arm, the one braced around the infant to keep him steady, never tightened or softened.
The path ahead narrowed, the horses slowing as the ground turned rockier. The infant's head lolled with each jolt, his tiny fingers curling reflexively into the fabric of his cloak.
The soldiers' laughter faded as the mountain swallowed their voices, dropping to murmurs and some low grunts as the trail steepened.
Then the world opened.
The cliffs parted just enough to reveal dark stone rising from the mountainside, towers, walls, and battlements half-hidden in mist. Torches flickered along the ramparts, their flames bending in the wind. The infant blinked at the sudden glow.
Rimefell's gates loomed ahead, tall and iron-bound; their hinges groaned as the wind pressed them. The horses slowed to a steady walk, hooves echoing beneath the natural rocky archway. The infant whimpered softly at the change.
"How's this baby not pissin' his pants right now? Every time I see this place I get the chills…" a soldier said.
"That's 'cause you're soft," someone shot back. "Baby's got more spine than you."
Some soldiers laughed.
A soldier sitting on the ramparts saw the Lord and quickly stood up.
"Open the gate! Open the Gate! Lord Skjoldr has returned!"
The iron gates yawned open, groaning like some old beast waking up from a thousand-year slumber. The soldiers straightened their posture in an effort to look good after returning.
Inside the courtyard, the first shouts broke out.
"Lord Skjoldr and his soldiers have returned!"
"Gods, they're back?!"
"Make way! Make way!"
"Look at 'em!"
Workers dropped what they were carrying: baskets, tools, and armfuls of firewood clattering to the stone. Stablehands rushed forward, waving and shouting over one another. Some laughed in disbelief, expecting some of these men not to return.
Of course that wasn't entirely true. A dozen well-trained men had perished.
Still, the courtyard buzzed with relief. Servants hurried toward the horses, reaching up to steady reins, to help men down from saddles, their butts sore and stiff from weeks of marching, to offer water… and of course… booze.
"Careful with that armor; it's falling apart!"
"Somebody guide me to the brothel, NOW! I have forgotten the directions, and I am very horny!"
The soldiers laughed with their hoarse voices, some with pride, some with exhaustion; a few clapped each other on the back, kids ran to the soldiers asking them for stories, and old workers struck up conversations with some soldiers, but they all had something in common: they were glad they were home.
A stablehand jogged up to the lord's horse: dark brown, with white spots on its face and leather armor covering its body.
"My lord, welcome home."
Lord Skjoldr didn't respond and simply handed over the reins.
He dismounted in one fluid motion, boots striking the stone with a heavy thud.
The stablehand glanced at the child in his arms but ignored it.
"The Madam is waiting for you, my Lord."
Lord Skjoldr gave a curt nod.
The stablehand bowed quickly and led the horse away, nearly tripping over a bucket in his haste. More servants rushed past all of them, stealing glances at the infant in Lord Skjoldr's arm.
"Whose child is that…?"
"He brought a child?"
"Don't tell me he brought a… bastard…"
Whispers rippled through the courtyard like a sudden chill.
The infant squirmed at the noise. Lord Skjoldr adjusted his grip to keep the child from slipping.
The great doors of the keep swung open before he reached them.
That warm, cozy air spilled out thick with the smell of smoke, bread, and something sweet. The infant blinked at the change in light.
Inside, the hall was alive.
Servants rushed about, carrying trays, blankets, and armfuls of winter greenery. Children darted between them, laughing, shouting, and chasing each other until a nursemaid hissed for quiet. The noise was loud, chaotic, and cozy.
The infant cooed, a soft, bubbling sound swallowed by the noise around him. The warmth, the flickering torchlight, and the rush of bodies—it was all too much and yet soothing.
"Lord Skjoldr has returned!" someone shouted from deeper in the hall.
Heads turned.
Servants paused mid-stride.
A few children skidded to a stop, eyes wide.
Then a voice called out from the far end of the hall.
"My lady! My lady, he's returned!"
The noise softened. The servants stilled. Even the loud children quieted.
A woman stepped out from a side passage.
Her long-sleeved dress was a deep winter blue, her brunette hair braided and pinned with silver. She looked in her late 40s, but she was beautiful with her hazel-colored eyes, and her delicate face, softened by the warm light, shifted from surprise to relief the moment she saw her husband.
"Eirik!" She breathed, moving quickly toward him.
Behind her came the children.
Two sons—one with curly brunette hair, hazel pupils, and a soft, delicate look in his eyes like his mother's. The other, with straight auburn hair and with dark eyes like his father, both of them trying to stand taller than they were.
And then two daughters—one with curly auburn hair and dark eyes. The other has straight brunette hair with hazel eyes. Both were small, clinging to their mother's skirt.
The four of them didn't look much older than he did, maybe only by one or two years.
The infant blinked at the sudden closeness of faces, the warmth of the hall, and the soft rustle of fabric as the family gathered around.
The lady reached first.
Her eyes flicked to the child—confusion, disbelief, something unspoken—but she said nothing yet. She only stepped closer, her hand brushing her husband's arm in a gesture both relieved and tentative.
The infant whimpered, overwhelmed by the new scents and faces, but regardless, he welcomed them with a coo.
The children crowded in, whispering.
"Ooo! Whose baby!"
"Father brought a baby?"
"What's his name?" The boy with the straight auburn hair brought his finger close to his face.
The infant bit it.
"Ouch!"
The other three children laughed at him.
The boy yanked his hand back, shaking it wildly as if he had been bitten by a wolf.
The lord finally spoke, his voice low.
"We'll talk inside."
And with that, he carried the infant deeper into the keep.
The children trailed close behind, still whispering, stealing glances at the bundle in their father's arms.
"Father! Father! Who is he?"
"Leave Father alone; don't you see he's tired?"
"...Fine…"
Their voices bounced off the stone walls.
Eirik stopped.
He turned and kneeled in front of the children with a slight smile on his face.
"Listen," Eirik said quietly, his voice low yet gentle. "I know you have questions, but your mother and I must talk privately."
The boy with the straight auburn hair opened his mouth, but Eirik lifted a hand, stopping him.
"...Go to your rooms." He said it softly, but carrying the weight of command.
The children hesitated; they had never seen their father like that. He was usually lively and matched the chaos around them; they sensed it was something serious, and they had no choice but to obey.
"Hurry on." He stood up, ruffling the boy's hair.
One by one, they nodded.
Their footsteps faded down the corridor.
Both Eirik and his wife stepped inside the chamber, and the servant shut the door, leaving them both alone.
The chamber was smaller than the hall, lit by a single hearth and a few candles flickering on a heavy oak table, and the air smelled of something faintly sweet.
Outside, the clouds finally had decided to cry. Rain droplets landed against the window in slow, uneven taps, each drop echoing the quiet room.
Eirik stood just inside the doorway for a moment, as if the weight of the keep pressed against his shoulders. The infant shifted in his arms, and the warmth of the hearth brushed his cheek.
His wife watched him and especially watched the child. Her hands were clasped before her, knuckles pale. The warm lighting of the chamber softened her features, but her eyes remained sharp.
"Eirik," she murmured, stepping closer. "What… what is this?"
The infant blinked, his small hands reaching for her.
Eirik exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him.
"He was found," he said, head down, voice low. "Alone."
Her gaze flicked to the child again. The rain tapped harder against the window.
"Found…?" she repeated. "Where…?"
Eirik hesitated.
Just long enough.
Her breath caught; it was quiet but very unmistakable.
The infant whimpered, sensing the tension. Eirik adjusted his hold, steadying the child against his chest.
His wife stepped closer, close enough for the firelight to catch the faint tremors in her jaw.
"Eirik…" her voice softened, but not with relief. "Eirik… Y-you never lie… Tell me the truth. Who is this child?"
The infant blinked up at her, unfocused eyes catching the glow of the hearth behind her. He cooed.
Eirik looked down at him, then back at her.
"I—I am so sorry… Elin…"
Tears slipped down his cheeks.
Her heart clenched.
"Oh… I—I see…" she whispered, her eye twitching as her breath hitched.
Her hand reached blindly for the edge of the table; her fingers trembled.
The color drained from her face.
"E—Elin…? Are you… alright…?"
"I'm q—quite alright…"
Her breath trembled. The room tilted. A sharp pain stabbed through her chest.
Then her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the rug in a soft, heavy fall.