The streets of Thornreach had changed by dawn. Smoke still curled above the outer districts like black ribbons, but the inner lanes, those that had escaped the worst of the night's assault, were eerily silent. Cracked stones and toppled carts littered the cobblestones, yet there were no cries of mourning, no sounds of scavengers or thieves. Only the faint echo of wind through broken windows, carrying whispers of fires yet to die.
The knight carried Aerin carefully, the child swaddled in the rough blanket that had once been a soldier's cloak. He moved quickly, but cautiously, through the twisted alleys, eyes scanning for anything that might notice them. Not all monsters were large and obvious; some were subtle, creeping, drawn to the scent of fear, the pulse of life. But something about Aerin — the quiet insistence in his gaze, the unnatural stillness of his tiny body — seemed to repel them.
By midday, they had reached the outer walls of a ruined watchtower. The knight paused, leaning against the stone, chest rising and falling with the effort of his climb. His armor, though battered, had been salvaged from the chaos of the night. He brushed soot from his gauntlets and looked down at the boy.
"You will not understand this yet," he said, voice soft. "But listen carefully, Aerin. The world is full of things that will try to take what you cannot hold. They will fight you. They will lie to you. They will pretend to care."
The boy blinked slowly. His dark eyes seemed to absorb the knight's words, not just hearing them but weighing them, measuring them as one might test a blade against stone.
"You are alive," the knight continued, "and that is enough for now. Being alive is your first weapon. Your second is silence. Do not speak more than you must. Monsters hear more than they should. People hear more than you want. And some things… some things will listen to you without you saying a word at all."
Aerin's small hand clenched around the edge of the blanket. It was the only response the knight needed.
The watchtower had once been part of a defensive line, long since abandoned and overgrown with weeds. Its upper floors were mostly collapsed, but the lower chambers provided enough shelter to rest for the day. The knight lowered himself to the floor, careful not to disturb the child, and examined the remaining supplies. There were scraps of bread, dried meat, a waterskin cracked along the seam. Nothing luxurious, but enough to keep them alive.
"Survival," the knight muttered, "is never about comfort. Only about endurance."
He wrapped Aerin against his chest and settled against a wall, scanning the horizon through a broken window slit. Smoke still rose from the city's outskirts. The red hue of morning fire stained the clouds, but no one stirred near them. The monsters, if they were still active, kept a careful distance. The knight felt a chill at that thought — not of fear for himself, but for the boy.
Aerin's gaze drifted from the ruined city to the horizon beyond. Even at a few days old, he seemed aware of the difference between danger and safety, between the warmth of a protective presence and the cold indifference of the world outside. The knight studied him for a long time, noting the calmness in the child's small body, the way his eyes followed movement without flinching.
He had never seen anything like it. Not in all the years of battle. Not in all the monsters he had faced.
The day passed slowly. The knight allowed himself small moments of rest, though he never let the sword leave his side. Every shadow, every flicker of movement in the distance, drew his attention. Aerin slept, then woke, then slept again. Each awakening was accompanied by a strange stillness around them. Rats kept their distance. Birds did not land on the broken parapets. Even the wind seemed hesitant, carrying a subtle pause that hung over the ruined tower.
By evening, the knight knew he had to move again. The city below was not safe for a child, no matter how strange or protected. He packed what little supplies they had, lifting Aerin carefully.
"You may not understand," he said, voice low, "but I will not abandon you. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever, if I can help it. That is my oath. And it will be tested more than you know."
The journey down the outer slope of the hill was slow. The knight had to avoid rubble, fallen beams, and jagged stone. The boy remained quiet, calm, eyes following everything in the surroundings, his tiny fists gripping the edges of the blanket as if holding onto the world itself.
A shadow passed near the edge of their path. The knight froze. Instinct took over. His hand went to the sword, muscles coiling like springs.
Nothing came closer. The shadow stopped, then melted back into the folds of the ruined city. The knight exhaled slowly, never lowering his guard.
"You will see this often," he said softly to Aerin. "Shadows that vanish before you can touch them. Monsters that obey, even when they are not told. People who fear you before you speak. And you… you will carry it all. But you must. That is the life of those who survive."
Night fell while they traveled. The sky was clear above, stars cold and distant. Yet around them, the faint stirrings of the world's creatures could be heard — scratching, shuffling, quiet breaths in the dark. And each time, they recoiled from the boy. The knight noticed it with growing unease.
By midnight, they reached the ruins of an old farmstead. The walls had partially collapsed, but the structure offered shelter from the wind. The knight set Aerin down carefully, watching the boy's small body settle into the corner of the floor.
He knelt, resting his hand lightly on the boy's back.
"Rest, little one," he said. "Tomorrow, you will take your first steps outside the walls of safety. And tomorrow, you will meet the first of many who do not understand you. Remember this: silence is your shield. And courage… courage is something you already carry."
Aerin's eyes closed. He slept again, the strange quiet of the night surrounding them.
The knight sat back, his hands on the hilt of his sword, and stared at the stars. The weight of his oath pressed heavily against his chest.
He had pledged to guard this child. To shield him from monsters, from men, from the world itself.
But he knew, deep down, he could never hold him.
Not truly.
The night stretched on, each hour a test of endurance. Outside, the creatures of the dark prowled the outskirts, sensing but never approaching, as if the boy's presence created an invisible boundary.
The knight finally allowed himself a long breath, his eyes never leaving Aerin. He did not sleep. Sleep was a luxury he could not afford — not while the child was awake in a dangerous world.
And somewhere far away, beyond the ruined city and the blackened forests, a storm gathered. Red clouds blotted out the moon. Winds that were not winds howled through the mountains. And somewhere, deep in the heart of that storm, a voice whispered across the distance, carried on the wind:
"The boy… the one who stops the monsters… is awake."
The knight tightened his grip on the sword.
Tomorrow, the training would begin. Tomorrow, Aerin's life would change again. And the world would start testing them both in ways neither could yet understand.
For now, the boy slept.
And the knight watched.