"Wah! Wah!"
In the dead of night, Arthur de Grandhomme was roused from his sleep by the piercing cry of a baby echoing through the dense mountain forest.
"Ugh."
He groaned, running a calloused hand through his disheveled dark hair. The cries continued, insistent and sorrowful, filling the air with an eerie weight.
"Gods, what did I do to deserve this?"
Arthur's muscles tensed in the dim candlelight as he kicked the blanket off his bed. He turned his head to glance at his sleeping wife, Clara, hoping she was deep enough in her dreams not to hear the noise.
If she woke up, there would be trouble.
The couple had been married for seven years, yet they remained childless. Despite visiting the best healers they could afford, no remedy or spell had helped them conceive.
— "Sometimes, it's just fate," one healer had said. "There is no curse upon you, nor any affliction I can see. Some couples simply are not blessed with children."
At first, Arthur had forced a smile. But as the years passed and Clara's silent disappointment became harder to ignore, he came to accept the truth—he was unable to father a child.
Clara never blamed him, never spoke of her sadness outright. But Arthur could see it in the way her eyes lingered on other families, in the way she sometimes sat by the window, lost in thought. Each time, he felt the sting of guilt and frustration.
And now, someone had left a wailing infant on his doorstep, as if to mock him.
"What kind of cruel joke is this?" he muttered, grabbing his hunting axe from the wall.
With a determined stride, Arthur stepped out into the cool night air, his sharp gaze scanning the moonlit forest surrounding their cabin.
"Who's there?! Who's making all this ruckus at this hour?!"
His voice echoed through the trees, but there was no response.
Arthur's expression darkened.
Could this be a trap?
Most hunters built their homes deep in the wilderness to stay close to their prey. The mountains were dangerous, not only because of wild beasts but also because of bandits who preyed on those living in isolation.
If this was some ploy to lure him out, he would make them regret it.
His grip on the axe tightened as he followed the sound of crying, leading him toward the stable.
He flung the door open.
His sharp hunter's eyes scanned the interior—straw scattered across the floor, the wooden beams swaying slightly with the wind. His horse neighed softly in the corner.
No intruders.
Arthur exhaled, but the unease in his chest remained.
Then, he saw it.
A small bundle, wrapped in a thin cloth, lay atop a pile of hay. The crying infant squirmed, its tiny fists trembling in the cold.
Arthur instinctively hid the axe behind his back.
Kneeling down, he hesitated before reaching out with a trembling hand. The baby, who looked no older than two months, turned its head toward him, blue eyes wide with curiosity.
Then, it stopped crying.
Instead, a tiny, innocent smile spread across its chubby face.
Arthur felt his breath hitch. His heart pounded strangely in his chest.
And then, as if jolted by a lightning bolt, he sprang to his feet and ran back outside.
"Who's out there?!" he roared into the trees. "Who would abandon a child in the middle of the night?!"
Silence.
"You heartless bastard! Come out! If you think you can just dump a child here and run, you're dead wrong!"
The only answer was the rustling of the wind through the leaves.
Arthur clenched his jaw.
No footsteps. No presence. No sign of anyone at all.
His fury slowly gave way to something heavier—an emotion he didn't want to name.
After a long moment, he turned back toward the stable.
The baby had fallen asleep, exhausted from its earlier cries.
Arthur hesitated, then slowly picked up the tiny bundle, cradling the child in his arms.
The warmth of the small body seeped into his own, and he pressed his ear against the baby's chest.
A fast, steady heartbeat.
Arthur swallowed hard.
Just then, a voice called from the cabin.
"Arthur? What's going on?"
He turned to see Clara standing at the doorway, her hair tousled from sleep, concern in her eyes.
Without a word, he stepped forward and gently placed the baby in her arms.
Clara's breath caught as she looked down at the sleeping child.
"…Arthur? Whose baby is this?"
Arthur exhaled shakily, still unsure how to explain what had just happened.
"It's…" He hesitated.
Then, he made his choice.
"…It's ours."
---
Twelve years later.
The summer breeze was cool, carrying the crisp scent of pine and fresh earth through the valley.
Arthur de Grandhomme strode through the forest, a freshly killed deer draped over his broad shoulders.
Though the weight of the carcass was significant, it was nothing compared to his excitement to return home.
"Max! I'm back!"
A familiar voice rang out from the cabin.
"Dad!"
A boy, no older than twelve, dashed to the front door with a bright grin.
Arthur's breath caught for a moment, as it always did.
Max de Grandhomme was unlike any other child in the mountains. His golden hair shimmered in the sunlight, and his deep blue eyes seemed to hold an intelligence beyond his years.
Compared to Arthur, who was built like weathered stone, Max looked almost ethereal—like a noble's son rather than a hunter's child.
Arthur dropped the deer to the ground and pulled the boy into a tight embrace.
"How have you been, my boy? Did you behave while I was gone?"
"Yes! I helped Mom cook and read a lot of books."
Arthur blinked.
"Cooking and reading, huh?"
"Yeah. There's… not much else to do."
Arthur frowned slightly. He knew Max was different. The boy had been reading since he was five, far beyond what most village children could even comprehend.
It worried him.
A hunter's son was supposed to follow in his father's footsteps.
And yet…
Max is too smart for this life.
Arthur forced a smile.
"That's good, lad. Learning is important. I'll bring you another book when I head to the city next time."
Max hesitated before shaking his head.
"It's okay. The ones you got last time weren't that interesting."
Arthur chuckled.
Most of the books he could afford were old, discarded texts from noble houses. Nothing particularly exciting.
This kid is too considerate for his own good.
"Alright then. How about this—why don't we go chop some wood? A sharp mind needs a strong body to match!"
Max's eyes lit up.
"Really? Can I use an axe?"
"Of course! Just you and me, lad. We'll bring down the whole forest if we have to!"
Arthur ruffled Max's hair and handed him a small axe.
As he watched his son eagerly grip the handle, Arthur felt a familiar doubt creep into his mind.
Is he truly mine?
Max looked nothing like him or Clara. His presence, his intelligence, even his very nature it all felt… different.
But Arthur shook the thought away.
He's my son. No matter where he came from, he's my son.
With renewed determination, he led Max toward the clearing.
"Alright, lad. Watch closely—this is how a real hunter swings an axe!"
And with that, father and son began their work, unaware of the destiny that awaited them.
A destiny tied to magic, fate, and the secret of Max de Grandhomme's birth.