The rain poured down in silver sheets, turning the cobbled paths into rushing streams and soaking the roofs of the small riverside district just outside the heart of the capital. The quiet streets, lined with stone cottages and flickering lanterns, had fallen into hush under the weight of the storm.
Sir Aldric Blackmare stood just beyond his doorframe, watching the water streak down the slope toward the river. His cottage, a modest stone dwelling tucked beside the trees and the river's curve, stood apart from the noise of the central capital, though the palace's golden spires still gleamed faintly in the far-off night. He had once walked those halls as a royal knight, a lifetime ago.
Now, the only sword he held was the one hanging above his hearth, untouched for years.
A gust of wind sent a shutter banging against the wall.
And then—
A cry.
Faint.
Sharp.
His breath caught. Not an animal. A baby.
He didn't hesitate.
Throwing on his cloak, Aldric stepped into the downpour. The wind lashed at him, soaking through in moments, but he pressed forward, down the muddy slope behind his home where the path met the river's edge. Lightning cracked in the distance, and in its flash, he saw something near the gnarled roots of an old tree.
A bundle. Small. Dark.
He hurried forward, heart pounding.
The bundle let out a weak, broken wail.
Aldric knelt quickly and threw back the soaked cloth.
A newborn.
The child couldn't have been more than a few hours old—his skin flushed and damp, his cries thin and exhausted. He had no strength to scream, only a quiet, desperate sound. His tiny limbs trembled from the cold, mouth open in protest, fists curled against the damp.
"Gods," Aldric whispered. "You poor thing."
The cloth was velvet, fine and expensive—but already soaked through and useless against the chill. Whoever left the babe had meant for him to survive, but only just. No carriage. No lantern. No sign of anyone nearby. Just a baby left to the mercy of the storm.
He didn't hesitate. He wrapped the child in his cloak, cradling him against his chest, and turned back toward the cottage.
---
By the time they reached the warmth of the fire, the child had grown nearly silent.
"Stay with me, little one," Aldric muttered, drying him off with soft wool and laying him near the hearth. He moved fast, heating water, preparing a cloth, melting a bit of goat's milk with honey, praying it would be enough.
The baby's cries came back, stronger now—he was still fighting.
"That's it," Aldric whispered. "You're strong. You'll live."
He examined the baby closely as he fed him drop by drop. The infant's skin was flushed but healthy, his breath shallow but steady. A head of dark hair, full for one so young. No sign of illness. Just cold, and heartbreakingly new.
He'd been born no more than a few hours ago.
Someone had wrapped him in fabric and left him in the storm.
The cloth bore no name, no crest. The thread was fine, the stitching careful. But not royal. Perhaps a noble's mistake. A merchant's secret. The kind of scandal people buried with coin and silence.
"I don't care where you came from," Aldric muttered. "You're mine now."