Morning came soft and grey, with the storm having passed sometime before dawn. Mist clung to the trees and rooftops like a second skin, and the river outside Aldric's cottage murmured with fresh rain.
Inside, chaos reigned.
Sir Aldric Blackmare, once a knight of perfect precision and discipline, was currently trying to hold a wriggling newborn in one hand and keep the milk from spilling with the other.
"Stop that—no, wait—don't—" he muttered, flustered as the baby let out a cry loud enough to wake half the district.
It had been a long night.
The child—Aaron, he had decided—refused to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. He cried when left alone, cried when held too long, cried when the milk was too warm or too cold. Aldric had paced his entire cottage so many times, he was certain he could walk it blindfolded.
"This," Aldric grunted as he rocked the baby, "was not in the knight's manual."
When the second wail of the morning pierced the air, Aldric made a decision.
He opened the door and marched straight down the stone path, baby wrapped tightly in his arms, boots splashing through puddles as he crossed the short distance to the nearest cottage.
He knocked sharply.
The door creaked open, and a plump, middle-aged woman blinked back at him, her eyes still puffy from sleep. Her apron was half-tied, and her gray-streaked hair fell loose over her shoulders.
"Sir Aldric?" she blinked. "What in heaven's name—?"
"I need help," he said flatly, holding out the child. "He won't stop crying. He refuses to eat. I think I'm doing everything wrong."
The woman's mouth fell open, gaze shifting from Aldric to the newborn squirming in his arms.
"You—where did you—"
"I found him," Aldric said, too tired for full explanations. "Last night. Someone abandoned him by the river."
She blinked once more, then her expression softened into something firm and maternal.
"Come in, then."
---
Her name was Marta. She lived with her husband and two grown sons, though both were out working in the capital most days. Her cottage smelled faintly of rosemary and warm bread, and a fire already crackled in her hearth.
She took one look at Aaron and clicked her tongue.
"Wrapped him too tight. He's barely breathing under all this wool."
She loosened the blankets expertly, then scooped him up with the confidence of a woman who'd handled plenty of newborns in her time. Aaron settled almost immediately, his fussing reduced to soft hiccups.
Aldric stood awkwardly near the door, soaked cloak still dripping onto her clean floor.
Marta glanced up. "You're worse off than the baby."
"I haven't raised anything smaller than a sword," he admitted, scratching his beard. "He was just born—hours old when I found him. His parents must've had coin, by the cloth. But no name. No note."
Marta's gaze lingered on the baby. "Poor thing. Abandoned right after birth?"
Aldric nodded.
She rocked the child gently. "Well, you did right bringing him here. He'll live, that's clear. But he'll need more than goat's milk and sheer willpower."
"I'll learn."
Marta raised an eyebrow. "You? Rearing a child?"
"I've faced battlefields. Can't be that different."
She snorted. "Oh, it's worse. There's no armor for spit and screaming."
But despite the teasing, she softened as she looked at Aldric again. The old knight—rough hands, tired eyes—looked more vulnerable than she'd ever seen him.
"What'll you call him?" she asked, lowering her voice.
"Aaron," he said.
"A fine name."
---
By the time Aldric left Marta's cottage, she'd sent him home with clean cloths, a better feeding bottle, and three strict rules for newborn care. She promised to stop by that evening—and every morning after, "if only to make sure you haven't accidentally set the cradle on fire."
That night, when the river sang softly beyond the windows and the fire burned warm and low, Aaron finally slept soundly for the first time.
Aldric stood over the small cradle he'd carved long ago and hadn't touched in years. He watched the baby's tiny chest rise and fall and felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
A strange kind of peace.
And perhaps, for the first time in a long while, purpose.