(Elaine POV)

  Elaine had learned that war announced itself long before armies arrived.

  It came first as whispers carried by frightened mouths, as rumors. It slipped through borders faster than steel and banners, carried by refugees who spoke in broken sentences.

  That was how they learned of Horsin.

  The relief caravan was camped in the southwestern plains, a stretch of land the Churches of Shershia had marked as relatively safe. White canvas tents stood in orderly lines, marked with the sigil of the Seven Goddess. Around them, hired adventurers kept watch, their presence meant to deter bandits rather than armies.

  Elaine was preparing the morning prayers when shouting rose from the outskirts of the camp.

  A family had arrived.

  No cart or animals. Just five figures coated in dust and exhaustion. The father’s boots were worn through, the mother’s hands trembling as she held her youngest. Their eyes darted constantly, as if the whole land was hostile.

  Elaine approached first.

  “A village,” the man said, voice hoarse. “Shuru. East of here.”

  The name struck her like a blow.

  Probably Raided, burned by soldiers in Buckland armor.

  Elaine felt her chest tighten.

  No… not so close, This is so far away from from Buckland, it was supposed to be safe.

  “We have to go,” she said immediately, already turning back toward the caravans. “If there’s even one person still alive, we—”

  A firm grip closed around her wrist.

  Torren.

  The adventurer captain shook his head slowly. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp with caution.

  “Not yet,” he said. “If Buckland hit Shuru, they haven’t gone far. Charging in blind could get us all killed.”

  But if we wait, there will be nothing left to save.

  Elaine swallowed the words. She knew his reasoning. Relief groups were not armies. Their duty was to heal what could still be healed.

  They waited one day but to Elaine, it felt like a sin.

  At dawn, they moved.

  The village came into view but the smell reached them first.

  Burnt wood. Ash. Something far worse beneath it.

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  As they crossed the final ridge, Shuru lay below them in ruin. Houses had collapsed inward, roofs blackened, walls reduced to frames. The streets were scarred with dark stains, and near the center of the village, shallow pits marked mass graves hastily filled and abandoned.

  Elaine stepped down from her horse, her legs unsteady.

  This isn’t war…..massacre!!

  They searched anyway.

  Every house. Every cellar. Every place someone small might have hidden.

  Nothing.

  Hope thinned with each empty room.

  Then one of the adventurers halted.

  “There,” he said quietly, pointing beyond the village.

  The fields.

  Tall grain swayed gently in the breeze, untouched by flame. The man closed his eyes, sensing.

  “Life,” he said. “Someone is there.”

  They ran.

  In a shallow dip among the grain lay a child.

  A boy.

  He was small, no older than six or seven. His clothes were torn and soaked with ash and sweat. Cuts lined his arms, burns marred his skin, some fresh, others already darkening. His breathing was slow.

  Alive.

  Elaine fell to her knees beside him.

  Her hands trembled as she brushed soot from his face.

  Owh seven gods…

  They searched again after that.

  No one else was found.

  Elaine did not say it aloud, but the thought settled heavily in her heart.

  Only him, maybe the gods have kept him alive for a purpose.

  “This boy comes with us,” she said.

  Torren hesitated. “Elaine. We can take him to the nearest city. Leave him with the authorities.”

  “No,” she replied sharply, looking up at him. “He goes to Saint Elyss’s Rest.”

  The adventurer studied her face for a long moment, then exhaled.

  “…Very well.”

  They placed the boy gently into one of the caravans. Elaine stayed with him as they traveled, wiping blood and ash from his skin, feeding him water drop by drop when his lips cracked.

  What must he have heard, hiding alone while the world burned?

  Late in the day, his eyes fluttered open.

  They were unfocused, distant, far too old for a child’s gaze.

  “What’s your name?” Elaine asked, he whispered weakly. “Alaric.”

  Then his eyes closed again.

  Elaine repeated the name softly.

  Saint Elyss’s Rest rose from the border town like a quiet sanctuary. Stone walls, stained glass softened by age, bells that rang gently at dusk. The orphanage wing was built around a central hall where children’s laughter usually echoed.

  Father Corwin met them at the gate, his expression tightening the moment he saw the boy.

  “Inside,” he said gently. “Place him in bed.”

  They laid Alaric on a bed near a window inside orphanage’s large bedroom hall

  Only then did they speak.

  “Horsin is nearly fallen,” Corwin said softly. “Merchants confirm Buckland surrounds the capital. The king still remains silent.”

  Elaine told him about Shuru.

  About the ash. The graves. The child.

  Silence followed.

  Then voices echoed faintly from the hall.

  Children’s whispers.

  Elaine frowned.

  They hurried back.

  Several children peeked through the doorway, eyes wide with curiosity.

  On the bed, Alaric sat upright.

  His small hands clenched the sheets.

  His eyes then locked onto Elaine’s.

  There was fury there. Conviction. Something deep and burning that did not belong to a child.

  Elaine felt her breath catch.

  Something was forged in that fire.