Reid slowly opened his eyes.

  He was lying on a bed.

  For a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming. The ceiling above him was wooden, crossed with old beams. A faint golden light flickered across it — from a fireplace somewhere nearby. The air was warm. Too warm.

  “How…?” he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse.

  He turned his head, taking in his surroundings: two beds, a lamplight perched on a shelf, and a small fire dancing inside a stone hearth. The smell of cooked soup and pine smoke filled the room.

  He didn’t know where he was.

  He didn’t remember getting here.

  Then the thought hit him — Arttu.

  Panic surged through his chest. He tried to sit up, but pain shot through his ribs, sharp and burning. His legs trembled as he pushed himself off the bed. Every step hurt, but he didn’t care. His mind was fixed on one thing — his baby brother.

  He limped toward the door, each step heavier than the last. The floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet. When he finally reached the handle and pushed the door open, the pain in his body was drowned out by the sight before him.

  Relief.

  A woman — plump, ginger-haired, with cheeks like rising bread — was sitting by the fire, holding Arttu in her arms. She was bouncing him gently, smiling, and the baby was laughing, bright and carefree, as if the world had never burned.

  The woman looked up and gasped softly. “Oh, you’re awake!”

  Her voice was warm — the kind that melted fear before it could form.

  “We were worried about you, dear. How are your wounds? Are they healing well?”

  Reid stared at her, trying to piece together the situation. His throat felt dry.

  “I… I think so. Thank you.”

  There was a pause. He glanced at Arttu again, still smiling, then back at the woman.

  “Sorry, but… who are you? And how did we get here?”

  The woman smiled, her eyes kind. “My name’s Betty Tungsten. My husband and our little daughter found you both out in the snow. You were half-buried when we saw you. Poor things — you’re lucky you weren’t frozen to death.”

  Reid blinked. “You… saved us?”

  Betty nodded softly, setting Arttu into a small wooden cradle near the fire. “Aye. Brought you back here, warmed you up, fed your brother. He’s quite the quiet one, isn’t he?”

  Reid tried to smile, but his lips trembled. Betty noticed. Her expression softened.

  She hesitated, then spoke gently. “If it’s not too much to ask… what were you two doing out there, all alone in the snow?”

  The question hit him like a hammer.

  The memories came crashing back — the fire, the screams, the black flames devouring the village, his mother’s last smile. Her voice telling him to run.

  His breath hitched. His body shook.

  And then it all broke.

  He dropped to his knees beside the cradle, his face buried in his hands. The sobs tore out of him — raw, breathless, unstoppable.

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  Betty’s smile faded into sorrow. She moved without hesitation, kneeling beside him, wrapping her arms around his trembling shoulders.

  “Shh… it’s alright, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You’re safe now.”

  Reid didn’t answer. He just clung to her, crying until his strength gave out — the kind of crying that empties the soul.

  Behind them, the fire crackled softly, and Arttu gurgled in his cradle — a small, innocent sound in a world that had forgotten how to be kind.

  For the first time since the fall of Priscilla, the night felt warm again.

  For hours, Reid spoke.

  He told Betty everything — about Priscilla, the fire, the black-robed figures, the friends and faces that would never come back. His voice trembled often, his words stumbling over the memories, but Betty listened with the patience of someone who knew the weight of grief. She didn’t interrupt. She only nodded, sometimes reaching out to rest a gentle hand on his arm.

  When he finished, she rose and went to the small stove by the window. The smell of herbs and simmering broth soon filled the room. She ladled a steaming bowl of soup and handed it to him.

  “Eat,” she said softly.

  Reid took a hesitant sip — and froze.

  It was simple: carrots, potatoes, bits of chicken. It tasted like warmth itself. He could feel it spread through his chest, loosening something tight inside him. For the first time since the village burned, his hands stopped shaking.

  “Good?” Betty asked, smiling.

  Reid nodded quickly. “It’s… it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  She chuckled. “Then have another bowl.”

  A few hours later, as the fire dimmed to a soft glow, a knock came at the door.

  Betty wiped her hands on her apron and opened it.

  A large man stood in the doorway, snow still clinging to his coat. He was built like an oak — broad shoulders, thick arms, carrying a bundle of firewood under one arm. A small girl peeked out from behind him, her ginger hair curling around her cheeks.

  “Hello, dears,” Betty said brightly. Her face lit up when she saw them. “You’re just in time — dinner’s still warm.”

  The girl ran forward, giggling, and Betty scooped her into a quick hug.

  The man stepped inside, his boots thudding softly on the wooden floor. Up close, his face was softer than Reid expected — kind eyes beneath a beard that framed his entire face like a halo of gold and brown. He looked down at Reid and smiled.

  “Well now,” he said, voice deep but gentle. “So you’re the lad we found in the snow. How are you feeling?”

  Reid shifted awkwardly, glancing down. “Better, sir. Thank you… for saving us.”

  The man waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t thank me. Just doing Shenrog’s work.”

  Then his gaze drifted toward the cradle. “And this little one — he’s awake, is he? Mind if I take a look?”

  Betty grinned. “Be gentle, you sweet bear.”

  The man laughed, carefully lifting Arttu into his arms. The baby blinked up at him, curious. Then, as the man leaned closer and rubbed his nose playfully against Arttu’s, the child let out a bubbling laugh — bright and clear.

  “Well now,” the man said with mock awe, “he’s a strong little spark, isn’t he?”

  Reid couldn’t help smiling.

  The man straightened, holding Arttu carefully. “Name’s Roy. Roy Tungsten. This here’s our daughter, Fiona.” The little girl waved shyly, clutching a wooden toy horse. “And I imagine you’ve already met my wife, Betty.”

  He nodded toward the hearth. “We run this tavern — The Wandering Flame. Travelers don’t come often this far north, but it keeps us warm and fed.”

  Reid stood, trying to be polite. “My name’s Reid… Reid Corvane. And this is my baby brother, Arttu. He’s only three months old.” His voice faltered as he continued, quieter now. “Our village was attacked. We ran. I’m… sorry to trouble you. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

  The room fell still for a moment. Then Betty set her hands on her hips, her expression softening into firm kindness.

  “Oh, no you won’t,” she said. “You’re not going anywhere, young man. It’s snowing hard out there, and that baby wouldn’t last an hour in the cold. You’ll stay right here. No arguments.”

  Reid’s face flushed. “But we can’t pa—”

  Roy cut him off with a laugh, setting Arttu gently back into his cradle. “If you’re that worried about paying us back, we’ll make a deal.”

  Reid blinked. “A deal?”

  Roy grinned. “You can work here. Help me around the tavern — cleaning, serving, whatever needs doing. Fair trade for a warm bed and a meal.”

  Reid hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a small but genuine smile spreading across his face. “Yes, sir. I’ll help however I can.”

  “Good lad.” Roy clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. “Welcome to the Wandering Flame, then. Let’s see if we can’t put a bit of light back into your life.”

  Reid smiled faintly — for the first time in what felt like forever.

  The fire crackled softly behind them, and outside, snow continued to fall — quiet, endless, and pure.