Episode 3: Flight of the Hearth

  Chapter 009 - Where It Begins

  It all began in the royal chamber of the Triumvirate,

  began once with the Council of Ten

  minus one, who was to be sovereign.

  By royal decree, set forth by the nine, the men

  marched out and swept across the enslaved.

  Through the Bareground, painted in blood and steel,

  across earth once barren, now

  pooled with the slain,

  Through streets and corners where many hid,

  past mothers, grieving or lifeless

  beside their infants,

  Over the hill where Minsuer once stood, now fallen,

  over the hill cradling four bodies

  and the four servants slain,

  Past the broken shack, through the cage by an elite,

  beyond the walls of mud and roots

  where the river waited,

  Past the pierced father and the beheaded mother,

  past the river, thick with their blood,

  flowing down the stream,

  Drifted a lone, cold basket.

  Rain softened to a mist. The sky cracked once more, thunder rumbling the earth as it faded into distant howls. Trees swayed along the riverbank, their leaves falling and trailing behind the drifting vessel. Distant cries and groans faded the farther it went. The battle seemed to end once all resistance had stopped.

  The blood of the parents trailed behind, tainting the falling leaves and drifting branches. The blood of infants, of the men who shielded them, of the women who died guarding their loved ones… all of it had pooled on the ground. Such stains bled into the river, and at the very tip of it, the basket.

  Its lid remained shut. Water lapped at its base, carrying it gently through twisted roots and bends, past reeds and mudbanks. The current brought it under an unguarded gateway arch, leading the river and the basket out and beyond the walls of RrodKa, into the wilderness.

  And then, once out in a distant land of unmapped territory, it nudged against the shore.

  The basket rocked once before it stilled. The waters pressed against it with each passing wave, nudging it closer to land. Crows flew overhead and perched on roots, their black eyes fixed on the small basket carrying the stench of blood. On one corner of its woven surface, a patch of red had been spreading and staining it.

  And then… There came weighted footsteps from ahead.

  A man emerged from the trees, broad-shouldered and his clothes worn. His cloak was patched, his boots covered with mud. A small knife hung at his hip, the blade chipped from overuse. He carried nothing else but a butchered hare dangling from his hand. He calmly walked to his camp just beside the shore.

  With one glance, he looked toward the water, half-hoping to spot a lucky catch. Then he saw the basket.

  “Curse this damn river… Should go somewhere else,” he muttered, knowing full well luck was never with him. “Perhaps I need a better bai—”

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  A basket?

  That dark and oval object just registered in his mind. He turned again, squinting toward the riverbank.

  There was a shape that was too clean, that was… too deliberate to belong. He stepped closer. The sight gave him pause. That dark, oval thing was a basket. A small one, nonetheless.

  Kneeling beside it, he ran his fingers along its side. His hand froze. There was blood on the corner that appeared fresh, seeping between the woven wood.

  His eyes narrowed. He checked the basket more cautiously now. Reaching for the lid, he eased it open. The inside was damp. At first, he thought it was a shadow cast by the lid, but then a second later, he realized he was looking at a limb. Pulling it aside, he found at the center, curled like a dying sprout, a baby.

  Its skin was pale, almost white. He went to touch the face. It was cold to the touch. At that age, it should’ve been wailing, seeking warmth. But not a sound came. The eyes were shut tight, and the mouth was unmoving. A single wound crossed its chest, stretching from the neck down to the lower stomach. Blood still poured from it, still running fresh. The cut was thin, but deep and lethal.

  Wallan’s breath caught. He grabbed the lid to close it, already thinking of digging a hole for the child’s burial. With a quiet sigh, he murmured, “At least this one fought. Let’s see… where to—”

  Adaptation Path — 1/1 Activated

  {REDACTED} ? Lv. ???

  A faint screen hovered above the child’s body.

  Before Wallan could seal the lid, something stopped him. Resistance rose from within the basket. Some invisible weight from inside refused to shut it. When he pulled the lid away, he saw it move.

  The infant had raised one tiny arm, its fingers curling around the rim of the basket. The pale skin began to flush to life, shifting from corpse-white to a faint orange hue. That one hand was what stopped him from closing it fully.

  Wallan stared blankly. He looked again. “…What?”

  No breath had yet drawn, but something flickered. Its fingers twitched as one hand was still clinging to the rim. Through the open wound on its chest, Wallan saw the heart. It was still split, unable to pump blood. But then it started pulsing. A stubborn, flickering beat. A heartbeat that refused to stop.

  He was stunned but kept watching as the heart began knitting itself back together. Muscles stretched, tendons reformed, blood vessels realigned. The wound closed by itself.

  The child opened its mouth and began to cry.

  The hand let go, arms now reaching upward, blindly grasping. But Wallan had seen it clearly: a dead child, alive again.

  He leaned back and exhaled a shaky laugh.

  “Well,” he muttered, scooping the child into his arms, “you’re either a curse or a miracle. I’m too tired to know which, but you weren’t supposed to make it. What a day.”

  The baby clasped its fingers together in clumsy mess. It gasped for air, its tiny chest rising and falling, still slick with blood. The wound was gone, completely sealed.

  “Either way,” he said quietly, glancing down at the child who had somehow survived the impossible, “you’re mine now.”

  He studied the face. The baby was quiet for just a brief second. Wallan grunted, humming to himself. “Uh… Need milk?”

  End of Episode 3