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."
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.