The night was a bleeding wound in the sky. Heavy, bruised clouds churned overhead, smothering the moonlight, and the rain came down as if the heavens themselves sought to drown the world. Each drop stung like shards of glass against raw skin.
Foden stumbled through the mud-slick path, his boots sinking into the earth with every faltering step. His breath came in ragged bursts, steam mingling with the cold rain before vanishing into the dark. His right arm was locked tight against his chest, clutching a small, swaddled bundle—a fragile thing wrapped in a ragged, bloodstained cloth. Inside, pressed close to his ribs for warmth, the faint, uneven breaths of an infant rose and fell.
His left sleeve hung empty.
The fabric was soaked through, sticking to the torn remnants of what used to be his shoulder. Blood—thick, warm, and mingling with the rain—dripped down his side, leaving a dark, sluggish trail behind him. Each movement sent a hot, blinding pain shooting from the stump, but he pressed on, teeth clenched until his jaw ached.
The monastery's gate loomed ahead—a monolith of aged, blackened wood reinforced with iron bands. It stood taller than the walls surrounding it, an immovable guardian of the secrets within. Beyond it, the faint shapes of ancient towers pierced the storm. Their stone walls were worn and scarred by centuries, yet they stood defiant against the elements, lit only by the occasional flicker of torchlight far above.
The wind was merciless, carrying with it the smell of wet earth, smoke, and something faintly metallic—blood, though whether it was his own or from the horrors he'd fled, he could not tell.
Lightning split the sky in a jagged white scar, and in that brief flash, Foden's shadow was thrown long against the gate. It was a cruel silhouette—a man with one arm, drenched and battered, clutching a newborn as if it were the last remnant of a dying world. His face was pale beneath the rain and grime, streaked with both water and blood, his hair plastered to his forehead.
He reached the gate and pressed his forehead against its cold surface. For a moment, he simply breathed, feeling the wood's solidity beneath him as if it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely.
Then, with what little strength remained in his body, he raised his right arm and knocked.
Thud… thud…
The sound was deep, hollow, and desperate, swallowed quickly by the roar of the storm.
No answer.
Foden's knees threatened to give way, but he forced himself upright, shifting the infant slightly so his grip remained firm.
Again, he knocked. Louder this time.
Thud… THUD…
His voice was a rasp, barely audible even to himself."Open…" The word caught in his throat, carried away by the wind. "For the love of God… open…"
His vision swam. The rain had blurred the world into streaks of grey and black, but he thought—just for a moment—he saw movement behind the gate. A shadow passing, then the muffled sound of footsteps approaching.
The gate remained shut.
Foden pressed his cheek against the cold wood, his breathing shallow and ragged. The infant stirred faintly in his grasp, a tiny, muffled whimper lost in the rain. Foden's heart clenched. He could feel the baby's fragile heartbeat against his ribs—weak, but still there. Still alive.
"Not… yet…" he whispered to the child, his voice breaking. His right hand was beginning to tremble violently, his fingers stiff from the cold. The stump of his left arm throbbed with a savage, pulsing pain, each heartbeat sending a wave of nausea through him. He dared not look down at it; the image was burned into his mind already—the torn flesh, the jagged edge of bone before he'd bound it in cloth to stop the bleeding.
Lightning flared again, and in its ghostly light, the raindrops glistened on his face like shards of crystal. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still, and he imagined he could hear the slow, deliberate creak of a latch being undone.
The sound was real.
The gate shifted with a long, groaning moan of wood and iron. A sliver of warm, flickering light leaked out into the storm. Foden squinted, blinking away the rain.
A hooded figure stood in the opening, holding a lantern. The light cast their face in shadow, but the glow illuminated the deep wrinkles in their hands and the faint cross sewn into the front of their robe.
Foden swayed on his feet, almost pitching forward into the mud. "Please…" he managed, the word little more than air. His knees buckled, and only by some stubborn miracle did he keep himself upright long enough to take two steps forward.
The hooded figure said nothing. Instead, they reached for the latch again, swinging the gate wide enough for him to pass. The sudden warmth from within the monastery washed over him, clashing sharply with the icy rain outside.
Foden took one step in… then another… his boots leaving a trail of muddy water on the stone floor. The lantern light flickered across the walls, revealing tall, solemn statues of saints watching from alcoves, their marble faces expressionless.
But Foden didn't notice the details—his vision was tunneling, the edges closing in. The weight of the child in his arm was suddenly immense, his muscles screaming for relief. The sound of the storm was fading behind him, replaced by the rhythmic patter of rainwater dripping from his clothes onto the cold floor.
Somewhere in the haze, he realized he was speaking—muttering words he could barely string together. "…safe… must… protect…"
His knees finally gave way. The lantern bearer caught him before he hit the ground, the light swaying wildly. Foden's head lolled forward, his forehead resting against the other's shoulder. The child remained pressed between them, still breathing, still warm.
The last thing Foden saw before the darkness claimed him was a blurred outline of a large wooden cross hanging above the far wall, illuminated by candlelight… and a faint, strange smile crossing the lips of the hooded figure who now held both him and the child.
Then, silence.