The old iron gate groaned as it swung open, letting in the sound of rain pelting the cobblestone courtyard. A stranger in a long, weather-beaten robe appeared, his face partially hidden beneath a hood. His eyes widened as he saw the figure before him — a tall, battered man clutching a small bundle wrapped in a blood-speckled cloth.
"By the Conclave…!" the stranger gasped, darting forward.
Foden was on his knees now, his breathing shallow, each inhale accompanied by a rattling wheeze. His right arm cradled the baby, shielding it from the rain as best he could. But where his left arm should have been… there was nothing but a rough, uneven stump, hastily bound with strips of cloth now soaked through with rain and blood.
The robed man dropped to his knees in front of him, careful not to jostle the child. "Get them inside! Quickly!"
Two more figures emerged from the shadows of the courtyard — one, a young woman with a candle lantern; the other, a broad-shouldered monk who carried himself with the precision of a soldier. They moved without hesitation, one taking the baby from Foden's trembling grasp, the other sliding an arm under his shoulders to lift him.
The warmth of the lantern's glow barely reached him, but the sudden absence of rain felt like a blessing. His boots scraped against the stone floor as they carried him through a narrow archway into the monastery's interior. The smell of incense mixed with damp stone filled his senses.
"Easy, easy," the young woman murmured, steadying his head. "You're safe now."
But Foden's mind wasn't on safety. His gaze flickered between their faces, searching. His lips were pale, almost blue, but he forced them to form words.
"Gerald…" His voice cracked, barely audible over the sound of dripping rainwater from their clothes.
The robed man holding him stiffened at the sound of his name. "I'm here, brother."
Foden's grip tightened weakly around Gerald's wrist. The monk felt the coldness in his skin, the faint tremor of failing strength.
"Tell… Taza…" Foden's voice broke again, and he coughed, a spray of crimson staining the front of his tunic. His eyes, sharp despite the pain, locked on Gerald's with a desperate urgency. "…remember… his promise."
The words hung heavy in the dim corridor, the kind that carried a weight no outsider could fully grasp. Gerald's jaw tightened; the young woman glanced at him, sensing the gravity but not daring to interrupt.
"I will," Gerald said, his voice steady though his expression betrayed the dread curling inside him. "I swear it."
Foden's shoulders slumped. His hand — the one gripping Gerald's — finally lost its strength, slipping limply to his side.
"Stay with me!" the soldier-like monk barked, but there was no force left in Foden to obey. His head rolled slightly, eyes fluttering as the darkness pressed in.
Somewhere, the baby cried — a thin, fragile sound that cut through the tension like a knife.
Gerald's hand lingered on Foden's shoulder for a long moment, his thoughts already running ahead. Taza… the promise… after all this time.
The others moved quickly, carrying Foden deeper into the monastery, toward the infirmary where the old healers worked by lamplight. Rain still battered the windows, but within these walls, another storm was brewing — one made of secrets, promises, and the fragile thread of a man's life.