The rain had not stopped since Foden collapsed at the monastery gates.Outside, the courtyard was slick with water, the downpour drumming against the old stone walls as if the heavens themselves mourned his fate. Inside, the monks moved in hushed, deliberate motions. Their brown robes brushed against the wet floor as they worked in silence.
Foden lay on a long wooden table in the center of the room.He was pale, lips faintly blue, his chest rising and falling with a laborious rhythm that seemed to weaken by the second. The empty space where his left arm should have been was now tightly bound with layers of clean linen, though the crimson seepage told of how fresh the wound was.
A monk dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth, whispering prayers under his breath. Another slowly folded the burial shroud beside the table — not because they wanted to rush, but because they could see how close the end was.
Gerald stood at the head of the table, holding baby Galvano in the crook of his arm. The infant's small whimpers were swallowed by the sound of the rain. Gerald's jaw was set tight, his face lined with fatigue, but his eyes were fixed on Foden as if he could will him back to strength.
As the monks began to wrap Foden's legs and torso, Gerald turned away.He couldn't watch. Not now. Not when duty pressed harder than grief.
The monastery was an old, towering structure, its five floors linked by a narrow spiral staircase carved into the stone itself. Gerald climbed slowly, boots dripping on every step, his free hand running along the cold, damp wall. The higher he climbed, the quieter the rain became, replaced by the low hum of wind curling through the tower windows.
At last, he reached the fifth floor. A wide hallway stretched before him, lit only by a single lantern swaying in the draft. At the far end stood a heavy oak door, marked not with a name, but with a single brass symbol — a hand holding a flame.
Gerald adjusted the baby in his arm, then rapped twice on the door.
"Enter," came the deep, measured voice from within.
The room beyond was dimly lit, the air warm and scented faintly with incense. It was lined with shelves crammed with relics, scrolls, and artifacts whose origins were older than the monastery itself. Behind a wide desk sat an elderly man with a long silver beard and eyes sharp enough to pierce through the dark.
Grand Taza.
Gerald stepped forward, bowing slightly."Grand Taza," he began, his voice hoarse. "I've brought him."
Taza's gaze dropped to the bundle in Gerald's arms. He did not rise, but his eyes softened almost imperceptibly as he studied the infant."I saw everything from up here," Taza said quietly. "Every drop of rain. Every step you took. Every wound spilled for this child."
Gerald's shoulders tensed. "Then you know what Foden—"
"I know," Taza interrupted, his tone final. "I know the price he paid. And I know the promise that still binds us."
Gerald stepped forward, lowering the baby onto the desk with deliberate care. The infant fussed, tiny fists curling against the swaddling cloth.
"Drop the child," Taza said, his voice slow but heavy with authority.
Gerald hesitated, then obeyed, withdrawing his hands.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were the distant patter of rain and the faint crackle of the lantern's flame.
Finally, Taza leaned back in his chair. "Leave, Gerald."
The command was firm, without room for negotiation.
Gerald blinked, startled. "But… Foden—"
"There is nothing more you can do here," Taza said, eyes never leaving the child. "Go. And do not look back."
The air seemed to grow heavier. Gerald's jaw worked as if to argue, but something in Taza's gaze told him that whatever came next was beyond his reach — and perhaps better left unseen.
Without another word, Gerald turned and walked to the door, the echo of his footsteps the only sign of life in the long, silent hallway.
The heavy door clicked shut, muffling the sound of Gerald's retreating steps.Silence settled over the chamber, save for the steady rhythm of rain against the window.
Taza remained still for a moment, staring at the infant lying on his desk. The child's small chest rose and fell with the soft, unknowing peace of a newborn. His tiny fingers grasped at the air, clenching and unclenching without aim.
Something inside the old man broke.
His hands, usually so steady, trembled as he reached out. He scooped Galvano up and held him against his chest. The warmth of the baby's body seeped into him, shattering the dam of composure he had held for decades.
Tears welled in Taza's eyes and spilled down his weathered cheeks. They fell silently at first, but soon his breath caught, and a deep, shuddering sob tore free. The sound was raw — not the dignified grief of a leader, but the aching cry of a man who had lost far too much.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the child's ear, voice cracking. "I'm so… so sorry."
He pressed his forehead to Galvano's, closing his eyes. "You should have been safe. You should have been far from all of this. But the world… the world takes what it will."
His tears dripped onto the baby's blanket. For a long while, he simply rocked in the chair, holding the child as if afraid he might vanish if he loosened his grip.
The flickering lantern light caught the glint of his tears, making them shine like tiny beads of glass in the dimness. Outside, the rain kept falling, a relentless curtain between the monastery and the rest of the world.