After Charles left, and not long after, on that very same night in the same village—
the weather was cold and rainy, but the house was warm and filled with anticipation. Suddenly, the sound of heavy breaths and clenched hands filled the air.
Patrick, torn between anxiety and calm, his eyes fixed on Ariana's tired, pain-stricken gaze, whispered:
"Darling, be strong… just a little more, it's almost over. Take a deep breath, okay?"
Ariana, her face drenched in sweat, her teeth grinding against each other, gripped the blanket tightly and gathered every ounce of strength she had left. The labor pains were brutal, unbearable—but the hope of meeting their child gave her limitless strength.
The cries, the clenched fists, rose again.
Then, after what felt like endless minutes, a soft and fragile sound filled the room—the wail of a newborn's first breath.
Patrick quickly grabbed a white cloth and wrapped the baby in it. Ariana, her breathing shallow and ragged, smiled through her tears. Exhaustion painted her face, but her smile spoke of peace.
With trembling hands and a voice overflowing with joy, Patrick said:
"Darling… it's a girl. Thank you for giving me this gift."
He kissed Ariana's forehead with quivering lips and gently laid the baby beside her.
Ariana didn't wipe away her tears, tears that came from the depths of her heart—not from pain, but from boundless love. Tears of gratitude and serenity, flowing through her soul like rain after years of drought.
In that moment, their little home was filled with light, with life, and with a new hope for brighter days ahead.
Ariana's heavy, broken breaths intertwined pain and life together. Sweat dripped down her brow, her wet, tangled hair clinging to her face. Yet as she looked at her newborn, a radiant, though weary, smile appeared on her lips. Between ragged breaths, she whispered:
"Welcome to this world, my daughter… you're so beautiful… it's as if God Himself sent you to me…"
Her gaze lingered on the child's innocent face; emerald-green eyes too striking for such a tiny body, and soft blond hair that glimmered like the sun—warm but not scorching.
Ariana paused. Tears of fatigue, love, and peace slid down her cheeks. With a trembling hand, she caressed her daughter's face and said:
"Your name is Misha… because you brought blessings with you. Just as your name means serenity, your presence will be a light for your father and me in this dark world. I promise you—I'll never, ever leave you, my darling."
Patrick, eyes gleaming with tears, wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders. The three of them, like a perfect circle, were now a true family. At that moment, nothing in the world seemed strong enough to break their bond.
**A week later…**
Charles, dressed in a classic blue coat and black trousers, his hair neatly combed, walked briskly through the forest with a smile on his face. The smell of damp earth after rain, the sound of birdsong, and shafts of sunlight piercing through the branches made the moment feel magical.
In his hands, he carried a bouquet—white roses, colorful chrysanthemums, and pink carnations. His heart swelled with joy at the thought of meeting the newborn, the child for whom he would be godfather.
But from afar, he noticed gray smoke rising through the trees. His heart clenched. His smile vanished. His steps quickened, fear growing heavier with each pace.
When he reached the village of Henweil, it was as though he had stepped into ruins. Shattered windows, burned-out doors, the air thick with smoke and the stench of blood. Women and men, wounded and weeping, wandered aimlessly through the empty streets.
With trembling hands, Charles approached one of the women:
"What happened?… Dear God, what happened?"
Her face was covered in soot, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Bandits… they attacked the village. Killed many… burned everything…"
The flowers fell from Charles's hands. His knees gave way. His mind screamed only one thought: *Patrick, Ariana, the baby…*
With all his strength, he ran. Past scorched houses, through broken alleys, until he reached his friend's home…
And time stopped.
At the doorway lay Patrick. Fallen. Silent. A sword lodged in his side. Dried blood pooled around him. His eyes stared into nothing.
Charles collapsed to his knees. He couldn't breathe. His voice caught in his throat. Tears streamed down his face unchecked.
But then—a sound. A baby's cry.
Hope sparked in the darkness of his heart.
He rushed inside. In a room still carrying the scent of life, he found Ariana. Fallen. Arms outstretched. Her body bent protectively over the cradle. She had given everything to shield her child from the blade.
Misha was alive. Breathing. A trembling infant, eyes wet with tears and fear.
Charles bent down, his hands shaking as he lifted her gently into his arms. Pressing her to his chest, he whispered:
"It's over, darling… I'm here now… it's over…"
He wept—not only for his dearest friend, not only for the noble woman who gave her life as a mother, but for the child who now had to face a lonely future.
When Misha finally calmed, Charles laid her back in the cradle. For a moment, he stared at the still bodies, then collapsed once more, screaming and sobbing—a cry carrying years of silence and grief.
At last, he gathered himself. Tenderly, he placed Patrick and Ariana's bodies onto a cart abandoned outside. He pulled them toward the green meadow beyond the village, where the other villagers had been buried.
With his own hands, he dug the earth. Sweat and tears mingled on his face. He laid them to rest side by side, covering them with soil. He carved into a wooden plank:
"Patrick and Ariana – Rest in Peace."
When all was done, he took Misha into his arms, knelt by the grave, and spoke with a trembling voice:
"I had hoped that when I arrived, we'd celebrate together… but… but…"
Tears choked his throat. He lifted his eyes to the sky, trying to smile, but only tears came.
"You said if the baby was a girl, her name would be Misha. I'll keep that promise. I'll protect her. I'll raise her to make you proud. I swear… I'll never let her feel alone."
In the whispering wind, it was as if the spirits of Patrick and Ariana smiled.
And Charles, with a broken heart but an iron will, cradled in his arms the fragile future of tomorrow.
---
**One month later, midnight, in a dark forest near Henweil…**
The cold night wind howled through tall, bare branches. A thick fog cloaked everything. The only sound was the ragged, desperate breaths of a man running through the mud, his clothes torn and filthy, his eyes wide with terror, his hands trembling. He didn't even know where he was going. He only knew he had to run. From what? From whom?
Suddenly, his foot caught on a root. He fell face-first into the dirt. With effort, he pulled himself up, his whole body shaking. With pleading eyes, he glanced around, sobbing under his breath:
"I don't want to die… no… I don't want to die…"
His legs gave out. With shaking hands, he pulled his sword from its sheath—not to fight, but to lean on, to hold himself up.
A branch cracked behind him. He froze. Trembled. With wide eyes, he stumbled back—until he struck something solid.
Someone.
Slowly, he turned his head. A man stood there—eyes cold and empty, like a starless night. His clothes stained with blood, though he bore no wounds. In his hand, a sword dripping crimson. On his face, not a trace of mercy.
The man screamed:
"Stay back! I… I have a family… please!"
The mask fell from his face. He was one of the bandits—the very men who had attacked Henweil.
The stranger—Charles—stood still for a moment. He took a deep breath. Then, in a voice low and steady, said:
"The families you destroyed… they had families too."
Before the bandit could cry out, Charles's sword came down. The man's scream was cut short as his head was severed from his body.
Charles stood silently over the corpse. He dropped his sword to the ground, closed his eyes, and whispered:
"Patrick… Ariana… it's done. Now you can rest in peace."
For a month, he had hunted them—every bandit who had a hand in the massacre. One by one, he tracked them, and with ruthless precision, ended them. Yet no slaughter, no revenge, could ever fill the void inside him… until tonight. Tonight, it was finished.