The air in the small room was heavy again. Rowan sat on a stool beside the bed, holding a damp cloth against his mother's forehead. Her skin felt hot, then cold, her breathing uneven. She hadn't eaten much today, just a few sips of water and a bite of bread.
"Mama," he whispered. "You have to try. Just a little more. Please?"
Her lips curled into a weak smile. "You always worry so much, my sweet boy."
Rowan's eyes stung. "Because no one else does."
She reached out, brushing his cheek with trembling fingers. "Don't say that. You're not alone."
But he didn't answer. He couldn't. Not when her hands felt so thin, so light.
The next morning, Rowan ran to the alchemists' quarters. His heart was pounding, but he didn't care. He had no time to waste. Inside, Master Harnes was bent over a bubbling cauldron, steam rising in sharp, bitter waves. The room smelled of dried roots and sour herbs.
"Please," Rowan said, stepping forward. "She's not getting better."
Harnes glanced at him, then stirred the mixture slowly. "I gave you what I could. That potion was only meant to slow the symptoms."
"It's not slowing anything!" Rowan's voice cracked. "She's worse!"
The old man let out a long breath and turned around. His expression was tired, but not unkind. "I know. That's why I didn't lie to you, boy. If you want her to recover, truly recover, there's only one way."
Rowan looked up, eyes desperate. "Tell me."
"I can make the cure," Harnes said. "I know the recipe, and I have the skill. But the herbs… they're rare. Expensive. Some of them come from far regions. Even I can't afford them lightly."
Rowan's hands clenched. "Then what should I do?"
Harnes walked over to a shelf, pulled out a small scroll, and scribbled down a list with careful strokes. "This is what you'll need. If you can bring me these, I'll make the potion myself."
Rowan scanned the names, some he recognized, most he didn't. They sounded exotic. Priceless. "But the house, surely they can get these, right?" he asked, almost hopeful.
Harnes gave him a long look. "Of course. For a house like Vexlaar, this would be nothing. Just ask them. They'll provide it, if they still value her."
Rowan nodded, gripping the scroll tightly. He didn't see the flicker of pity that passed across Harnes' face.
He ran straight to the main estate, his boots scuffing against the stone. His clothes were still dusty, his hair uncombed. He waited outside the long hall, pacing, rehearsing what he'd say. Eventually, the head butler appeared, walking with his usual stiff, mechanical steps.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Why are you here, boy?"
Rowan stepped forward. "Sir, please. My mother's getting worse. Master Harnes gave me this list, it's for a potion that can help her. He said he can brew it, but the herbs…" He held out the scroll. "I was hoping the house could help. Just this once."
The butler barely looked at the paper. "You know the rules. Your household receives its allowance monthly."
"That's not enough," Rowan said, voice rising. "We barely afford food and basic potions. Please. This isn't a luxury. It's her life."
"I can't do anything about this, kid. There are rules set by the main family."
"But she's family! Also part of the main family! And she married into this house. Doesn't that count for anything?"
The butler's face didn't change. "Your mother was a political pawn. And you," he glanced at Rowan with something between pity and annoyance, "are a liability. A child with no magic potential. There is no benefit in helping you."
Rowan's voice cracked. "So you'll just let her die?"
"She is not our concern anymore. I'm sorry."
Rowan asked, "How do I know this is truly the will of the house?"
The butler laughed. "Do you really think a mere head butler like me would have this much power? I am just following orders. I think they already saw this coming."
Then he turned and walked away, his boots clicking against the stone floor. Rowan stood there, fists clenched, throat tight.
That night, he returned home empty-handed. His mother was asleep, her chest rising slowly with each breath. He sat beside her, holding her hand again. He would find a way. Even if the house abandoned them. Even if the world forgot them. He would not.
The sun hadn't risen yet when Rowan left the room. His mother lay curled on the bed, her breathing soft and uneven, barely louder than the rustling wind outside. He pulled the thin blanket tighter around her frail body and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"I'll be back soon, Mama," he whispered.
Quietly, he stepped into the next room, the small servants' quarters that had been assigned to them. The old maid who looked after the cottage was just waking, rubbing her eyes with wrinkled fingers.
"Miss Reena," Rowan said softly, "I'll be gone for a while. Take care of Mother while I'm out? Just tell her I went to the knight training facility when she wakes up."
The maid nodded. "Okay, young master."
"Just… just let her rest. That's all she needs right now." Then he stepped outside.
The wind bit at his cheeks as he walked up the stone path to one of the multiple outer estate gates. Two armored guards stood at their posts, half asleep, and didn't even glance at him as he passed through.
The roads were mostly empty, the town just starting to wake. He kept his hood low over his face, the brown cloak hiding his noble clothes. He didn't want to be recognized, not today. His thoughts circled one thing: money.
The small monthly allowance the house gave them barely covered food. Most of it had already gone to potions that did little to help. And with the way things were going, the allowance could stop any moment. The house wouldn't care. He was just a liability, a useless child tied to a dying woman. If he wanted to save his mother, he had to earn on his own.
The first place he tried was a bakery. A warm smell of bread filled the air as Rowan pushed open the door. "Excuse me," he said, standing straight. "I'm looking for work. I can sweep, clean dishes, deliver bread. Anything."
The baker, a short, round man with flour on his apron, looked up. "How old are you, boy?"
"Nine," Rowan lied.
The man frowned. "You don't look nine. What's your name?"
"Ash."
"Go home, Ash," the baker muttered. "I'm not hiring children." Rowan bowed slightly and left.
Next was the forge. He asked again, coal, water, cleaning tools, carrying iron. The blacksmith snorted. "I don't care if your name's Ash or Ashen Flame. You're too small. One ember hits you, and I'm the one blamed."
At the stables, the stablemaster just waved him off without a word. "Please," Rowan said. "I'll work for less than anyone else."
"You'll work for free and still get in the way. Get lost."
By noon, his feet ached and his throat was dry. He had asked at over a dozen shops, stalls, and inns. All said the same, too young, too weak, not worth the trouble. He sat down near an old well at the edge of the street, his cloak clutched in his hands. The sky was high now. The sun beat down, but the cold he felt was from within.
No one would help him. No one cared that his mother was dying. He wasn't a knight. Not yet. He couldn't cast spells or make potions. All he had was what he'd learned with a sword. If no one would let him work, then he'd do what no one else his age dared. He would hunt.
The beast zones stretched across the continent, untamed wildernesses where monsters roamed unchecked. Ranked from Level 1 to Level 5, they were wild, dangerous, and deadly. The Vexlaar Dukedom had four known beast zones: one Level 1 zone, Glavenreach Woods; two Level 2 zones, Duskpine Hollow and Braymor Vale; and one Level 3 zone, the infamous Rifthollow Grove.
Rowan had set his sights on Glavenreach Woods. Level 1 was the weakest. At most, he might encounter forest wolves, horned rabbits, maybe a fangtooth if he was unlucky. Still, for an eight-year-old, even a Level 1 zone could mean death.
Glavenreach lay just beyond the estate. Like all beast zones, it had no guards. Only a single emergency post stood near the outer edge, meant to respond if beasts ever wandered too close to towns or farms. The rest of the zone was unregulated. No gates, no fences, no patrols. Anyone could enter or leave as they pleased.
Because everyone already knew what it was. A beast zone didn't need rules. If you stepped inside, you accepted the risk. No one would stop you. No one would come looking if you didn't return.
And yet, beast hunting paid more than any other job. Because it was dangerous. Because beast materials sold high. Because most people weren't desperate or foolish enough to try.
That night, Rowan returned home quietly. His mother was asleep again. Miss Reena had made soup, but it had long gone cold. He sat by the window, staring at the woods beyond the hills.
Tomorrow, he would enter the Level 1 beast zone. He would hunt beasts for coin. And he would keep lying to his mother, if that's what it took to save her.