The rain hadn't stopped all day.
It wasn't the kind of rain that cleansed anything—this was the kind that sank into mud and blood, mixing until the earth itself smelled like iron. The battlefield was quiet now, save for the crackle of fires that hadn't been snuffed out by the storm. Once, hours ago, this place had been alive with steel and shouting. Now it was a graveyard.
A boy crouched beneath the wreckage of a broken wagon, his thin arms wrapped around his knees. He could hear the bodies shifting in the mud when the wind blew too strong, as if the dead wanted to crawl closer.
He was twelve—old enough to swing a stick and pretend it was a sword, young enough to still think heroes would come.
But no heroes had come.
Not when the soldiers burned his village to the ground. Not when he ran, tripping over the screams of people he loved. Not when the men in armor laughed and dragged his brother into the flames.
Now, only silence.
He pressed his forehead to his knees. His chest hurt, like the inside of him was caving in, hollowing out until there was nothing left. He wanted to cry, but the tears had dried into salt hours ago.
Something crunched in the mud nearby.
His head shot up. Through the rain, a figure walked across the battlefield. At first he thought it was another scavenger come to strip the dead of boots and armor. But then the man drew closer, and the boy realized no one could mistake him for that.
The stranger was tall, his cloak heavy and dark, dragging mud like a trail. His steps were unhurried, steady—like nothing on this field could touch him. His face was half-hidden beneath a hood, but when he raised his eyes, they were clear and sharp even through the rain.
Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… steady.
The boy flinched when the man stopped a few paces away. He tried to make himself smaller, like if he pressed his back hard enough into the wood, he could melt into it.
The man's voice was low, calm. "How long have you been here, child?"
The boy's lips trembled. His voice cracked when it finally came out. "I—I don't know."
The man studied him for a moment. His gaze flicked to the torn sleeve at the boy's shoulder, the dried blood crusted there. Then back to his face. "You survived."
The boy swallowed hard. "Everyone else… didn't."
For the first time, something shifted in the man's expression. Not pity, exactly. Something quieter. A shadow of understanding.
He crouched down, one knee sinking into the mud so his eyes were level with the boy's. "What's your name?"
The boy's throat tightened. His name. That was all he had left, wasn't it?
"…Elias."
The man gave a small nod. "Elias. A strong name."
No one had ever said that before.
The man extended his hand. His fingers were scarred, the kind that came from years of holding a blade. Yet the gesture itself was gentle, patient. "Come with me. There's nothing left for you here."
Elias stared at the hand. His heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to run, but where? There was no village to go back to. No family waiting.
The man didn't push. He just waited, rain dripping from the edge of his hood.
Elias's small, filthy hand trembled as he reached out. Their palms met.
The man's grip was firm, grounding, like grabbing onto stone. He pulled Elias up from the mud as if he weighed nothing.
When Elias stumbled, the man steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. "You'll freeze if you stay in those rags. Come."
Elias followed, because what else could he do? His legs felt weak, but the man's presence was like a wall cutting through the storm.
As they walked, Elias dared to glance up at him again. "Who… who are you?"
The man's mouth curved, just barely. Not quite a smile, but something close. "A teacher. Call me Master Kael."
They moved through the battlefield in silence. Kael led with a pace that never faltered, stepping over bodies as though he had done it a hundred times before. Elias tried not to look, but it was impossible not to see the pale hands sticking out of the mud, the open mouths still twisted in their last cries.
Each time he stumbled, Kael's hand caught him before he hit the ground. Never scolding, never impatient. Just steady.
By the time they reached the edge of the battlefield, Elias's head spun with exhaustion. He wanted to collapse, to sleep until the world forgot him.
But Kael crouched again, lifting Elias effortlessly into his arms.
"You've seen too much for one day," Kael said softly. "Rest. I will carry you the rest of the way."
For the first time since the fire, Elias let his eyes close.
And in that moment, as the rain fell and the battlefield faded behind him, he believed—truly believed—that he had been saved.
That night, by the fire in Kael's camp, Elias stirred awake. A cloak had been wrapped around him, dry and warm. He blinked at the flames, then at the man sitting across from him.
Kael was sharpening a sword, his movements methodical. But when he noticed Elias was awake, he set the blade aside.
"You'll need strength," Kael said, handing him a piece of bread. "Eat."
Elias's stomach clenched painfully. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the bread touched his hands. He ate too fast, crumbs scattering down his front.
Kael didn't laugh. He just poured him water, waited until he was finished.
When Elias finally slowed, shame prickling his cheeks, Kael spoke again. "You lost everything today. I cannot give it back to you."
The boy's chest tightened. He wanted to curl into himself again.
"But," Kael continued, his voice steady as stone, "I can give you something else. A path. A purpose. You will not be weak again, Elias. Not while I teach you."
Elias's small hands gripped the edge of the cloak. He looked up, into those sharp, steady eyes. For the first time all day, his heart didn't feel like it was shattering.
"…Promise?"
Kael's gaze softened, just slightly. "I do not make promises I cannot keep."
And with that, the boy who had lost everything decided to follow the man who had given him a reason to stand.
He didn't know then that every step forward was already part of someone else's design.
But tonight, he believed in salvation.
And tonight, that was enough.