The storm had broken by morning, though the world outside still wept with drizzle. The roof drummed with it, a steady patter that mixed with the soft crackle of dying embers. Maren stirred from his stool, stiff-necked from half a night of watching. He hadn't closed his eyes once.
On the hearthrug, Veyl stretched, cloak steaming from the fire's warmth, boots drying nearby. His eyes snapped open the moment Maren shifted. There was something fox-like in him—always alert, even in rest.
"You watch like a guard," Veyl muttered, voice rough from sleep. "Not a farmer."
Maren's jaw worked as he set a pot back on the hook above the coals. "Farmers know the value of keeping watch."
Veyl's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. His gaze slid toward Elira, who sat swaying with the babe in her arms. She had not slept either. Shithead stirred, a soft whimper breaking from him before settling again.
"You keep him quiet," Veyl said softly. "Good habit. But habits slip, especially with little lungs like those."
Elira's grip tightened on the child. "We keep what's ours safe."
Veyl sat up slowly, brushing ash from his cloak. His eyes lingered, curious and sharp, on the small green fingers that had pushed free of the swaddling. "Safe. Hm. That's a hard word out here. Safety's never certain."
Maren set a bowl of porridge in front of him with a thunk. "Eat. Then go."
Veyl dipped his spoon, but his gaze never left them. "You've a dangerous burden in that cradle. Orc blood draws eyes, and blades sharper than mine. You think you can keep him hidden?"
Elira's voice cracked, trembling but fierce: "He's our son."
Veyl leaned back, chewing, then laughed low. "Your son, eh? Then you'll have to decide quick what to tell the village when they see. Folk don't forget faces—or skin like his."
Maren's fist struck the table. "Enough. You'll take your tongue and your feet down the road when the rain lets up. You'll not come back."
Veyl tilted his head, studying him. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise," Maren growled.
The room tightened like a bowstring. Even the drizzle outside seemed to hush. Shithead whimpered again, and Elira rocked him desperately, as though her gentleness alone could shield him.
At last, Veyl scraped the bowl clean, set it aside, and stood. He pulled his damp cloak tight about him and slung his pack over his shoulder.
"Storm's passed," he said lightly. "Time for me to pass too. But…" He lingered at the door, his hand on the latch. "…if I were you, I'd pray harder than any priest that word doesn't spread. Folk love a secret to sharpen into a weapon."
He opened the door. Cold gray light spilled in, along with the whisper of rain. Veyl looked back once more, his eyes narrowing at the cradle. "And secrets never stay buried long."
Then he stepped out, the door closing behind him with a hollow thud.
Elira pressed her face to the child's head, whispering brokenly: "Maren… what if he tells?"
Maren stood silent a long moment, axe still in hand, his shadow stretching long in the dim light. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and certain. "Then we'll stand between him and the world. Whatever it brings."
Elira looked up, searching his face. He met her gaze, steady but weary, and laid a hand on her shoulder.
Outside, Veyl's footsteps squelched in the mud, fading into the mist.
Inside, Maren and Elira listened to the retreating sound—knowing each step carried with it the weight of a future they could not control.
And though the storm was gone, the danger had only just begun.
The cottage was still long after Veyl's footsteps faded. Only the drip of rain from the eaves marked the hours as dawn light crept pale and weak across the fields.
Elira laid Shithead back into his cradle. The child stirred, tiny fists curling in his blanket, and let out a soft, rattling breath. She lingered, fingers brushing over the green hue of his cheek.
Her voice was no louder than a prayer. "Maren… what if he speaks? What if he tells them all?"
Maren stood at the window, broad shoulders filling the frame. His hand rested on the haft of the axe, as though it had grown there overnight. "Then we'll face it."
Elira turned, fear shining in her eyes. "Face it? They'll come with pitchforks and torches. They'll call him monster before he can even walk."
Maren's gaze did not leave the fields. "Let them call what they will. A name doesn't make a monster. A man's deeds do."
Elira sank into the chair, burying her face in her hands. "I wanted peace, Maren. A quiet life. And now—" She broke off, looking again at the cradle. "Now we've taken in the storm itself."
He crossed the room, kneeling before her, taking her trembling hands into his calloused ones. "No, Elira. We've taken in a child. He didn't choose his blood, nor the world's hate. But he has us. And by my oath, we'll not fail him."
Tears welled, and she shook her head. "You sound certain. But you don't see their eyes, Maren. The way they'll look at him."
"I see them well enough," Maren said quietly. "And if their eyes burn with hate, then mine will burn back with steel. He'll grow knowing love before fear, strength before shame. That's what we can give him."
The child whimpered, as if stirred by their words. Elira rose and lifted him, pressing him against her breast. She kissed his brow, whispering, "He doesn't even know what waits for him."
"No," Maren said, his voice like stone. "But we do. And we'll stand between him and it, as long as we breathe."
The fire crackled low, smoke curling into the rafters. Outside, the rain slackened, leaving the air heavy and still. The world seemed to pause, listening.
Then—three sharp knocks at the door.
Elira froze, clutching the child tight. Maren rose slowly, hand tightening around the axe.
The sound came again, heavier this time.
Elira whispered, voice breaking, "He's told them already…"
Maren's eyes hardened, and he stepped toward the door.
The knocking thundered once more, and Maren's hand tightened on the axe. Elira pressed Shithead close, her breath sharp and uneven.
Slowly, Maren drew the latch and pulled the door wide.
An old woman stood on the step, wrapped in a shawl damp from the storm. Her eyes were clouded with age, her back stooped. She squinted against the dim light of the hearth behind him.
"Maren?" Her voice was thin but steady. "I saw your smoke still rising. Wanted to be sure the storm hadn't taken your roof clean off."
Relief rushed through Elira so quickly she nearly wept. But Maren only nodded, masking the surge of tension in his chest. "We're well, Widow Tamsin. Roof held."
The woman sniffed, peering past him. "And your wife? She fared the night?"
Elira forced her voice calm, smoothing the blanket tighter around the child. "I'm well, thank you."
Tamsin's eyes narrowed faintly at the sound of a whimper from the bundle. "Ah. So it's true what I heard—that there's a babe under your roof again."
Elira's heart lurched. Maren's body filled the doorway, his voice even. "We've been blessed. A boy."
The widow smiled faintly, though her gaze lingered, curious. "A boy, then. Strong lungs, by the sound of him. A blessing in hard times." She patted the doorframe with a wrinkled hand. "May he bring you joy. I'll not keep you longer."
With that, she turned, shuffling back into the gray drizzle.
Maren shut the door, sliding the bar back in place. Elira sagged into the chair, trembling. "Gods, Maren—I thought—"
"I know," he said quietly, setting the axe aside. His eyes were hard, though his voice gentled. "It wasn't them. Not today."
Elira pressed her lips to the child's forehead, whispering. "But one day, it will be."
Maren crouched before her, hand resting over hers as she held Shithead. "Then when that day comes, we'll be ready. For now, he is ours. That's enough."
The child stirred, cooing softly, unaware of the weight of their fears. His small fingers curled around Elira's thumb, a gesture so simple it broke her heart anew.
Maren watched him, a storm of love and dread in his eyes. "He'll grow," he murmured. "And when he does, the world will come knocking again."
The fire sputtered low, shadows crawling up the cottage walls. The rain eased, but the silence that followed was heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Elira kissed the child's brow, rocking him slowly. "Then let him grow in love, before the world can touch him."
And in the quiet of that fragile morning, they both knew: they had won a night, not a future.