The forest was too quiet.
The hunter adjusted his grip on the bow, eyes narrowing at the trail of deer prints that led into the thick mist. He had walked this path countless times, yet tonight something felt wrong. The moon bled red over the canopy, and streaks of pale light danced in the clouds as if the heavens themselves were tearing open.
Then he heard it.
A cry.
Not a beast's howl, not the screech of an owl—no, it was a baby.
His heart lurched. He pushed through the undergrowth, thorns scratching at his arms, until he stumbled into a small clearing. There, under the broken glow of the red moon, lay a bundle of cloth.
The wailing came from inside.
The hunter dropped his bow, his hands trembling as he crouched down. The cloth was ragged, stained with mud, but faint light pulsed along the fabric—two colors swirling together: black and white. A sigil appeared for the briefest moment, like a mark branded by the gods, before fading away.
The baby inside blinked up at him, small fists swinging at the air as if already spoiling for a fight.
"What in the world…?" the hunter muttered. He looked around—the clearing was empty, no footprints but his own. "Who would leave a child here?"
The baby hiccupped, then gave a sharp cry that rang like defiance.
The hunter sighed and scooped him up. "Alright, alright. Stop screaming, little monster. Let's get you home before wolves hear you."
By the time he pushed open the door of his wooden house, his wife gasped so loud the whole room seemed to shake.
"You went hunting and came back with—what is that?!"
"A baby," he answered flatly, still catching his breath. "Left in the forest. Alone."
His wife hurried over, wrapping her arms around the tiny bundle before her husband even finished speaking. "Poor thing… He's freezing!" She pressed the baby to her chest, glaring at her husband. "You can't just dump him back out there!"
"I wasn't planning to!" he said quickly, raising his hands.
From the corner of the room came another voice, sharp and annoyed.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Their daughter stood with her arms crossed, a teenager with long black hair tied in a loose braid. "Father, we barely have enough grain for ourselves. And you're bringing home—what, a forest stray?!"
Her mother shot her a look. "He's a baby, not a stray."
"He's a burden," she shot back. "Don't expect me to babysit."
The hunter rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "He needs a name."
The daughter groaned. "Oh, wonderful. Now we're naming him? Fine, call him Mud, since that's where you found him."
"Don't be cruel," her mother scolded.
The hunter studied the baby's face. Fierce little eyes, even while crying. Strong grip for someone so small. A strange feeling stirred in his chest, as though this boy wasn't meant to vanish quietly into the woods.
"…Orin," he said at last. "We'll call him Orin."
The baby stopped crying. He kicked his feet and let out a laugh—clear, wild, and completely unbothered by the chaos around him.
The family froze. Then, despite herself, the daughter let out a reluctant snort. "…Great. He laughs at that stupid name."
Her mother smiled warmly. "Then it's settled. Orin it is."
---
That night, when everyone else slept, the daughter sat awake, rocking the child in her lap. She'd complained, yes, but her mother's orders were absolute.
"Don't you dare cry again," she muttered, bouncing him with practiced annoyance.
Orin's tiny hand reached up and closed around her finger. His grip was shockingly strong. For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered—dark as obsidian, then glowing faint silver.
The girl stiffened. "…What was that?"
The glow vanished. The baby only yawned, blinking up at her as if mocking her worry.
She exhaled, cheeks warming despite herself. "Tch. You're already trouble. Don't think I'll go easy on you when you grow up, Orin."
The baby gurgled, and for the first time that night, the girl smiled. Just a little.