Dawn crept over the ruins, so quiet it felt wrong. No birds sang. The rooster—always loudest at first light—was silent now. Only the wind moved, swirling ash into little ghosts that danced across the dirt, stirring the broken remnants of home. Sometimes, Cael thought he heard the timbers sigh as they cooled, wood settling into itself, hollow and fragile.
It felt as if the whole world had been emptied out—burned clean by fire and fear, leaving nothing behind but shadows.
Cael woke with a harsh gasp, his ribs aching with the effort. His mouth tasted bitter, the memory of smoke and old blood heavy on his tongue. For a moment, half-dreaming, he pressed his palms into the dirt and waited to recognize the world—was this the hospital again? Was he dying, or simply lost?
He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Count to five, just like the nurses had taught him when the pain got bad. He could almost hear the beep of hospital monitors, the soft rustle of sheets, the scent of bleach—but those memories faded, and the present pressed in: rough earth, stale air, the sharp tang of fear.
He blinked hard, chasing away the last of the dust and dreams. For an instant, he didn't even know if this body—bigger, bruised, heavier—was really his. It wasn't the weak body he remembered, so familiar from days spent counting ceiling tiles and fighting for breath. But now, every muscle ached with something solid and real: exhaustion, bruises, scrapes, the hard slap of survival.
He shifted his arm and felt a small, warm weight beside him. Aylin. Her hair was tangled with soot, her cheeks streaked with dirt and silent tears. Her hands clung to his shirt, knuckles white, as if she feared he might vanish if she let go.
Relief hit Cael so hard he could have cried. He brushed the hair from her face, his fingers shaking—and not from fear, but from the hope that she might actually be all right. He checked her breathing. Alive. Still here. He pressed his forehead gently to hers, breathing out all the dread he'd been holding since the night before.
He was her brother. Maybe that was all he was now—the last wall left between her and the dark outside.
Memories of the fire came rushing back: shouting, running, the sting of heat, their father's voice steady even as the world burned. "Take Aylin. Hide here. Don't move until it's quiet."
He remembered dragging her behind the old grain shed, the battered iron shield—his father's pride—wedged between them and the world. His father's last words hadn't been orders, but a plea: "Protect your sister. Promise me."
He had promised.
Now, in a body marked by new scars and old hopes, he was Cael. Not exactly the Cael he had been—not with hands rough from work and arms solid from effort—but still him, shaped by love and survival.
He looked at the battered shield lying beside him in the ash, the rim marked with his father's initial, half-buried beneath soot. It was heavy, a stubborn thing, built to take blows meant for someone else. The kind of shield you grabbed when you were willing to stand tall, even knowing it might break your arm.
*"A shield is for getting up, again and again, until the danger passes."* His father's words, plain and true.
The shed they hid in creaked and sagged, the roof patched with daylight leaking through gaps. One wall was burnt black; another was half-collapsed, letting in cold and hope in equal measure. But it had held, and so had they.
Carefully, Cael rolled his aching shoulders, checking for any new wounds. His shirt was torn, his hip scraped, but nothing still bleeding. He took a slow inventory—scrapes on his legs, a bruise swelling near his ribs. He'd had worse. They would last another day.
He gathered what few supplies he could find: a length of sturdy twine, half a sack of burnt grain with a handful of edible millet, a split ladle, a broken hoe blade rusted to a sharp edge, a ratty blanket, and a battered water gourd that sounded almost empty when he shook it. He lined these up with care, the way his father had taught him at the forge—no waste, no hurry.
He shook the blanket free of ash, tucked it around Aylin. She whimpered and turned, but didn't wake. The weight of keeping her safe settled over him, heavier than the shield.
She was eight. Just a kid, but right now, she had no one else in the world.
He let himself rest for a moment, holding on to his father's words: *Strength isn't just the swing of a hammer. Sometimes it's the promise you keep, even when you're afraid you'll break.*
He pressed his hand to the shield and let those words settle deep inside.
A memory flickered: the night before, the crunch of boots outside, the thin slant of firelight through the door. A glimpse of a man in a black robe, gold embroidery shining—a snake coiled around tiny flowers. The image stuck in his mind, cold and unwelcome.
They hadn't been raiders looking for loot. They were searching for something—or someone.
He remembered the cold voice outside: "Find it. No witnesses."
He didn't know what "it" was. But he knew his mother wasn't here anymore. Not dead, he hoped, just taken. The ache of not knowing gnawed at him.
But Aylin needed him now. He pushed those fears aside.
He peeked through a crack in the wall. The village was nothing but bones and ash. Burned timbers, roofs collapsed, smoke still curling from the earth. He glimpsed shapes that might have been people, but forced himself to look away. Grief could wait. Aylin couldn't.
He listened for sounds—voices, danger—but heard only the lonely wind.
Checking the sky, Cael saw the sun rising higher. If they stayed too long, thirst or another fire might finish what the raiders started. He listened for Aylin's breath, grateful for every soft exhale.
A small, hoarse voice broke the silence.
"Cael…?"
He turned. Aylin was awake, eyes wide and haunted. He reached for her hand. She gripped his fingers as if they were the last thing in the world.
"I'm here. You're safe," he said softly, trying to sound sure.
"Is Papa…?" Her voice broke.
He squeezed her hand. "He got us here. He saved us."
Aylin pressed her forehead to her knees, silent tears staining her cheeks. "I saw a man. He had a snake and flowers on his clothes." Her voice was the fragile certainty of a child who remembers every nightmare.
"I saw him too," Cael said gently. "We won't forget. That matters."
They sat for a long while, listening to the faint sounds of ash shifting, the soft pop of cooling beams outside.
Hunger gnawed at Cael, but he made himself wait. Safety and shelter first. He rationed out the millet, giving Aylin more. She ate quietly, hands barely shaking. When she finished, he offered her the water—just a few careful swallows left in the gourd. She drank, then passed it back without a word.
He packed the rest, tying supplies into a makeshift sling with the twine. Every action was careful, measured—his father's voice echoing, *A careless hand loses more than a careless mind.*
He tried to smile for Aylin, but his lips felt stiff. He could fall apart later, when she was safe. Not now.
As the sun crept past noon, Cael sat by the door, shield across his knees, every sense tuned for danger, but there was only the wind and the soft, uncertain hope that maybe—this time—they had been forgotten.
He pressed his hand to the shield, thinking of his mother's touch, and whispered, *Power is for protection, not pride.* Was she alive somewhere? Was she searching too?
He swallowed the fear. All he could do was move forward—one hour at a time.
"We'll wait until night," he promised quietly. "Then we'll look for more food. And if I can, I'll try to find Mama." He couldn't make promises he wasn't sure of, so he left it at that.
Aylin nodded, curling up beside him, her breathing slowing as sleep pulled her under again.
For hours, Cael kept watch. He pressed his ear to the wall, eyes on the splintered door, shield ready, every nerve taut. He was just a blacksmith's son, but for as long as he had breath, he would not let his sister fall.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. Only that he couldn't lose her. Not again.
If the shield had saved her once, he would be that shield as long as it took.
Even if it broke his arm.
Even if it broke his heart.
Even if it killed him a second time.