The drunkard sat on the floor of his small, dimly lit room, the baby cradled gently in his arms. The boy's cries had softened into quiet whimpers, and the faint sunlight that slipped through the dusty window lit up his face—both beautiful and scarred. The drunkard stared at him, a mixture of pity and confusion on his own rough features.
"I… I don't know what to do with you," he muttered, his voice hoarse from drink and worry. "But… I can't leave you out there. Not like that." He carefully laid the boy on a blanket he had spread on the floor and grabbed a bowl of warm water. His hands trembled as he wiped the blood and grime from the child's tiny body. The baby flinched at first, but slowly his cries subsided, replaced by soft, hesitant coos.
As he worked, the drunkard remembered the life he had lost—the wife who had left, the children who had abandoned him, the empty rooms that had once been his home. Yet here, in his arms, was something alive. Something fragile. Something he could protect, even if only barely.
Outside, the streets were beginning to stir. Merchants shouted, carts rattled over cobblestones, and the scent of cooking filled the air. In this world, power was everything—those with combat strength or magic ruled, while the weak had no voice. The drunkard had survived, but barely, by avoiding the high-class, keeping to himself. And now he had brought a child into this world, a child who would not be safe for even a single day.
He looked down at the boy, and a thought struck him. "Maybe… maybe you can be different. Maybe you can survive where I couldn't." Hoj gathered a small bunch of wood in the corner of the room and whispered softly, "Incantations…" as he focused his energy. Slowly, the fire flared to life, casting a warm, flickering light across the room. It wasn't strong magic—Hoj had no combat ability, only this low-level magic—but it was enough to give him light, enough to care for the child safely.
The baby stirred in his arms, looking up at him with one blue eye that seemed too bright, too full of life for someone so small. Slowly, Mandle reached out his tiny hand and gripped Hoj's finger, a small gesture that sent warmth through the drunkard's chest. Hoj smiled faintly, feeling a deep connection he hadn't known in years.
"Hm… what should I call you?" he muttered softly. "Vivid? No… Kinker? Golfed? Melvin…?" He paused, then his eyes lit up slightly. "Mandle… ah yes. Mandle. That's it."
A faint smile appeared on his face as he looked lovingly at his newly adopted son, a child the heavens themselves seemed to have given him. Hoj did not know what the future would hold for them, but no matter what happened, he was willing to face it—for his son. With that resolve in his heart, he lay down and fell asleep beside the child, both of them safe for now.
Outside, the city roared on, oblivious to the small scene in the corner of a quiet street. But inside that room, a fragile bond had begun between Hoj and Mandle, lit softly by the fire of Hoj's humble magic.