"Lyra, don't leave me!"
The night was burning. The world itself seemed to scream. Every corner of the village was swallowed by fire and smoke as Ron stumbled through the wreckage, his small hands trembling. The air was thick with the stench of ash and blood. People he once knew—neighbors, children—were crying, running, falling.
He saw Lyra in the distance, clutching her guardian soldier's arm. Her eyes were wet, terrified, but determined. "I'm going, Ron!" she shouted through the roar of the flames.
"Lyra! Don't leave me!" His voice cracked, his throat raw. He tried to reach out, but before he could, a falling beam split the ground between them. Lyra disappeared behind the smoke, her name echoing helplessly into the night.
Then everything faded—
The screams, the fire, the world—
gone.
Ron gasped awake.
His body jerked forward, drenched in sweat. His chest rose and fell as he tried to breathe, but the air felt heavy, his lungs burning with fear. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The wooden ceiling above him, the faint smell of herbs, the quiet crackle of a small fireplace—it was all unfamiliar.
"Easy, easy, boy," came a gentle voice beside him.
Ron turned, startled. Sitting by the bedside was a woman with chestnut hair tied loosely behind her. Her eyes were soft, filled with concern. She smiled faintly, though her expression carried a kind of motherly sadness.
"You're safe now," she whispered, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. "It was just a nightmare."
He blinked rapidly, confused. His arms were wrapped in clean bandages, his body covered by a soft blanket. The room was warm and smelled faintly of medicine. A kettle simmered nearby, and the morning light spilled through a half-open window.
But even in warmth, Ron felt cold.
His mind flashed to the man who sold him—the betrayal, the pain, the fire. The sound of chains rattling still echoed in his ears.
The woman noticed the fear returning to his eyes and said quietly, "Don't be scared. You're safe here. I'm not here to hurt you."
The door creaked open. A tall man with broad shoulders and gray streaks in his dark hair stepped in. His presence was calm, reassuring.
"Oh, you're awake," he said, relief softening his usually stern voice. "That's good. I'll call the doctor."
He left for a moment and returned with a man in a brown coat, carrying a leather bag of instruments. The doctor examined Ron carefully, checking his pulse, his eyes, and finally, his back. When he lifted the bandage, his brows furrowed.
After a long silence, he sighed. "He's stable now. His wounds are healing well… but there's one thing."
The woman—Maria—leaned forward quickly. "What is it, doctor?"
The doctor met her eyes. "The burn on his back will leave a scar. A deep one."
Maria's face paled. "A scar? Can't it heal completely?"
"I'm afraid not," the doctor said gently. "The tissues were badly burned. It'll take time to replace with healthy skin, but the scar will remain for life."
Maria's lips trembled. "Oh, the poor child…"
The man stepped closer—Fark Luxro. His voice was steady, but his brow was creased. "There's no treatment?"
"Not that I can offer," the doctor said. "He's lucky to be alive at all. Whoever treated him before I arrived saved his life."
Maria placed her hand on Ron's shoulder. "It must've hurt so much…"
Ron didn't answer. He just stared at his hands. The scars, the pain—they felt like proof that he'd survived, but also reminders of everything he'd lost.
The doctor packed his things and left quietly, leaving the three of them alone.
Maria smiled gently. "You haven't told us your name yet."
"…Ron," he murmured.
"Ron," she repeated softly, as if testing the sound of it. "That's a strong name."
"Where are your parents, Ron?" asked Fark.
Ron hesitated. His lips quivered, but no words came out. Finally, he whispered, "I don't know."
Maria's expression turned sadder. "Then how did you get hurt like this?"
He froze. Images rushed back—fire, screams, the smell of burning wood. His breathing quickened, panic rising again.
Maria immediately pulled him close, her voice calm and warm. "It's all right. You don't have to talk about it. You're safe now, my boy."
He buried his face into her shoulder, trembling. It was the first time in years he'd felt such warmth.
Fark leaned against the wall and crossed his arms with a small smile. "You've got a kind heart, Maria. We haven't even introduced ourselves yet."
Maria chuckled faintly. "Oh! You're right. I'm Maria Luxro, and this is my husband, Fark Luxro."
They looked to be in their early forties. Fark had the calm authority of a former soldier, and Maria carried the grace of a knight, though her hands bore the faint calluses of someone who'd once lived through battle.
Maria turned to Fark. "Should we… inform the local guards? Maybe his family's looking for him."
Fark rubbed his chin. "Hmm. We could, but we don't know where he came from. If he's from one of those border villages that burned down last month… there might not be anyone left. Besides, it could cause more pain for him if someone claims him wrongly."
Maria lowered her gaze. "Then what should we do?"
He smiled gently. "For now, we take care of him. If someday we learn where he belongs, we'll help him find his real family. Until then…"
Maria looked back at Ron, who sat quietly on the bed, his eyes glassy with confusion and pain. "Then let's keep him with us."
Fark nodded. "Aye. Until he's ready to face the world again."
Maria knelt beside Ron, brushing his hair again. "Ron, would you like to stay with us?"
He blinked, stunned. "Stay… with you?"
She smiled. "Yes. Just until you're better. We'll make sure you have food, clothes, and a home. You don't have to be afraid anymore."
Fark added with a chuckle, "You'll even have chores, so don't think it's all comfort."
Ron didn't know what to say. His chest tightened. No one had ever offered him warmth—not after the fire, not after being betrayed. The way Maria's voice trembled with kindness, the way Fark stood like a wall between him and fear—it all felt like something he'd forgotten long ago.
He felt tears well in his eyes before he could stop them. "Mama… Papa…" he whispered.
Maria gasped softly, her lips trembling. Fark smiled, walking forward to place a hand on Ron's head.
Maria hugged him tightly. "It's okay, my sweet boy. You're home now."
Ron clung to her as though afraid she'd vanish. "Home…" he murmured.
Fark's deep voice broke the silence. "Welcome to our family, Ron."
Ron smiled through his tears. "Yes."
For the first time in years, the warmth around him wasn't fire. It was love—steady, gentle, and real.
As the day faded outside the window, Maria hummed softly while changing his bandages. Fark prepared dinner by the fire, glancing back at them now and then with quiet pride.
Ron lay down again, eyes heavy, body still aching—but his heart lighter than ever. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but tonight, for the first time since the flames took everything, he wasn't alone.
He had a home.
He had a mother and father.
And though scars would remain, he finally knew—
love could feel the same as parents'.
---
(END OF CHAPTER 7)