The snow fell like ash.
Dawn hadn't yet broken, but the horizon burned. Smoke curled from the trees where war had already touched the land. Steel clashed in the darkness, lit only by torches and the dying glow of once-holy wards now crumbling under siege.
Sir Kael's heart thundered in his chest as he gripped the reins tighter, boots splattered with blood—some his, most not. The child was swaddled against his chest, silent despite the chaos. A miracle in itself.
The convoy had been ambushed an hour before sunrise. They had tried to travel quiet and quick, through the lower ridges of Braelith's western paths, hoping to avoid the eyes of the warbands. But there had been whispers in the wind. Greedy ears had heard the rumors. A child of light, a glowing star born into a world of soot.
And they had come.
From the treeline. From the cliffs. From the godsdamned shadows.
The first blade came through Paladin Joryn's throat before he could unsheathe his sword. No war cry. Just silence and crimson.
The forest exploded with screams.
Kael had drawn his blade by instinct. A soldier's reflex. They had formed a circle, shields up, blades out, ten of them surrounding the priestess's chosen child. Ten faithful men and women of the old order. Ten left of a holy guard that once numbered in thousands.
Now?
Six remained.
No. Five.
He heard a scream—cut off mid-way—and turned in time to see Ser Rhaelyn fall, her armor split down the spine by a hooked axe. She didn't even have time to pray. Her blood steamed against the frost-bitten grass.
"Hold the line!" Captain Oris bellowed. "Protect the child!"
Kael held her tighter.
The baby did not cry.
In the flicker of torchlight, he looked down and saw her golden eyes, wide and calm, staring up at him with unnatural stillness. It chilled him more than the blood or the cold. She understood. Somehow.
A warhorn blew.
Not theirs.
More enemies.
Kael cursed. "They've got reinforcements!"
Captain Oris grit his teeth, hacking through a bandit's neck. "They'll keep coming. They know what she is. They don't even understand it, but they want her. For gold. For power. For control."
"They want a god in chains," Kael spat, swinging his blade into a mercenary's gut.
The child glowed brighter.
Suddenly, one of the attackers screamed and clutched their face, blinded by her radiance.
"She's protecting us," Ser Tyne whispered, awed. "She's doing it…"
"No," Captain Oris snapped. "We protect her. Fall back to the ridge!"
The five remaining paladins shifted position, tightening around Kael. Blood slicked their boots. The attackers surged again—an endless tide of steel and greed.
Sir Branon took a blade to the knee but stayed upright, using his weight to crush the bastard beneath him.
"They don't fight like soldiers," Kael muttered.
"They're not," Tyne said. "They're desperate. Mad. Some of them look like farmers. Or worse."
"Slavers," Kael growled. "I saw their marks."
Rage surged in him. Not holy fury. Not divine righteousness. Something feral. Human.
He swung low, slicing through a raider's ankle. The man fell screaming. Kael didn't stop to finish him. The baby's heartbeat was steady against his chest. He had to move.
Captain Oris was barking orders again, but his voice sounded distant, drowned in the chorus of chaos. They were being surrounded. The forest paths twisted and narrowed—what once gave them cover now caged them in.
Another horn. Another wave.
Too many.
Captain Oris slammed his shield into the dirt.
"This is where we draw the line!"
Kael spun. "We need to run! She won't survive if we all die here!"
Oris met his eyes.
"I know."
Kael froze. He understood the look. The decision had been made. This wasn't a battle anymore.
It was a sacrifice.
"Take her," Oris said. "Go north. Through the Vale. Take the ghost paths—only you remember them."
"No—"
Tyne grabbed Kael by the arm. "He's right. We'll hold them here. We'll give you time."
"You'll die."
Tyne smirked grimly. "We already did when the temple fell. This... this is a second chance."
Oris stepped forward and clasped Kael's shoulder.
"She's our last hope. The last light. Don't let them dim it."
Kael shook his head, teeth gritted, fighting every instinct. He wasn't a coward. He had bled for his brothers. He wasn't supposed to run.
But he looked down at her—this child wrapped in warmth amid the frost and horror.
And he ran.
He didn't look back.
Behind him, the war cry rang out as Oris charged, shield raised, colliding with the wave of attackers like a dying star flaring bright one last time. Tyne followed. Then Branon.
Kael ducked beneath a branch, breath heaving, boots slipping in mud and blood and frost. The Vale was ahead. He remembered the old trails—paths no longer on maps, forgotten by the enemy. They would be narrow. Dangerous.
But they would be free.
He felt it before he heard it—a shift in the wind, a light brighter than fire.
He turned. Just once.
The ridge was ablaze.
Not with flames. With light.
Golden, searing light—pouring from the child.
It burned the treetops. It scorched the sky. It carved a line of brilliance that shattered the dark.
And then—it vanished.
Kael fell to his knees, clutching her tighter, shielding her with his body.
Silence returned.
He rose, breath shaking. No pursuit. No cries.
Just quiet.
She looked up at him again. Still silent. Still glowing.
Tears ran down Kael's cheeks.
He was the last.
And she was the reason.
He adjusted his grip on the child, tightening the cloak around her tiny body, then turned north once more.
He did not pray. He did not thank the Divine.
He ran.
Because she was alive.
And now, she was his to protect.