2.1. A price worth paying

Haugstad, Kingdom of Divinium, Eastern region of Rohana Federation, 2035 S.C. 289th day

"Yuri, I’m heading out for another pass along the fence. While I’m gone, log the notes from the night shift."
"Got it," Yuri replied, already settling down to his task.

This was a brief exchange between two young warriors, Yuri and Malcolm, who served as guards for the small village of Haugstad, located on the far eastern edge of the Divinium Kingdom. As in every star-cycle, past days had been marked by snowstorms, leaving little room for monster activity. Because of this, most entries in the logbook ended with the simple note: No incidents.

Just as Yuri finished filling out the logbook, as he did every morning, shouting was heard outside the small wooden guardhouse by the village gate. When he stepped out to see what was happening, he spotted Malcolm, a few hundred meters away, calling out to him.

The village, apart from its cleared pathways, was surrounded by snow that reached up to Yuri’s waist, slowing his progress as he fought his way toward his fellow guard. When he finally reached Malcolm, he saw a depression in the snow near him, shaped like a human figure.

At its center lay a man, cocooned in tattered rags, his side turned to them. He appeared unconscious, yet even in this state, the man’s arms were clasped tightly, holding something to his chest, also wrapped in cloth.

"I was finishing my round when I saw movement coming out of the forest," Malcolm said. "I couldn’t tell what it was at first, so I stayed back and watched. Halfway to the village, it just collapsed. When I made my way over, I realized it was a person."

"Malcolm, help me lift him," Yuri said, crouching down beside the man. Then he saw a tightly bundled cloth clutched against the stranger’s chest.

"We need to free his hands first."

Yuri bent down and took the tightly wrapped bundle the unconscious man was clutching. As he unwrapped the cloth, he was met with a surprise. Nestled within the folds was a newborn baby, its fragile form pale, which made Yuri worried, but when he checked its pulse. Its heart was still beating. He let out a deep sigh of relief.

"Change of plans," Yuri said, his tone sharpening with urgency. "Can you handle this man on your own? I need to get this child to Father immediately. It’s breathing, but I’ve no idea what it’s been through—the situation is critical!"

"You can rely on me," Malcolm replied, his voice steady. "If you see anyone from the morning shift, let them know to head this way. The man’s condition looks dire—he needs attention just as urgently."

"Understood. That’s settled, then," Yuri called over his shoulder, his legs driving through the snow as he pushed against the white drift, hoping he would not be too late.

"Uuumm..." Baritone sound was faint, but it echoed softly in a small room, which seemed to be a part of a wooden cabin. A bed stood next to a fireplace that crackled with warmth and radiated it into the cabin walls. And in that bed lay a middle-aged man; his hair black, his beard untidy, and his skin tone just regaining its darker tones. His face illuminated weariness, and his breathing was still fragile.

It took another minute, but the man jolted awake and, with what little strength his voice had, he shouted hoarsely, "My son! Where..." But his words crumbled into a fit of violent coughing, his body wracked with dehydration and teetering dangerously close to delirium.

As he struggled to catch his breath, a wooden cup appeared near his face.

"Drink this," said a voice, low and soothing. "It’s valerian extract. It will help restore your fluids and give strength to your voice."

The cup was held by a man, who, from the looks, was already in deep old age, as his face was covered by wrinkles, but it still radiated warmth. Despite his advanced age, the man carried himself with surprising steadiness, though one hand rested on a wooden cane topped with a spherical carving as he stood atop the man lying in the bed. He also wore a dark blue fedora that shaded his silver hair.

The man grabbed the cup and drank its contents in one gulp, desperate to regain his voice.

"Slowly, now—slowly," the old man chided gently, his tone unchanging in its warmth. "Even something as restorative as valerian can cause harm if taken so recklessly..." But before he could finish, the man’s body rejected the remedy. He doubled over, retching violently, the liquid spilling to the floor before he fell back into unconsciousness.

Hours passed. The fire had burned low, casting dim shadows across the room, when the man stirred again. His eyes fluttered open, and this time, the old man leaned forward, speaking first.

"Yours is a stubborn heart," he said with a faint smile. "I feared that losing even that small bit of fluid might be the last tether holding you to life. But you’ve proven me wrong. Before I give you another drink, I need you to listen carefully: sip it, calmly. Your son is safe. He’s in good hands. Take your time, let the drink work its way through you, and then we’ll talk."

This time, the man took the cup carefully, bowing his head in silent gratitude. Over the next hour, he sipped the mixture slowly.

The old man returned with fresh water and silenced him gently each time he tried to speak.

"Not yet," the old man said. "There’s no need for haste. Let your body recover. When your strength returns, we’ll talk—there is much to discuss."

As the night deepened, the old man finally said, "Now, I’d advise you to lie down and rest. It’s already night. I’ll leave a canteen of water by your bed—drink it slowly if you can’t sleep. I’ll check up on your condition in the morning."

With that, the old man rose and left the cabin.

The clock on the wall marked the passage of noon when the man finally woke up. The layout of the cabin had changed since he was last awake. In the opposite corner of the room, there was a now cradle. And next to the fireplace, the old man, seated in a wooden chair by a small table, sipped slowly on a warm drink. Everything had been brought in while the man slept.

"Are you well enough to speak?" the old man asked, with a patient voice.

"I think... I’ll manage," the man replied, his voice unsteady, barely more than a whisper. He reached for the canteen and drank slowly, the water soothing his parched throat.

"There’s no rush. You’ll likely need more time, Haran," the old man said.

The man’s head snapped up, his expression shifting to surprise. He hadn’t introduced himself—how could this stranger know his name? But as his lips parted to form the question, the old man raised a hand, anticipating his words.

"You’ll forgive us," the old man began, "but when we removed your rags to dress you in proper clothing, we found this," the old man said, holding up a passport and the ornament with the emblem of Tiwaz, which both served as a form of identification granted only to citizens of Rohana’s cities. In the hierarchical structure of the Federation, villagers were denied these symbols.

"I must admit," the old man continued, his gaze lingering on Haran, "I’m surprised to find a citizen of one of the larger cities of the Scallia Republic at the very edge of the easternmost reaches of the world. We even had to consult our modest library, hoping to find where you came from. To you’d travel such a long way…"

"I have no money. Do with me what you will, but spare my son," Haran cut off the man in a cold tone, keeping his gaze lowered.

The old man began to laugh. "Ah, I see we’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding. We have no desire to harm either you or your son. I imagine there are still stories told in the cities, frightening children with tales of wild villagers lurking beyond the walls, waiting to sell them into slavery or worse. But I’d thought such nonsense had died out long ago. At least in Divinium, they don’t look at us with such disdain anymore," the old man said with cheerful cadence as he took another sip of his drink.

"Then it is a blessing from the Creators that they led me here, of all villages," Haran said, his tone visibly lighter. "Is my son all right?"

"Oh yes," the old man replied, gesturing toward the corner of the room. "He’s in the cradle—probably asleep, though he might be awake. Such a calm little one. Our midwife was quite relieved; she says he’s one of the quietest babies she’s ever cared for," he added, maintaining his cheerful tone.

"Would it be possible for me to borrow your cane..." Haran began, but then realized he didn’t know his host’s name.

"Forgive me," Haran said, straightening as best he could. "We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Haran Baratti, of the city of Tiwaz."

"Ah, where are my manners? I’ve grown senile in my old age," the old man said, shaking his head. "My name is Adel. I am the chief of Haugstad, the village where you are now staying. And yes, you may borrow my cane," the old man replied as he extended the cane.

Haran took the cane and hobbled over to the cradle, where he saw his son sleeping peacefully. A soft smile broke across Haran’s face as tears welled in his eyes. Quickly, he wiped them away with his sleeve before turning back to Adel.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality. You could have left us to freeze in the snow, but you didn’t. You have my eternal gratitude."

"They could have, yes," Adel said with a thoughtful smile. "But I like to think our young people have been raised with the right values. Leaving someone in need simply isn’t our way. But we’ll have time for stories later. For now, there’s food on the table and a flask of goat’s milk for the baby. I must take my leave. If you need anything, one of the guards is stationed outside—just call for him."

"Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you. Thank you for your generosity," Haran replied, his voice filled with gratitude.

Adel nodded, retrieving his cane before walking out of the cabin with an unhurried step. Haran ate quietly, and after being finished, he pulled a chair close to the cradle and sat to watch over his son. As the elder had said, the baby was exceptionally calm.

Leaning against the cradle, Haran let his thoughts drift to the question that plagued him: what would happen next? After facing the icy grasp of death, there was now peace so profound that he occasionally wondered if they were still lying in the snow. Perhaps this was not life but the plane between life and death, a trial orchestrated by the Creators, testing his resolve.

Hours later, Adel returned, with Yuri following close behind, carrying another meal.

"I hope the food was to your liking," Adel said, his voice tinged with an apologetic tone. "I wish we could offer more, but winter is unforgiving. Resources are stretched thin, and this is the best we can do for now." He gestured toward the tall, blue-eyed young man standing beside him to put the meal down. "This is Yuri, one of the two warriors who saved you from the snow."

Yuri was a young man with blue eyes and a shaved head. His posture made it clear he was a warrior, and his well-defined muscles hinted at his excellent physical condition.

Haran turned and bowed deeply to him. "My name is Haran Baratti. You have my deepest thanks for your role in saving us."

Yuri scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "It’s nothing, really. A warrior’s duty is to help and protect. I’m just glad it wasn’t a trap. Sometimes bandits fake distress to lure us in, then attack when we let our guard down."

Adel cleared his throat gently, cutting into Yuri’s words. "Sorry to interrupt, but we should let Haran eat and tend to his son." He turned back to Haran, his gaze kind. "After dinner, we’ve arranged for you to visit the public bath to clean up."

"Thank you. That’s very kind of you," Haran replied, his gratitude genuine.

"Tomorrow, I’d like to discuss a few things with you," Adel added. "I think you’re strong enough now to answer some questions."

"Of course. It’s the least I can do to repay your hospitality."

"Good," Adel said with a nod, then turned to Yuri. "Yuri, I’ll leave it to you to escort them to the bath and bring them back. It’s late for me, so I’ll be retiring for the night."

Adel gave a small bow to both men before exiting the cabin.

"I’ll wait outside," Yuri said simply. "When you’re ready with your son, knock three times on the door, and we’ll go."

Haran nodded, watching as Yuri stepped outside. Perhaps he feels awkward speaking with me, Haran thought, as silence once again settled over the cabin.

After finishing his meal, Haran lifted his son, Heron, from the cradle. Following the plan, he knocked three times on the door. Yuri opened it promptly, motioning for Haran to follow.

The night greeted them with an expansive sky, where constellations twinkled faintly alongside the subtle, ghostly outlines of crosses that looked like they were reflecting the starlight.

The village was silent, wrapped in winter’s suffocating darkness. The cold seemed to drive everyone indoors, save for those with no choice but to venture out. As they walked, Haran took in his surroundings. The paths between cabins were neat and clear, though lightly dusted with snow. The cabins themselves were uniform in design, some larger, some smaller, all devoid of decoration. It is possible that anything fragile or decorative was brought indoors due to the weather.