Chapter 389: A Long Way From Home

The pale morning light filtering through the window in the cabin didn’t bring the comfort Philia prayed for.

When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in his warm, feather-stuffed bed. The sweet scent of dried lavender that always hung in his bedroom sheets was gone, replaced by the sharp, lingering sting of pine smoke, wet mud, and scratchy wool. There was no mother sitting at the edge of the mattress to brush his hair from his forehead. There was no father laughing softly down the hall in his study, turning the heavy parchment pages of his reports.

It hadn’t been a bad dream.

His home was gone, burned straight down to its foundation. His mother and father were dead.

Philia sat up on the narrow wooden bench, his small knees pulled tightly against his chest beneath the oversized tunic. He stared blankly at the rough pine floorboards, his knuckles white as his small fingers clamped into the fabric. A cold, suffocating weight settled right in the center of his chest, making every breath feel like he was swallowing broken glass.

Across the small room, Azar set a wooden plate down on a low tree stump near the hearth. A thick slice of fried salted pork rested on top, alongside a crusty heel of dark bread.

"Take your meal, child," the old hunter spoke. "We’ve a long road to tread."

Philia didn’t move. He didn’t even lift his head. He just kept his eyes fixed on the thin line of steam rising from the hot bread.

Azar pulled up a three-legged wooden stool, leaning his calloused hands on his knees as he studied the boy. "Where’s your family, little one?"

Philia kept his chin tucked down near his collarbone. Slowly, he shook his head.

Azar frowned, his weathered face creasing into deeper lines. "Your parents? Anyone left back where you came from? A village? A town?"

Philia’s jaw tightened until his teeth clicked together.

Never let anyone find out who you are. His mother’s last frantic whisper roared in his ears. He shook his head again.

Azar let out a long, quiet sigh that whistled through his beard. He rubbed the back of his thick neck and stood up, his vest creaking with the movement.

"I see," the old man muttered, stepping over to the peg on the wall to grab his heavy travel cloak. "Well, I can’t leave a child like you in this place alone. I’ve got to make my annual trip up to the Capital markets to sell off these pelts before the snow blocks the mountain passes. You’re coming with me."

An hour later, Philia was sitting in the back of Azar’s wooden wagon.

It was a rough, squeaky cart built for hauling heavy loads, packed high with tightly bundled fox pelts, sacks of dried mountain herbs, and wooden crates of cured meat. Philia curled into a tight ball between two heavy fur packs, the oversized wool garment drowning his tiny frame. He kept his hood pulled low, watching the dark, pine-covered slopes of the mountains slowly recede as the horse moved forward.

The journey didn’t take hours, it took days.

Passing farm wagons, traveling merchants, and armed mercenary guards on horseback brushed past them on the road, but Philia never looked them in the eye. Whenever the wagon slowed near a busy crossroads or a guard post, he sank deeper into the cloak, pulling his sleeves over his raw, scraped hands.

Underneath his right palm, where the rosebush thorns had torn his skin during his escape, the strange, subtle heat pulsed every time he felt a pang of fear. He kept his fingers clenched tight into fists to smother it.

Azar tried to break the heavy silence every now and then over the steady clack-clack of the wooden wheels against the rutted road.

"See that peak over there?" Azar would say, pointing a thick, scarred finger toward the jagged grey mountains in the distance. "Used to hunt snow bears up in those passes when I was twenty. Nasty brutes. One swipe could take a horse’s head clean off."

Philia stayed dead silent, staring down at the frayed hem of his oversized tunic.

"Ever been up near the Capital? Big walls. Taller than any oak tree you’ve ever seen. So many people walking the streets you can barely see the cobblestones."

Philia didn’t answer. He just watched the grey mud turn in the deep wooden tracks behind the cart, counting the rhythm of the horse’s hooves to keep his mind from drifting back to the smell of burning wood.

By the late afternoon of the fifth day, the dense pine forests finally thinned out into rolling grass hills.

Instead of heading toward the main city gates where the long lines of merchant caravans waited for inspection, Azar pulled the draft horse onto a side trail that skirted the outer perimeter.

He brought the wagon to a stop in front of a sprawling, two-story building surrounded by a low wall. It sat tucked away on the outskirts, right between the edge of the woods and the outer farmland.

A heavy sign hung near the gate, but Philia couldn’t read the carved letters from where he sat. What he could hear was the noise. Dozens of voices, screaming, laughing, shouting, echoed from the dirt inside. Boys and girls of all ages, dressed in simple, patched dresses and linen shirts, were running around in the mud, chasing a frayed leather ball.

Philia blinked, his dark eyes wide as he peered over the wooden side of the wagon. There were so many people. So many children.

Azar climbed down from the driver’s seat, his heavy boots squelching in the damp grass. He walked up to the gate, where a middle-aged woman in a clean, dark navy dress and a crisp white apron was watching the yard with her hands folded over her stomach.

Philia couldn’t hear everything over the shouting of the kids playing tag, but fragments of their low conversation drifted back to him on the chilly breeze.

"...found him washed up by the river... won’t say a word..." Azar’s deep voice carried over.

"...poor sweet thing... another refugee from the southern border?" the woman replied, her face tightening with genuine pity.

"...can’t take him with me, Livya," Azar grunted, shaking his head. "I’m an old hunter, not a father. He needs food, a real bed, and people who know what they’re doing..."

Azar walked back to the cart, the wooden wheels creaking as he leaned against the side. He reached into the back and placed a heavy, calloused hand gently on Philia’s shoulder.

"I can’t bring you with me, kid," Azar said softly, his brown eyes quiet and honest. "It’s no place for a little guy. But you’ll be safe here. Livya runs a good house. There’s warm food, a real roof, and plenty of kids your age." He gave his shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze. "I’ll come check on you."

Philia didn’t shake his head. He didn’t nod. He just stared at the old hunter, his throat locked tight, his chest hollowed out.

Footsteps approached the back of the wagon. The woman stepped forward, stepping carefully around the muddy ruts. She knelt down right beside the cart so her face was at eye level with the small boy drowned in the oversized wool tunic. She had kind, crinkled eyes and soft silver streaks running through her dark hair.

"Hello there, little one," she said, her voice smooth and gentle, like a warm blanket. "I’m Livya. You must be exhausted after such a long ride."

Philia didn’t make a sound. He didn’t back away, but he didn’t lean forward either. He just watched her with the blank, wary eyes of a wild animal caught in a trap.

"It’s alright," Livya murmured softly, offering a small, comforting smile that didn’t push him. "You’re safe here now. No one is going to hurt you."

Azar unlatched the back gate of the wagon. Philia didn’t wait to be pulled down. He slowly shuffled to the edge and climbed down on his own, his oversized sleeves flopping past his hands as his small boots hit the damp grass.

He didn’t take Livya’s offered hand, but he followed a half-step behind her as she led him through the iron gate.

Behind him, the wooden wheels of Azar’s wagon creaked as the old hunter turned his horse back toward the main road heading into the Capital. Philia stopped near the stone archway, turning his head just in time to see the tall fur bundles disappear around the bend.

"Come along, dear," Livya said gently, resting a light, guiding hand near his back without forcing him. "Let’s get you out of those clothes and find you something warm to eat."

Philia turned back toward the yard. He stood at the threshold of Havenwood Orphanage, watching the dozens of strange, nameless children running past him, completely alone in a world he didn’t know.