Chapter 391: A Visitor From the South

"Is Lord Antel rich?" a younger girl near the front whispered, tugging on the hem of Livya’s apron. She was barely six years old, her hair tied up in two messy ribbons, her toes curling inside her worn leather shoes.

Livya paused her restless pacing, smoothing down her clean white apron with a soft, patient smile. She reached down to tuck a stray lock of hair behind the girl’s ear before looking down the row of wide, expectant eyes.

"He has plenty to share, sweetie," Livya replied, her voice calm and steady enough to soothe the fidgety crowd. "But more importantly, he has a generous heart."

"Does he bring toys?" Jorah asked from two spots down, leaning out of line so far he nearly lost his balance. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, his eyes round with greedy hope.

"Sometimes," Livya murmured softly, keeping her tone light as the distant sound of wheels grew louder on the gravel driveway outside. "Books with painted pictures, wooden blocks, and those little spiced honey cakes you like so much."

Philia stood tucked tightly behind Livya’s skirt. He listened to every single word, his chest feeling tight and hollow, like a dry well.

A generous heart. Land in the South.

Down in the South was where his house used to stand. Down in the South was where the sky had burned bright red against the black trees, where the heavy boots of those men had smashed into the grounds, and where his mother had screamed his name before shoving him down into the dark.

The heavy wheels of a covered carriage ground to a halt on the gravel.

Through the narrow side window near the entrance, the children watched a tall man step down from the iron step, his dark cloak snapping in the wind. He paused to adjust his gloves before turning toward the porch.

Behind him, two footmen hauled heavy wooden crates, their boots squelching through the mud as they followed him up the porch steps.

"Miss Livya," the nobleman said, stepping over the threshold and stamping his boots against the scraper near the mat. He pulled off his leather gloves, tossing them casually to the young attendant behind him. "I hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time."

Livya smoothed down her apron, stepping forward with a warm, welcoming smile. "Not at all, Lord Antel. We’re always happy to have you here, and the children have been waiting for your visit all morning."

Behind the nobleman, the footmen set the wooden crates down near the wall with a heavy thud. The scent of freshly baked sourdough loaves and tied bundles of carved pine toys immediately filled the entryway. A soft rustle of whispers broke out down the row of orphans as the younger kids craned their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of the carved horses and wrapped parcels poking out from the clean straw packing.

"It is the very least I can do for the kingdom’s little ones," Lord Antel said. "When I return to the Capital next month, I intend to speak with His Majesty directly. The orpahanages deserve far more support from the royal treasury than they currently receive. No child under the Crown’s protection should have to freeze when the dark months set in."

"You are far too nice to us, Lord Antel," Livya said, her voice thick with genuine, heartfelt gratitude. "If not for you, we would have lost two of our youngest to the lung-rot last year."

"Nonsense. A man with abundance who hoard his wealth is no better than a dragon sleeping on cold gold," Lord Antel chuckled softly, taking a step forward to greet the front of the line.

As the noble approached, Philia instinctively shrank back another inch, pressing his small frame right against the back of Livya’s skirt, hiding in the dark, heavy folds of her dress. His breathing became shallow, barely moving his ribs.

Lord Antel walked down the row, stopping to pat a crying toddler on the cheek, chuckling as Jorah eagerly accepted a small carved wooden knight with a miniature painted shield. The man spoke with such ease, his laugh light and genuine, his gestures broad and open. He looked every bit the noble savior the matron claimed he was.

Then, Lord Antel stopped directly in front of Livya. His eyes swept down to the floor, instantly noticing the tiny, pale boy peeking out from behind Livya’s hip with wide, shadowed eyes.

"And who might this little one be?" Lord Antel asked softly, dropping down onto one knee with a low rustle of fine wool trousers, bringing himself right to eye level with the child.

Philia completely froze.

Up close, his face looked completely ordinary, gentle, noble, weathered by travel, and lined with gentle laugh creases near the temples. Didn’t look like a monster at all.

Yet, as Philia stared into those calm brown eyes, his mother’s last frantic whisper roared in his head, drowning out the sound of the children laughing around him.

"Forgive him, my Lord," Livya apologized quickly, placing a soft, protective hand on top of Philia’s hair. "He came to us only a few months ago. An old hunter found him alone. He is... exceptionally shy. He hasn’t spoken a single word to anyone since the day he arrived."

"Ah," Lord Antel murmured, his thick grey eyebrows lifting in quiet, understanding sympathy. He didn’t pull back or show annoyance. Instead, he offered Philia a small, reassuring smile that reached all the way to the corners of his eyes. "So you’re a quiet one, hm?"

Philia didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. His small shoes felt glued to the pine floorboards. He felt as though if he made even a single sound, the entire world would collapse around him.

"It’s fine," Lord Antel chuckled softly, reaching out his hand to give Philia’s head a gentle, fatherly pat.

Philia’s entire body went rigid beneath the touch. Every single instinct hardwired into his small body screamed at him to duck, to scream, to run, or to bite the man’s hand, but the terror locking his throat forced him to stand dead still.

He ground his teeth together so hard his jaw throbbed, his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists deep inside his trouser pockets. Beneath his raw palms, the hidden heat pulsed, a faint, frantic ember burning against his skin, begging to be let out. He stomped it down with every ounce of his tiny will.

"I have a son around your age," Lord Antel said, his voice warm and nostalgic as he pulled his hand back to rest it on his knee. "I had planned to bring him along in the carriage today, but the poor child caught a terrible cold. Next time I pass through the Capital outskirts, I’ll be sure to bring him along. You two can run around in the yard, share some cakes, and become good friends."

Philia just stared at him with blank, unblinking eyes, his mouth sealed shut like a stone vault. He gave nothing more than a microscopic, trembling nod, not out of agreement, but out of sheer survival.

"That’s a good boy," Lord Antel said, clapping his hands together once as he stood back up, dusting the floor grit off his knees. He turned back toward Livya with a warm grin. "He has bright eyes. He’ll grow up fine under your care."

"Thank you, My Lord," Livya said, bowing her head deeply once more.

The nobleman turned and moved further down the line, pulling out a small leather pouch of silver coins to hand to the kitchen supervisor for supplies. The hallway immediately filled once again with the bright sounds of happy children, rustling paper wrappers, and Livya thanking the lord’s attendants over and over for their immense generosity.

Philia remained pressed against the dark corner near the staircase, his back glued to the cold wall, his hands buried deep inside his pockets. He stared down at his small boots, his chest heaving with silent, terrifying gasps of air.

The man likely responsible for burning his home and stealing his parents had just patted his hair, smiled softly, and promised to bring his son over next time.