The walls around him were wooden. Old, sturdy. Antlers hung above a shuttered window. Weapons lined the wall beside a rack of boots. A sword with a glowing red rune rested above the hearth, casting faint flickers across the room.

Siva stirred nearby, half-buried under a pile of cloth. She was safe too.

Klaus blinked slowly. He was warm. He was alive.

He just didn’t know where he was.

Outside the room, someone walked. Their footsteps were heavy but calm. The door creaked open. A deep voice followed.

“Looks like the boy’s awake.”

The man stepped into view. Tall, broad-shouldered, and older than anyone Klaus had spoken to in years. His coat was thick and black, trimmed in fur at the collar and sleeves. Snow still clung to the edges. A sword rested against his hip, and his eyes, gold and unreadable, locked onto Klaus with quiet focus.

He said nothing more. Just took a slow breath and crossed the room to the hearth. His presence was heavy, but not cruel.

Klaus didn’t speak either. He sat up, just barely, and tightened the blanket around himself.

The man crouched by the fire, stirring it with a blackened iron poker. “Name’s Aren. Found you two buried in the snow, barely breathing. Out past the pines.”

Klaus lowered his eyes. He remembered nothing after the fall. Just cold and white and the sound of Siva crying.

“You’re lucky she didn’t leave your side,” Aren continued. “Or you’d be buried right now.”

Still, Klaus gave no reply.

Aren set the poker down. His voice remained calm, but something about it carried weight. “You’re not from around here.”

Klaus hesitated. Then shook his head.

“You got a name?”

“… Klaus.”

The older man gave a slight nod. “Good. Was starting to think you’d forgotten how to talk.”

Silence stretched between them again, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant wind beyond the walls. Klaus’s gaze drifted to the sword mounted above the hearth. It was simple in design, but the red rune etched along the flat of the blade shimmered with quiet power.

Aren followed his eyes.

“That thing’s been watching you all morning,” he said. “Figured you’d notice it eventually.”

“It’s… magic?”

“Firebound. Swordmage steel.” Aren rose and walked to the rack. He took the weapon down with one hand and turned it so Klaus could see the rune better. “Forged in Kendoria, back when I still wore the uniform. Not many like this left in the world.”

Klaus stared, breath quiet. “So you’re a mage.”

“I was a swordmage, yes. Trained in the Flame Division. Learned to pour mana into runes. Makes the steel come alive.”

“You can… show me?”

Aren raised a brow at the boy’s sudden interest, then smiled faintly. “Sure.”

He pressed two fingers to the rune and whispered something beneath his breath.

The blade pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then it ignited.

Flames roared across the steel in an instant, red and gold, alive and wild but bound tight to the sword’s edge. The fire danced along the metal without blackening it. Heat shimmered in the air.

Klaus gasped, eyes wide. He leaned forward before remembering himself and quickly sat back.

Aren chuckled. “Don’t worry. It only burns what I tell it to.”

He held the weapon a moment longer, letting the fire reflect in Klaus’s awed expression, then spun the sword once and slid it back into its mount. The flames vanished the moment it left his hand.

Klaus’s voice was small. “I thought magic was… wrong.”

Aren turned back toward the fire, kneeling. “Depends who you ask. Some kingdoms crown mages as priests or champions. Others hang them in the streets. Magic isn’t good or bad. Only people are.”

Klaus looked down at his hands, still bandaged, faintly trembling.

“I thought I was cursed.”

Aren’s tone softened. “You’re not. You’re just different.”

Klaus glanced at him, searching for a lie. But Aren wasn’t mocking him. He spoke as if this truth had already been settled long ago.

For a long time, neither said anything. The fire filled the silence. Siva shifted near the bed and let out a faint yawn before curling deeper into the cloth.

Aren leaned against the wall and let out a tired sigh. “I used to think the same thing, you know. Grew up in the low provinces. Magic was a death sentence there. They called it a sickness. A plague in the blood. I got chased out of three towns before I even understood what I could do. Then Kendoria’s army found me. Took me in, trained me. They made me a weapon.”

Klaus blinked. “You fought in a war?”

“Several,” Aren said. “Some worth fighting. Most not. I thought if I killed the right people, I could fix something in myself. But when the battles ended, nothing did. So I left. Bought this place. Figured I’d only have to fight the cold after that.”

Klaus listened, but said nothing. He wanted to ask more, but wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

Aren watched him carefully. “You’re afraid of your power, aren’t you?”

Klaus nodded slowly.

“Good. That means you’re not a fool.”

He shifted, then grabbed something from the small table beside him, a wooden bowl filled with stew. He offered it forward.

“Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

Klaus hesitated again, then reached out with both hands. The warmth stung his fingers, but he didn’t flinch. He began to eat slowly, savoring every bit.

Aren stepped away to hang his coat and unsling the sword from his back. Klaus watched him as he moved. The man carried himself with the ease of someone who had seen too much to be surprised anymore. Yet he didn’t seem tired. He seemed calm. Grounded.

A question surfaced in Klaus’s throat, one he hadn’t dared to voice in days. “Why did you help me?”

Aren glanced over. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

Klaus shook his head quickly.

“Then don’t overthink it,” Aren said, sitting once more. “The world’s harsh enough. When someone’s drowning in snow, you pull them out.”

Klaus looked down at his bowl again. His throat tightened. No one had ever said something like that to him before. Not like that. Not without wanting something.

Before he could reply, the door slammed open.

“AREN.”

A blur of red hair and loud boots barreled into the room, bringing a gust of snow with her. A young girl, barely older than Klaus, marched inside with wild energy and a wide grin that froze the moment her eyes landed on the boy sitting near the fire.

She stared.

Then pointed accusingly.

“Who’s that? Did you kidnap a kid again?”

Aren didn’t even blink. “I didn’t kidnap anyone, Claudia.”

“You said that last time.”

“He fell in the snow. I pulled him out.”

She stomped over, hands on her hips, glaring at Klaus. “You okay? Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”

Klaus blinked. Twice. Then a third time out of confusion.

Claudia narrowed her eyes. “That was three. Suspicious.”

Siva groaned under the cloth and rolled over.

Aren stood, rubbing his temple. “Claudia, go take your boots off and stop yelling.”

She grumbled and stomped away, muttering something about never getting to do the rescuing.

Klaus stared after her, bewildered.

Aren sighed. “That’s Claudia. She means well. Eventually.”

Then, more seriously, he added, “Get some rest. You’re safe now.”

For the first time in days, Klaus believed it.

Even if only for a little while.