The clatter of hooves echoed against the cobbled streets as the royal carriage rolled away from the palace gates. Inside, a young Lord Tharald leaned back against the plush velvet seat, his mind still stirring with the remnants of political affairs discussed behind closed chamber doors. Debates, alliances, whispers of discontent—nothing new, yet everything pressing. The air inside the carriage was thick with thought, the kind that only noble duty could bring.

But just as the carriage turned a sharp corner into the merchant district, something caught his eye.

A boy—no older than eleven or twelve—was trudging through the dust-choked street. His clothes were torn, bloodied at the edges, and his left leg bore a limp that hinted at pain he dared not acknowledge. Yet what truly struck Tharald wasn’t the boy’s injuries.

It was the girl on his back.

Her face was pale, hair matted with blood, limbs hanging limply as if life was barely clinging to her. And still, the boy carried her—arms wrapped around her knees, back straight, steps unwavering. His eyes were locked forward, fierce and burning with determination. He ignored the stares. He ignored the indifference of the crowd, the merchants who looked away, the nobles who turned their noses.

No one helped. No one even paused.

But Tharald did.

“Stop the carriage,” he ordered, his voice sharper than usual. The driver pulled the reins, wheels screeching gently as the carriage came to a halt.

Tharald stepped out.

For a moment, the world stilled. The boy looked up, meeting Tharald’s gaze without fear or pleading—only the weight of responsibility etched into a child’s face far too soon.

Tharald stepped down from the carriage without a second thought. He walked up to the boy, eyes scanning the girl’s limp form.

“She’s losing too much blood,” he said firmly. “The hospital is two miles from here. You won’t make it on foot. Get in.”

The boy’s jaw tightened. He shifted the girl slightly on his back, holding her tighter, as if Tharald might take her away. His eyes—young but already hardened—stared up at the nobleman with quiet defiance.

“We don’t need help,” the boy muttered.

“This isn’t about pride,” Tharald replied, his voice calm but stern. “If we waste another minute, she won’t make it. Now, get in.”

There was a pause. The boy looked down at the girl, her breathing shallow. Reluctantly, he nodded. Tharald opened the door himself and stepped aside.

As the carriage started moving again, the boy finally spoke, his voice low. “Why are you helping us?”

Tharald looked at him.

The boy’s eyes were filled with suspicion, and rightly so. In a world that ignored him moments ago, help never came without a reason.

But Tharald only answered, “Because no one else did.”

The boy’s eyes widened slightly at Tharald’s answer, but he didn’t lower his guard. He sat stiffly, holding the girl close, his body still tense—as if ready to jump out at any second.

Tharald observed him carefully.

He didn’t look like a street urchin. The cut of his clothes, though dirtied and bloodstained, was refined. His posture, his manner of speaking, even the way he held himself with caution and pride—it wasn’t common. No, this boy wasn’t from the slums.

“What’s your name?” Tharald asked, his voice gentler now.

The boy hesitated for a moment, then answered, “Franklin.”

Tharald nodded slowly. “And the girl?”

He glanced down at her, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

“Tama Elise,” he said softly. “She’s my sister.”

Tharald said nothing for a moment, his gaze fixed on Franklin’s expression. There was something deeper behind those words. Not just worry—something fierce. A protectiveness that went beyond duty.

He leaned back into the seat and let the silence settle between them. The rhythm of the wheels on the road filled the space.

Tharald knew, in that brief moment, that this meeting would not be something he would forget.

Tharald glanced at the girl resting beside her brother. She couldn’t be older than eight. Her face was pale, her small hands stained with dried blood, but she was breathing—still holding on.

He didn’t ask more. Some stories reveal themselves with time.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the city hospital. Without waiting, Tharald stepped out and called for assistance. The boy followed, still cradling the girl, refusing to let anyone else touch her. Together, they vanished into the stone halls of the infirmary.

Hours passed.

When the physicians emerged, they assured Tharald that both children were stable. The girl remained unconscious, but her wounds were clean, stitched, and dressed. The boy’s injuries, though not life-threatening, had also been treated. Bandages now wrapped around his arms and side.

Tharald paid the full bill without a second thought.

As he waited quietly in the corridor, he noticed the boy standing at the far end, staring through a narrow window—eyes fixed somewhere distant, like a soldier lost in thought.

Without turning, Franklin spoke, “Thank you for saving my sister’s life.”

He turned and walked toward him, his posture formal now, voice calm. He stopped and bowed slightly. “Franklin Rushv greets Count Veylor.”

Tharald recognized the name the moment he heard it—Franklin Rushv was the son of a Baron.Tharald blinked in faint surprise, then gave a nod.

“I owe you a life-debt,” Franklin continued. “If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you, say the word.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tharald replied.

But Franklin met his gaze with surprising boldness. “Maybe not now. But one day, you might need someone who doesn’t forget kindness. I won’t forget this, Count.”

There was something final in the way he said it. Not a boy’s promise—but a vow.

And in that moment, Tharald realized: this was no ordinary child.