Palace of Molendoph – Year 1450
The night was cold, so cold that even the torches burning in the palace corridors seemed to tremble before the cutting wind whistling through the stone window cracks. Inside the royal chamber, the air was heavy, mixing the scent of birthing blood with the incense burned to ward off evil spirits. The midwives worked in silence, their expressions tense, while the chief’s wife, Lady Eleira, screamed in agony, clutching the bloodied white sheet that had already turned crimson.
Outside, Sir Vander Molendoph, the most feared man in the region, paced back and forth, his heavy boots echoing against the marble floor. His face, normally impassive, was marked by a rare expression of anxiety. He was not a man who showed weakness, but at that moment, his fingers twitched involuntarily, his nails digging into his palms.
"Where is my son?" His voice thundered, making the nearby guards shrink back.
Inside the room, Lady Eleira’s final scream was followed by a weak, almost muffled cry. One of the midwives, an elderly woman with gray hair and tired eyes, held the newborn in her arms, quickly wiping him with a damp cloth. Her lips moved in a silent prayer, but then her eyes widened.
"Oh no..." she whispered, looking at the baby’s legs.
The younger midwife approached, her face also transforming into a mask of horror.
"What’s wrong with him?" asked the first midwife, still holding the tiny body.
"Look... his legs..."
It was true. As the baby cried, weak and gasping, his little legs moved unevenly. The left was visibly shorter than the right, and his feet did not align as they should. A birth defect. A curse.
The older midwife swallowed hard. She knew what this meant.
The bedroom door burst open, and Vander Molendoph stormed in, his eyes burning like embers.
"Where is my heir?" he demanded, completely ignoring the exhausted wife trembling on the bed.
The midwives exchanged nervous glances. The elder, with trembling hands, held out the baby wrapped in white cloth.
"My lord... your son..."
Vander didn’t wait. He seized the baby with a rough hand, pulling back the cloth to see the newborn’s face. For a brief moment, his eyes softened at the sight of the tiny fingers squirming, the red and wrinkled face crying. But then his gaze fell lower.
And he saw.
The left leg. Two centimeters shorter. A defect. An imperfection.
His face twisted into a mask of pure hatred.
"What is this?" his voice was a low, dangerous growl.
"M-My lord, he is healthy, just..."
"JUST WHAT?" Vander thundered, making the women recoil. "JUST A USELESS CRIPPLE?"
The baby cried louder, frightened by the shouting. Vander looked at him as if he were a worm, a mistake to be corrected.
"My lord, he can still live a normal life..." the younger midwife tried, but Vander silenced her with a glare.
"Normal?" He laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "You think I, Vander Molendoph, the man who conquered five villages and crushed armies, would accept a son who can’t even walk properly?"
No one answered. The silence was heavy, suffocating.
Vander looked at the baby again, his face a mixture of disgust and disappointment.
"He is not my son."
And then, without hesitation, he handed the baby back to the elder midwife.
"Get rid of him."
The woman blinked, incredulous.
"M-My lord?"
"You heard me. Make sure he doesn’t survive."
The younger midwife let out a muffled cry.
"But he’s innocent!"
Vander turned to her, his eyes burning with fury.
"Innocent? He is a mistake. A failure. And I do not tolerate failures."
The older midwife, tears in her eyes, took the baby back, holding him against her chest.
"...Yes, my lord."
Vander said no more. He turned and left the room, his boots hammering the floor like nails into a coffin.
The younger midwife fell to her knees, sobbing.
"We can’t do this..."
The elder midwife looked at the baby in her arms. He had stopped crying now, his small dark eyes fixed on her, as if he understood what was happening.
"We won’t."
"What? But Lord Molendoph ordered—"
"I heard what he ordered." The elder midwife closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. "But I am not a murderer."
She wrapped the baby again in the cloth, this time covering him well to protect him from the cold.
"What are you going to do?" the younger one asked, still trembling.
The midwife looked at the window, where the night was dark and starless.
"There’s a temple on the outskirts of the village. They care for orphans... maybe... maybe they will take him."
"And if they find out?"
"Then let the gods judge me."
Without another word, she left the room, holding the baby tightly against her chest, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
The wind howled outside, as if the world itself knew that something terrible had happened.
And in her arms, little Zayto, unaware, had just become the most rejected of men.
The insignificant one.
The midwife hurried through the dark corridors of the palace, each step quicker than the last. The baby in her arms remained silent, as if understanding the need for quiet. The flickering torches cast elongated shadows on the stone walls, creating grotesque figures that seemed to watch her every move with invisible eyes.
She knew every turn of that place, every secret passage the servants used to go unseen. Her hands, wrinkled with time, were firm as she held little Zayto. The white cloth that wrapped him was already stained with sweat and blood, but she clutched it tighter, as if she could transfer her own warmth to the fragile life she carried.
"Please, don’t cry," she whispered when the baby stirred slightly.
The wind outside grew stronger, howling like a lost soul. The midwife looked through the nearest window and saw the first drops of rain splattering against the glass. "Good," she thought. The storm would cover her tracks.
She descended a narrow service staircase, her bare feet making little noise on the stone steps. Deep in her heart, a voice whispered that she was committing treason—but another voice, stronger, said she was saving a life.
Upon reaching the back courtyard, the midwife flinched as thunder echoed across the sky. Rain now poured down in torrents, soaking her simple dress in seconds. The baby shivered in her arms, and she quickly shielded him with her own body, bending over him like a living shield.
"Just a little further," she murmured, pressing on through the darkness.
The back gate was closed, but she knew the small supplier’s door was always left unlocked until midnight. Her fingers trembled as she pushed the wet wood, which creaked softly as it gave way.
Beyond, the village slept beneath the storm. The dirt streets had already turned into muddy streams. Without hesitation, she folded the baby inside her own cloak, shielding him from the rain, and began to run.
The walk to the temple took longer than expected. The rain had turned the path into a quagmire, and her feet sank into the mud with every step. Her bones ached, her heart pounded too fast in her chest, but she did not stop. She could not stop.
When she finally saw the temple towers ahead, a sigh of relief escaped her lips. The place was old, its stone walls darkened by time and moss. They said monks lived there who cared for the unwanted—orphans, the crippled, old men with no families.
The midwife climbed the slippery stone steps, almost falling twice. At the massive oak door, she hesitated for a moment. What would she say? How would she explain this baby?
Before she could knock, the door creaked open. A tall man, dressed in simple monk robes, looked at her with eyes that seemed to see beyond flesh.
"I knew you would come," he said, his voice as soft as the falling rain.
The midwife opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground, still clutching the baby against her chest.
"He... he will kill him…" she managed to say, tears mixing with the rain on her face.
The monk knelt beside her and, with gentle hands, took little Zayto from her arms. Exposed to the cold, the baby began to cry—a weak, sad sound that seemed to echo through the night.
"Fear not," the monk whispered, caressing the baby’s swollen face. "The gods have a plan for each of us."
The midwife looked at him, her eyes pleading.
"What is his name?" the monk asked.
She swallowed hard.
"He... he has no name. His father rejected him."
The monk studied the baby for a long moment, then smiled—a sad smile, but filled with strange wisdom.
"Then we shall call him Zayto. 'The one who survived.'"
And as the storm raged outside, little Zayto, wrapped in dry cloth and warmth, finally fell asleep in the arms of his first protector.
Far away, back at the palace, Sir Vander Molendoph stared out at the rain from his chambers, unaware that he had just sealed his own fate by rejecting the one who would one day destroy him.
The insignificant one had found his home.
And his story was only just beginning.