The forest had grown quiet in the ugliest of ways. There was heavy stillness that came with death, followed thunder and fire. 

Alaric walked through the aftermath, wrapped in a weathered cloak the color of deep moss. He carried a long staff rested in one hand, its carved wood scarred by years of travel. He had been moving through the forest since the first distant echoes of the detonations. Listening. Watching.

With the sound of explosions becoming even more distant he roamed more easily until he heard a faint voice carried through the trees.

“Dad… Abba…”

He froze. A moment later,he moved quickly toward the sound, pushing aside hanging branches until he stepped into a small clearing and saw her. The little girl lay face down in the dirt, her white robes stained with ash and soil, her auburn hair tangled around her shoulders.

The man’s breath caught. “By the old gods…”

He dropped to one knee beside her immediately and gently turned her onto her back. One hand brushed dirt away from her face while the other checked her breathing. She was alive but barely.

“Easy now, little one,” he muttered softly. “You’re not alone.”

He removed his cloak and wrapped it around her small body and lifted her carefully into his arms.

“I will take you to the village,” he said quietly, beginning to walk through the forest.

“I am sure there is someone there who can help.”