A well-worn path unfurled before Gabriel, its contours suggesting a history he could only imagine. Though uncertain about his direction, he took solace in the steadfast earth beneath his feet—a refreshing contrast to his recent experience. The absence of recent footprints signaled this trail was long forgotten. Yet, for Gabriel, it served as a beacon of hope, a mute compass guiding him back toward a world of civilization.

He had forgotten the feeling of the sun’s embrace, his skin warmed under its touch. It cast long shadows, painting the path in hues of orange and gold, making the dust glint like tiny stars. The farther he walked, the more his anxiety swelled. Each step was a war between his need for company and the fear of the unknown. Weeks of solitude had sculpted him into something unrecognizable. Speaking, now a long-lost art, seemed perilous. Voicing his truths felt akin to reopening barely healed wounds. I don’t know who I am anymore; his self-doubt plagued him.

As he traversed atop a hill, he spotted a quaint village in the distance below. It seemed peaceful, almost ethereal. Little cottages with chimneys sent up plumes of smoke, creating an idyllic backdrop against the setting sun.

Uncertainty gripped him. The idea of explaining his battered appearance and his presence was daunting. I can’t walk in as ‘Gabriel, Prince of Accamania,’ I need an alias. Something to protect me from my past, both the name that I carry and my deeds.

Instead of going into the bustling village center and causing a scene, he opted for discretion, veering towards the outskirts. Here, a solitary cottage stood, its walls worn down by time, and its garden overrun with wildflowers.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked. A moment later, the door creaked open to reveal an older woman; her face lined with age and wisdom, her eyes sharp, yet compassionate. She gave him a once-over, her brows furrowing.

“Boy, what in the world happened to you?” she asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of worry and curiosity.

“Ma’am, I… they… I’m all alone. I ran…” He hoped that by acting so distraught, the women would take pity on him.

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then whispered, “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

“Bandits, ma'am. They… they took everything.” His voice quivered, weaving a lie with threads of truth, hoping she wouldn't see through his façade.

Gabriel spoke with an unfamiliar elegance, each syllable crafted with precision. His vowels lingered, like a fine wine on the palate, before being ushered out with deliberation. Attempting to mimic the distinct intonation of a well-bred Balatian, every word was a careful performance.

“Come inside, dear.” The woman's voice was soft and inviting, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. Her hand guided him over the threshold.

The interior of the cottage was unlike anything he'd encountered before. Sturdy timber logs, worn with age and experience, stacked one upon another, formed the walls and supported the roof overhead. Faintly glowing lanterns suspended from the ceiling cast a gentle light. The fireplace, assembled from a collection of large white stones, served as the room's focal point.

The essence of the cottage, with its rustic charm and the lingering scent of herbs and wood smoke, felt almost like an extension of its kind occupant. It radiated the warmth and kindness he sensed from the woman. Gabriel felt safe for the first time in a seemingly endless expanse of days.

“What's your name, boy?” The question was simple, yet it held the weight of consequence.

Frozen, Gabriel's gaze remained fixed on his hands as if seeking answers in the creases and scars. He hesitated. Gabriel was a name he needed to leave behind, at least for now. He sought a new name—one that resonated with purpose, a tribute to undying devotion.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Orion,” he murmured, imbuing the name with hope and determination. Just as the mythical Orion did for Celeste, he vowed to traverse any distance and face any challenge to help Sarah.

“I'm Maggie, but folks around here call me Mags,” she introduced herself with a warm smile, her eyes twinkling with a motherly fondness. “You must be starving. Let's get some food in that belly of yours.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Gabriel replied out of reflex.

“Just Mags will do,” she corrected gently.

“Thank you, Mags.”

The warm, aromatic scent of the stew enveloped the room, instantly comforting and reminiscent of simpler times. The fragrant and inviting tea let out wisps of steam that danced upwards. As she handed him the bowl, her eyes held a deep understanding.

“So, tell me about yourself,” she prodded as she sipped her tea, her fingers wrapped around the mug for warmth.

Gabriel hesitated momentarily, lost in the tender care she had shown him. Uncertain of what he should say and whether she would believe it.

She studied him intently, her gaze lingering on his features. “You have the look of an Accamanian.”

Fear gripped him. Taking a deep breath, Gabriel confessed, “My mother was Accamanian. We moved there because of my father. He was a merchant, trading out of there.”

As he spoke, he devoured the stew with a ravenous hunger. Mags laughed, a hearty sound that warmed the room even more. “This is the first proper meal I've had in almost a moon cycle,” he admitted sheepishly.

She leaned over, her face illuminated by the soft light. “Let me get you more.”

“Mags, this… all of this,” he gestured around, his voice heavy with emotion, “Means more than I can express.”

Her eyes twinkled with mischief and warmth. “You might want to work on that accent if you're hoping to convince anyone you're Balatian.”

His eyes widened, but he quickly schooled his features. But it was already too late. Mags had seen it. But he still couldn’t tell her the truth. Feigning confusion, he asked, “What do you mean?”

With a gentle sigh, she said, “I can tell, kid. Whatever you've been through must've been rough. But you’re from Accamania.”

He considered weaving more tales, but the weight of his past pushed against his chest, urging him to come clean. “I haven't been entirely honest, Mags. I am an Accamanian. I didn’t lie about my parents though… they were killed back in Accamania. I've been on the run ever since.”

Her face softened, eyes pooling with empathy. “How did you make it all the way here?”

“Through the forest,” he admitted.

Her eyes widened. “How did you survive that journey?”

Gabriel's voice cracked, unable to hide the raw emotions. “I don't know if I should thank Victra or curse Ash.” Tears threatened to spill, genuine in their pain.

“You’re here now, you’ll be alright,” Mags whispered, gently lifting his chin in a gesture so familiar it tugged at his heart. “But remember, life is a gift.” A moment later, she lightened the mood. “Now, let's get you cleaned up before you make my house smell like a barn.”

“Why? Why help me, especially after I deceived you?” he asked.

She smiled. “Every soul needs a little kindness now and then.” She gestured to a bucket filled with water. “Time for a wash.”

As he disrobed, maintaining a measure of modesty in his undergarments, Mags' gaze was drawn to the intricately crafted necklace that dangled from his neck—a telling emblem that signified he was far more than just a merchant's son. She noticed the hidden dagger but remained silent. Only when her eyes trailed to the scars marring his skin did she inhale sharply, a mixture of pity and horror evident in her gaze.

“By Victra, who would do such a thing to a boy?”

He sighed, shoulders sagging from the weight of memories. “I was punished, but these scars are nothing compared to the guilt I carry for my actions.”

She tilted her head, curiosity evident. “What did you do?”

“I thought I was helping,” he whispered, the pain evident in his voice.

She reached out, resting a reassuring hand on his. “You don't need to share it if you're not ready.”

Without another word, she began scrubbing him down. The water in the bucket quickly turned murky, bearing witness to the weeks of grime and dirt. When she was done, she draped a towel around him, and he felt a strange mix of vulnerability and comfort.

As he stood from the bath, he looked down at himself. He was never stocky, but now all he could see was skin and bones.

“I have some old clothes here. They belonged to my son. They might be big, but they'll do,” she handed him a neatly folded pile.

He smiled weakly, “Thank you, Mags.”

After he finished dressing and was settling into the makeshift bed, she paused at the doorway, casting a long, thoughtful glance back at him.

“Oh, and Orion,” she began, a sly smile on her lips.

He stiffened, a split second too late in his reaction. She chuckled softly. “Orion's not your real name, is it?”

Gabriel paused for a moment before replying, “It is now.”

“Just promise me one thing,” she said softly, “Don't disappear in the middle of the night. I won't betray your trust. You need to heal.”

Gabriel felt a lump forming in his throat; overwhelmed by her kindness, he nodded in response.

She smiled warmly. “Get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day.” With that, she closed the door gently behind her, leaving Gabriel in solitude yet again.