Mal trudged through the snow. It had come down in drifts during the night and covered the rusty pine needles in white. Mal had thought a walk would be a good idea. Clear his head. But now actually doing it, he regretted his decision. The snow was deceptively thick, and he sunk to his knees with each step. “I could be sitting in front of the hearth,” he muttered. “Knee-deep in a good book.” He always knew the intentions of his books, or at least he knew that they would never change. He could always understand them and bring that understanding into himself and be whole again. There was something warming about that. 

The air was cold as Winter wanted this snow to last. Late flakes fluttered around him, catching in his curly black hair. The spine of the Halgen mountains caught the morning light, blinding white, throwing it onto the foothills. Mal would have had to shade his eyes if he wanted to look anywhere in that direction. But that didn’t worry him now because he was distracted by something in front of him. 

Mal crawled over a rotted log to get a better view. There before him sprawled a man in the snow. One ski was attached to his foot, the other lay a few yards off. Birchbark wrappings bound his shins and his knees. He was dressed in a guard’s regalia, a bright blue and yellow. He must be from Halgen, Mal thought. He could spot those colors anywhere after seeing them plastered on huge airships floating above the city.

The guard didn’t move, even as Mal poked him with his staff. Not a wince of pain or a grimace. Nothing. Snowflakes continued to collect on the guard’s cold face. Mal heard a little whimper, he looked around for the source. Pines in all directions, and the sound of the wind in the treetops, but no whimper-source. He heard it again, like the sound of a lost pup. Looking at the guard, Mal noticed in his arms a bundle of brown cloth. Mal turned over the brown bundle with the butt of his staff to find a human baby. A small child with golden hair.

Mal took a step back. He didn’t want a baby. He had specifically come out to the woods to erase all human contact, but now it somehow found him way out here. Looking at its face, he knew he couldn’t leave it here. There was something about its face or perhaps its eyes that beckoned Mal to help it. Something incomprehensible about the face of the other. Whatever it was, Mal scooped up the child, poked the guard one last time, then turned back toward home. 

The sun was clear in the middle-sky when Mal came within view of his home: a small cabin, more of a hut than anything. He adjusted the baby on his arm; the baby questioned him with broad eyes. 

“It’s more spacious inside than the outside lets on, okay.” 

He made his way, past a woodpile, past a pen of goats huddled in the corner, into the cabin. Mal set the child down on the table and went out. Coming back with wood, he placed it in the stove fireplace, then grabbed his hickory staff which was topped with a small red crystal. The crystal brightened, and a flame shot out from it into the stove. Mal shut the stove-hatch and sat down in front of the child. Eyes tightening, he peered at his new acquaintance.  

“Why were you out in the woods, little one?”

The baby gurgled and spit on its clothes.

“I guess we should see if you’re a girl or a boy.”

Mal saw that she was a girl but while he was checking he also saw she had soiled her clothes. It took him a while to come up with a solution to this problem. He searched his house. At last, he stepped back from the girl. The diaper he had fashioned was made out of old bedding he was ready to discard and small metal clips. It would serve for now.  

“What would you like to be called?” Mal asked. 

The girl babbled and played with a wooden bowl. Her eyes were grey-blue, and they roamed the room.

“Maple.” He looked for a response. “I’ll call you Maple.”

Maple raised the bowl to her mouth chewing on the lip. 

“What would you like to do today, Maple?” He asked her. “Ah, what am I doing? Talking to a baby. Perhaps I have been out in the woods too long.”

Mal carried Maple out to the goat pen and set her down. He then grabbed a goat and tied it to a post, placed a bucket underneath, and sat down next to the goat. Grabbing a teet, he pinched and pulled down. The milk shot into the bucket, hollow-sounding as it hit the bottom. Steam curled from the bucket as he carried it inside with Maple.

She wouldn’t drink the milk. Her face soured and she turned away when Mal brought it near. He knew she would drink it when she got hungry enough. 

He was out cutting wood when they came days later. A group of men approached on horseback. Again, they wore blue and yellow armbands. They saw a middle-aged man with dark skin. 

“Greetings sir, can we speak with you?” The guards stayed in their saddles. 

“Gentlemen.” Mal leaned the ax on a stump, wiped his hands, and grabbed his staff. “What can I do for you?”    

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“We’re on the hunt for a missing child. We have a hunch that it's somewhere in these foothills. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” 

Mal knew he couldn’t look towards his cabin. “No, haven’t seen any children running around lately. I’m curious though, what do you want with the child?”

“That’s classified. All I can tell you is we’ve been tasked to find the child. Would you mind us searching your hut?”

“Not at all,” he said. Mal knew he couldn’t deny their search. But he sensed something was off. How often do people go searching the woods with good intent? There was a certain bite to their words that rubbed him the wrong way. “Let me just put a few things in order.” 

Mal went inside and closed the door as the men were unsaddling. He could hear their muffled speech moving around the outside of his house. Pulling out from under his bed a sack, a travel bag, he threw open the top and rooted through it. His hands came up holding three glass vials filled with a clear liquid. He held them up and grinned looking through them.

A knock rapped on the door. 

“Just a second,” Mal called, slipping the vials into his pocket.

He went over to the animal-trough-turned-crib and looked at Maple: she was asleep but her brows furrowed as there were more knocks on the door. A carrier he had made sat on the table. Putting it on, he grabbed Maple still half-asleep and placed her in it; her head rested on his back.

A knock rapped again, louder this time. “Sir, open up.”

“I’m not ready,” Mal called.

“We’re coming in whether you’re ready or not.” 

Thuds pounded on the door, once, twice, three times. The door flew inward with a boot and the Halgen men filed in, swords drawn. Mal stood away from the door with Maple on his back. 

“Give us the girl—now,” the guard said, stepping forward.  

Mal shot a firebolt at the guard’s outstretched hands. It struck his right hand, and he yanked his arm back and screamed, “he’s a mancer!” The guard cradled his hand which was red and blistering. Mal and he both knew it would never fully heal, the burn was just too deep.

“Let me pass,” Mal said, “and no one else will be hurt.”

“You know we can’t do that.” Another guard stepped up to face him. 

Mal knew it was as good a time as any for dragon’s breath. He took a vial from his pocket and downed its contents. His face twisted and he coughed. The guards looked apprehensive. One raised his sword, hoping to bring it down on Mal, but he was surprised when the mancer parried with his staff. The wood surely should have broke, or at least had a notch, but there were no marks.

Heat rose in his body, flaring from his core. He could feel it bubbling up from his stomach, reaching out to his palms and his soles. A warmth that wasn’t there before. He breathed deeply. Mal loved this feeling, yet he hadn’t felt it for years. Glancing back, he saw Maple was wide-eyed now, but she didn’t cry.

Opening his mouth, there were flames coming from his throat; they looked like a writhing tongue. With each breath, the flames jumped from his mouth, searing the air. The guards looked at each other, then charged him. He let loose the fire on them. Moving his head side to side, the fire overtook the room. One guard fell to the floor when he was set ablaze, rolling and screaming. The other two tried to grab him, glanced at each other, and ducking under the steady-flowing flame, they left him. Exiting, they jumped on their horses, one leg up over the saddle. Turning their reigns toward Halgen, they wasted no time in front of the burning shack, as they whipped their horses into a foaming gallop.

Smoke and flame curled from the doorway. Mal emerged, untouched, still carrying Maple on his back. Clearing his throat, he coughed, and hit his chest with a fist. Maple’s eyes were tearing up from the smoke. “Sorry,” he snorted. “I forget, it’s not just me anymore.” 

Taking a few steps from the burning house, he looked back at it. Mal had spent years building and perfecting it. Even though it wasn’t much, he had still been proud of what he created. But now it was a bright pyre in the snow, and for what? A stupid girl, he didn’t even know. Maple was fully awake now, and she looked at Mal with large eyes. Her face beckoned to him, called him to act. He felt pressure to protect her, to watch her thrive. But he didn’t know if he liked feeling pressure placed on him. It almost felt as if he wasn’t free.

Raising his hand, Mal placed his pointer and his pinkie in his mouth, and his whistle split the still air. Those guards would ride to King Baltha. They would tell him what happened. Perhaps they would be flogged for letting him escape. Mal could see the fat king doing that. Whether they deserved it or not was another question. Either way, he knew he had to flee.

And then he heard it. The familiar huff and the brush of thicket as the tough body came close. A wooly boar came barreling out of the forest. Twice the size of a horse, with beady eyes and thick brown hair that kept it warm. Steam ebbed from its nostrils. 

“Hi Wart,” Mal said.

Wart had been gifted to Mal after a Mancer competition in Towers Six. The elders had told him that Wart was no ordinary pet. He was not to be kept on a leash, or in a pen. That was no way to build a relationship. If Mal wanted to get anything from Wart, he had to let him roam. Like a hawk under clear skies, Wart had to choose his own horizon, or else he would simply shut down. 

Mal had taken that to heart, and now he was reaping the benefits. The boar was still a wild animal. There was no doubt about that. He could sense by the twitch of his skin, by the flick of his tail, by the hoarse breath. The way the eyes never stayed still. But Wart allowed Mal to place a harness around his neck. Not ride him, but yoke him. Behind the boar, Mal placed a sled.

“Go slow now, Wart. No getting out of control like last time.” 

The boar huffed.

He took off, away from the charred hut. A black frame against white. Most of his books were lost. Actually, most of his life was lost. A life he had spent years curating. Don’t look back, he thought, or you might be turned to stone. Moving forward, the sled sped and jumped over the snow. He held the reins tight in his palms.

Maple coughed for the next few days. Her body racked and her muscles contracted. She was vulnerable but Mal didn’t know how to help her. He just kept her close. Maple never left his sight when they rested. Even if she wanted to get far, she couldn’t walk, and Mal could tell she didn’t like crawling on the snow. How was Mal supposed to tell what she was thinking? How could he even tell if she thought or not? Perhaps her behavior! Crying seemed to be an obvious sign of discomfort. He could just run to her then. But there surely are situations where crying is not attached to pain or hunger, situations where she cries just to cry.