Rayen carefully placed his foot on the next floorboard to avoid the nightmarishly loud creak that would echo through the house if he wasn't careful. Every night, he would wake up inexplicably hungry, even though he had eaten just a few hours earlier. Despite having had a hearty meal the night before, he couldn't resist the craving for one of the remaining winter apples stored in their cellar.

     Tonight, however, something felt different. It wasn't until he rounded a corner that he realized what it was—the kitchen light was on. Rayen's nightly visits to the cellar weren't a well-established routine, so even his father, who was usually meticulous about their food supply, hadn't noticed the gradual disappearance of the apples. Normally, he would have turned back, motivated solely by the fear of being caught. His father wasn't a strict man; Rayen was convinced he would tease him for the rest of the winter. Rayen was inherently timid.

     Approaching the kitchen door, Rayen thought he heard voices inside. Who could be here so late? The last time he glanced out of a window, it had seemed like dawn was still hours away. Then he remembered—it was his birthday. Rayen had just turned ten, officially entering his "double-digit" years. He was still a long way from manhood, but the thought of leaving his father alone for an extended apprenticeship saddened him. His mother had died giving birth to him, and he had always expected his father to resent him, but instead, he had only seen love in his father's eyes.

     Rayen pushed the door open slowly and saw only his father at the table, with an almost empty bottle of mountain whiskey. He stepped back, remembering that he had seen his father drunk only once before, and that had been a painful memory. His father wasn't one of those people who became jovial when drinking; instead, it seemed to amplify the pain he was trying to hide. He had just sat there, staring into his drink, radiating misery.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

     But something was different tonight. Despite the depleted bottle, there was a strange clarity in his father's eyes. His father reached for something next to the bottle—a pistol, with the hammer already cocked. Rayen wanted to shout, to stop him. Why? What was his father doing? But before he could even nudge the door further open, the trigger was pulled, igniting the gunpowder and ending Rayen's perception of reality.

     Rayen stood there, unable to cry or speak, his mind blank. Then, a faint thought raced across his mind, barely registering: "Get help." What did those words mean? His uncle. He had an uncle, his father's brother named Harveth. Twins, but his uncle had always called his father the "stick" and himself the "trunk," hinting at the contrast in their builds. His father was scrawny, while his uncle resembled a Golem's offspring—a result of one brother becoming a blacksmith and the other a hunter. But why did any of this matter? His father was dead.

     Rayen rose, realizing he had been kneeling, his hands and feet wet. He walked past his shoes by the door and ventured out into the frigid night. It was early winter in the Eastern Highlands, but the cold barely registered in Rayen's numbed mind. He stumbled, lost in thought until he collided face-first with his uncle's door. Rayen hadn't visited his uncle often, so he couldn't distinguish between the door leading to the shop and the one to his home. He lacked the energy even to knock; instead, he weakly lifted his head and tapped it against the door. Rayen couldn't recall how many times he had done this or how many hours passed. But as the sun began to rise, the door swung open, and Rayen collapsed into his uncle's arms.

     "What in the name of the Holy Gods are you doing here at this hour, boy?!" Harveth exclaimed.

     "Pa needs help," Rayen mumbled before losing consciousness entirely.