A sharp cry pierced the silence of the metallic wasteland.

  An old man paused, his gloved hands sifting through rusted parts and tangled wire. His head snapped up, making his brown hat, which complemented his brown cotton jacket, nearly fall off. “What was that?”

  He moved toward the sound, weaving between twisted towers of discarded machines. Then, he stopped.

  “A baby?”

  There, nestled in a straw basket amid the scrap, was a small child. It had a dark blue blanket wrapped tightly around its body. As the old man approached, the baby’s cries faded, and a pair of calm, grey-blue eyes locked onto his own.

  The man blinked, stunned. His brown eyes scanned the empty expanse around them—nothing but shifting sand and jagged debris. No footprints. No shadows. No parents. Only the occasional breeze that blew through his nearly full grey hair, which made him look a little under 60 years old.

  He knelt beside the basket, gently lifting a corner of the blanket, searching for anything—a name, a note. But there was nothing. Just the child and the cloth.

  Then he saw it. A symbol stitched into the fabric. Familiar. Faded. A memory stirred.

  “I will take care of you... as promised.”

  He lifted the basket and turned toward the distant town nestled in the heart of the scrapyard.

  The town breathed with a low hum of industry and struggle. Metal creaked under heavy boots. Fires hissed from makeshift chimneys. As the old man stepped into the outskirts, he pulled the child closer.

  A rhythmic thudding echoed from a nearby alley.

  He turned his head just enough to see.

  A soldier in dust-stained grey armor stood over a crumpled figure. His baton rose and fell in a brutal cadence. The victim—a slave, thin and bruised—tried feebly to shield himself with a trembling arm.

  “You trying to steal from me, you mongrel?!” the soldier barked.

  Next to the slave’s hand lay a cracked glass tablet, likely dropped in panic.

  The old man’s grip tightened on the basket. His instinct screamed to intervene. But his body, aged and cautious, held him in place.

  Then, a voice rang out.

  “Stop!”

  A second guard jogged into view, eyes wide beneath his visor.

  “What are you doing? If he dies, the lord won’t be pleased—”

  “Lord Veyrn?” the first scoffed. “He doesn’t care. Ever since he got posted to this trash heap of a world, he’s done nothing but drink and sleep. As long as we keep order, he doesn’t care.”

  “I’m not worried about the lord or the damn slave,” the second guard hissed. “You know how tense things are after what happened in the Empire.”

  The first guard paused, his baton still in hand.

  While the two argued, the slave slipped away, vanishing into the maze of alleys, leaving the tablet behind.

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

  “Damn it!” the first guard growled. “See what you’ve done! They’re slaves—they need to be reminded of their place, or they’ll start thinking they have one.”

  The old man turned away, fading into the crowd, the basket still cradled in his arms.

  No one noticed. No one asked.

  But the child’s eyes remained open, watching everything.

  After walking through some streets, he entered a relatively big square. Empty market stalls were stationed here, but since it wasn’t allowed to be open at this hour, it was eerily quiet. Only an older man, seemingly in his 40s, was present, sitting on the curb of his makeshift scrap-metal home. The old man nodded. “Friederick.”

  A similar response came from the older man, “Ashar.”

  The man, wearing a leather-like poncho and tinkering with something in his hands, paid the basket no mind, as if it were a natural occurrence.

  Ashar exited the marketplace and turned down a secluded side street. His home.

  He entered and quickly placed the basket on an old rusty table, closing the blinds of the few windows that had them. He sat down at the table, gazing into the basket. His mind raced.

  “First, I need to be certain... I need information. Maybe I can find who dropped him off…”

  He spent a few minutes forming a plan, then moved to the window to watch the street. Poor townspeople shuffled to their jobs, slaves returned to slums after brutal labor, and guards kept watch.

  “It would be better to go at nightfall,” he uttered.

  As the orange glow of the sun sank beneath the horizon, the town began to shift. Footsteps grew quicker. The market had reopened hours earlier, and now townsfolk rushed home with baskets of vegetables and hard-earned bread.

  Guards patrolled in greater numbers, though most of them had grown lax—some slurred their words, others leaned against walls in half-conscious stupor.

  Ashar kept pacing inside his dim home, waiting. Occasionally, he bent over the basket, soothing the infant with a soft hum. Earlier, he had ground up vegetables and fed the baby what he could. He moved through his routines with quiet precision, patching up his ragged jacket and even lining deep pockets on the inside.

  By the time the last hint of daylight vanished and stars blinked into view, he knew it was time.

  He wrapped the child securely in the blanket, lifted the basket once more, and stepped out into the night.

  The streets weren’t completely deserted. A few townsfolk still lingered, heads bowed and eyes low. Guards loitered by torch-lit corners, gambling or wandering toward the town’s entertainment quarter.

  Ashar moved quietly, unnoticed in the ebb and flow of shadows, until the streets began to glow faintly red.

  The red-light district.

  It was the only part of town with any sense of vibrance—albeit the cheap, smoky kind. Elegant lanterns flickered above arched doorways, drawing in guards and rough merchants with soft music and heavy perfume. The buildings here, though still patched together from scraps, carried a false air of class.

  Ashar entered one of the better establishments without hesitation. The hostess at the front desk blinked in surprise, then straightened with practiced grace.

  “Mr. Vealen,” she said with a nod. “You’re expected?”

  “I need to speak with Lady Gabriella. Privately.”

  “Of course. This way.”

  She led him past rows of low tables, where guards reclined with cigars and companions in their arms. A fog of smoke clung to the ceiling beams. The central staircase rose in a spiral, its metal balustrades wrapped in crimson cloth.

  On the second floor, the hostess drew aside a silk curtain and gestured to a corner booth. “She’ll be with you shortly.”

  Ashar nodded and sat, keeping the basket close. From here, he could see down onto the lounge below. The noise was muted but ever-present—laughter, music, the occasional drunken cheer.

  He scanned the crowd through narrowed eyes. Some faces were unfamiliar—merchants, perhaps, fresh from yesterday’s dropship. The guards were in high spirits, no doubt riding the wave of recent trade profits. A few guests were ushered beyond the third-floor partition, where the true secrets were kept.

  Then the curtain behind him shifted.

  Lady Gabriella entered with the grace of a trained dancer. Her gown shimmered softly under the low light, and her hair was braided in a style that suggested both elegance and control.

  “Good evening, Ashar,” she said with a small bow. “What can I—” Her eyes landed on the basket. She tilted her head. “—Oh? And who is this little stowaway?”

  Ashar didn’t waste time. “I found him in the northern scrapyard. Alone. No tracks. No noise. Nothing but him and the blanket.”

  Gabriella’s smile faded. She stepped closer and peered at the child.

  “And you’re asking if I’ve heard anything?”

  “Anything unusual. Anyone passing through. Or a ship?”

  Gabriella thought for a moment, then slowly nodded. “There was a dropship two nights ago. Not one of the standard merchant vessels. It left in a hurry. Had a crest on it.”

  “What kind?”

  “A flower. A rose, I think. Pale blue. Not local.”

  Ashar’s brow furrowed. That meant something.

  Gabriella watched him carefully. “Are you going to keep him?”

  Ashar hesitated. “Yes. For now.”

  She smiled again, but more gently. “He’s safer with you than with most in this place. You always did have a habit of picking up strays.”

  Ashar stood and gave a slight bow. “Thank you.”

  “Come back sometime,” she said with a wink as he slipped through the curtain. “We don’t get many interesting visitors anymore.”

  The moment he exited, the mood in the streets had shifted again.

  A flurry of radio chatter crackled in the guards’ earpieces. They straightened, suddenly alert.

  Ashar moved along the edge of the street, basket still tucked beneath one arm.

  The town’s patrols surged toward the border. Something had stirred them.

  Instead of heading straight home, Ashar took a detour—climbing a narrow staircase attached to a forgotten building at the town’s edge. From the second-floor balcony, he had a clearer view of the outer rim.

  The guards had formed a loose perimeter, weapons in hand, eyes skyward.

  Above them, the moon had risen fully, casting a blue-white glow across the plains.

  And then, a piercing screech echoed over the hills.

  A massive, birdlike silhouette drifted across the sky—wings outstretched like sails, its body gliding silently between the moon and the land.

  “The Guardian,” Ashar whispered, his breath caught in awe.

  Behind the great beast, smaller creatures followed, weaving in its slipstream like children trailing a parent.

  The guards lowered their rifles. The Guardian passed peacefully, disappearing over the distant ridge.

  Ashar remained still for a few heartbeats longer, watching until the sky settled.

  Then he turned and returned home.

  He placed the basket beside his rusted bed and slowly lay down, wincing at his joints.

  The baby was already asleep, breathing softly.

  Ashar let out a tired sigh. Tomorrow would come fast.

  And it would come loud.

  But tonight, they would both rest. One as a father, one as a son.