warriors heart

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light across the quiet ranch. It was peaceful here, outside the boundaries of Eclipsara, a sanctuary carved out of the chaos that had taken over the kingdom. Tom moved through the fields with a steady rhythm, his strong hands calloused from years of hard labor, gripping the handles of the plow as it cut cleanly into the earth. His face was marked with lines that had deepened over time, not just from the sun, but from the weight of a promise—one he had sworn with his soul to keep.

The farmhouse was modest, but the laughter of a child made it feel grander than any castle. David, no older than three, sprinted barefoot across the yard, his small legs carrying him with joyous abandon. His dark curls bounced wildly as he ran, his soft, rosy cheeks flush with excitement. The air rang with his cries of pure, uninhibited laughter as he tossed a ball into the air, only to dash after it again. There was freedom in the way he moved—careless, unburdened, alive.

Tom watched him from a distance as he wiped sweat from his brow, leaning momentarily on the wooden handle of his shovel. His eyes, shadowed with vigilance, softened only when they rested on David. The corners of his mouth twitched into a faint smile—relief mixed with longing. He's safe, Tom told himself, but his grip tightened around the shovel as memories of bloodshed crept back into his mind. He adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders, as though trying to shake off a heavy weight. He never turned his back for long.

From the porch, Sarah's eyes followed both of them, her hands busy kneading dough but her movements steady, calculated. Her brow was often furrowed—not in anger, but in quiet thought. Every soft gesture she made, the way her eyes lingered on her husband and David, spoke of a love carved out of fear. Her lips, often pressed into a thin line, would part just slightly when David's laughter reached her ears—her silent way of allowing hope to bloom. Yet the moment her gaze flickered toward the shadowy woods that bordered the land, her hands would pause, gripping the dough just a bit too firmly.

The streets of Eclipsara were cold and unfeeling, but Tom's sharp eyes caught the huddled shape beneath a rickety cart—ribs pressing against matted fur, its breathing shallow. The dog flinched as Tom approached, its dark eyes reflecting wariness and pain. Kneeling down, Tom extended a calloused hand, his voice low, gravelly, but gentle. "Easy now, boy. I've got you."

The dog's head twitched, ears flicking back, but it did not retreat. Tom's movements were slow, deliberate—his large hands strangely tender as he lifted the trembling creature into his arms. The subtle shift in his face—a tightness in his jaw, a softness around his tired eyes—betrayed his instinct to nurture. By the time he reached the ranch, the dog was curled against his chest, weak but trusting.

David's reaction was immediate when Tom laid the patched-up dog near the fire. The boy's eyes grew impossibly wide, his face alight with wonder. He crouched slowly, as though afraid the animal might vanish. "What's his name? Daddy" David whispered in his little pure voice, glancing up at Tom, his voice brimming with both awe and hope.

Tom knelt beside him, ruffling David's curls before nodding toward the dog. "I reckon he'll tell us soon enough."

The days that followed were filled with something new—a soft kind of joy. The dog, now stronger, moved with a guarded gait at first, its eyes always watching. But David's persistence chipped away at its caution. The boy would lie flat on his stomach in the grass, nose-to-nose with his newfound friend, whispering stories only they could hear. His hands, small and gentle, would scratch behind the dog's ears until its tail thumped softly against the ground.

Tom often watched them from a distance, his axe resting idly against his shoulder as he stood at the edge of the woods. His expression was hard to read—pride tinged with sorrow. He could see the innocence David carried, how his every movement was fluid and full of wonder, untainted by the world beyond. He deserves this, Tom thought. For as long as we can give it.

But Sarah, watching them through the kitchen window, would sometimes pause mid-step, her fingers brushing her lips as a faint shadow of worry darkened her face. She loved the way David laughed, the way he cradled the dog's head in his small hands and whispered promises to always keep him safe. But every laugh, every burst of joy, was a fragile thing—a delicate note in a song she feared might end too soon.

And at night, when David curled into the dog's warm side by the fire, his chest rising and falling in the deep slumber of a child who had no fears, Tom and Sarah would exchange a look—one heavy with all the words they could not say. Tom would sit, sharpening his knife with slow, methodical movements. The scrape of metal on stone echoed softly in the room, a sound both ominous and necessary. His jaw would set, his gaze locked on the firelight dancing against the blade.

Sarah would busy herself with mending clothes, her hands steady but her shoulders slightly hunched. Sometimes, her needle would pause mid-stitch, and she would glance toward David, her eyes lingering on his peaceful face. There would be a flicker of something unspoken there—regret, fear, love—all tangled into a knot she held deep inside.

Outside, the night would stretch on, silent except for the wind in the trees. Tom would rise, his movements deliberate as he checked the door and peered out into the darkness. His brow furrowed, his grip on the wooden frame firm. He could feel it in his bones—the weight of a promise, the distant pull of danger.

For now, though, David slept. The dog sighed softly in its dreams, and Tom sat back down beside Sarah, the fire casting warm light on their weathered faces. In the quiet of their sanctuary, they dared to breathe.