Orien Vangard

The barn was quiet, save for the soft rustle of hay and the distant chirp of morning birds. Light filtered through the cracks in the wooden walls, casting thin golden lines across Orien’s bandaged torso. His breath hitched as consciousness returned—slow, reluctant, and heavy with pain.

He blinked against the light, his vision swimming before settling on the rafters above. The scent of straw and salve filled his nose. His body ached, every muscle stiff and bruised, but he was alive. That fact alone felt like a miracle.

For a moment his brain wandered to his mother. Had she made it? Was she alright? And if she was, would she make it to the heir of Blackoak and survive? He'd been careless - stupid. Letting his rage fuel him instead of calculation. If only I would have planned more. If only I would've done this sooner. If only -,

A shadow moved nearby, breaking his thoughts. He turned his head, wincing, and saw them—the stranger. Not a knight. Not a threat. Just someone watching quietly, concern etched into their features.

Orien’s voice was hoarse, cracked from exhaustion and blood loss. “If you’re here to finish me off, I’d appreciate a little warning. I’d like to die with my boots on.”

They didn’t laugh, but their expression softened. That was enough.

He tried to sit up, groaning as the pain surged through his ribs. “Gods,” he muttered, “I feel like I lost a fight with a bear. A very angry, armor-clad bear.”

The stranger moved to help, and Orien flinched instinctively before catching himself. “Sorry,” he said, breath shallow. “Reflex. I’ve had a few too many hands reach for me with knives.”

They steadied him gently, and he allowed it—barely. His pride was bruised, but his strength was gone.

“Where am I?” he asked, scanning the barn. “And more importantly… why?”