The days blurred together for Cain—each one a grueling cycle of survival, frustration, and fleeting moments of unexpected tenderness. From the first faint light of dawn until the dying embers of the fire each night, Cain moved tirelessly through tasks he barely understood, juggling the baby's care, the failing farm, and his own overwhelming exhaustion.
Cain had poured every ounce of effort into providing for the infant, concocting improvised meals from mashed bear meat, soft-cooked deer marrow, egg yolks, and carefully watered-down bone broth. But despite his constant care, the baby only grew more fragile. Her tiny cheeks, once round and soft, became thin and pale. Every fretful cry and weak whimper cut into Cain's heart, a harsh reminder of his inability to give her what she desperately needed—milk.
"Please," Cain murmured, his voice breaking one night as he held her trembling body close, his hands trembling with exhaustion. "Just a little more. You have to eat, little one." But each feeding attempt was met with resistance and more tears, and the sense of helplessness grew heavier upon him by the hour.
By week's end, Cain was barely recognizable. Dark shadows underlined his eyes, his face was rough with a week's worth of unkempt stubble, and his clothes were torn, stained, and ragged. Hope was slipping through his fingers, replaced by desperation.
Outside the Town Hall, the farm unraveled further each day, Cain's careful plans now collapsing under the unforgiving realities of nature and neglect.
One cold morning, Cain awoke to an unsettling silence. His heart sank when he reached the chicken coop, finding feathers scattered across the dirt, one hen missing, her blood staining the ground. The other hens, terrified, had fled into the nearby wilderness. Cain's jaw clenched tightly in anger and frustration.
"I failed," he growled, blaming himself for being too exhausted and distracted. He hastily tried rebuilding the coop, but his mind was fogged by fatigue, his hands shaking too much for precision. "Come back," he called helplessly into the empty forest, knowing the chickens were likely lost for good.
Only a few nights later, Cain was jolted awake by panicked bleating and the chilling howl of wolves. Racing outside with the baby clutched protectively against his chest, he had no weapon nearby and could only shout into the darkness, his voice echoing uselessly. By dawn, the aftermath was grim—two sheep lay lifeless, the survivors shivering and matted with blood and dirt.
Cain knelt among them, guilt tearing at his chest. "I'm so sorry," he whispered to the remaining sheep, knowing words were meaningless. He secured the survivors as best he could, but he felt their wary eyes, silently accusing him of neglect.
Meanwhile, the cows, deprived of proper grazing and unable to produce milk, steadily weakened. Their bones became pronounced beneath thinning hides, their eyes dulled by hunger. Cain desperately scoured the surrounding area for grass and forage, but each day provided less food and less hope.
"I promise I'll find something soon," he assured them softly, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.
Driven by desperation, Cain began taking the infant with him on hunting expeditions. Each trip into the forest was a chaotic balancing act—holding the infant in a sling close to his chest, gripping his rifle or knife, and moving quietly through the dense underbrush. Shadowfax trotted faithfully beside them, his ears pricked for any sound or movement.
Cain's hunts became increasingly frantic. He and Shadowfax tracked tirelessly through dense woods and rough terrain, managing to bring down deer and small game through sheer determination and hard-won skill. But their victories were modest, never quite enough to satisfy all the mouths depending on him.
Every hunt left Cain drained. The child cried weakly against his chest, her needs overwhelming him. His heart pounded with dread each time he returned to the Town Hall with barely enough meat to sustain them another day.
Yet, by sheer relentless effort, Cain eventually gathered just enough meat to summon three peasants. Hope flickered weakly inside him once more. Maybe, he thought desperately, these peasants could help. Maybe they would have answers, knowledge he lacked—someone who could nurture the child, tend the animals, repair the damage he'd allowed to happen.
Exhausted and desperate, Cain stood trembling before the summoning pedestal, his body near collapse after days without rest. Dirt-streaked, blood-smeared, and hollow-eyed, he stared at the infant bundled beside him—little baby was now frighteningly quiet, her tiny chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. Shadowfax stood like a statue beside her, his watchful gaze never wavering.
Cain fell to his knees with a ragged breath, his hands shaking as he pressed one palm against the cool stone pedestal. His voice cracked—raw, hoarse, nearly broken."Please," he whispered. "Someone who can help. Someone who can care for her… someone who understands life. Just… someone."
The pedestal pulsed gently beneath his hand, the runes flickering softly in response—warm, steady, like a heartbeat.
And then—
A blinding surge of light erupted outward, engulfing the hall in brilliance. Cain flinched, eyes squeezed shut, heart thundering with hope and fear. When the light faded, he opened his eyes slowly—and froze.
Three figures stood before him, bathed in soft morning light.
Three women.
They were naked, delicate, and unmistakably real. Their eyes were wide with confusion, breath visible in the cool air. They looked around in stunned silence, shivering slightly as they registered the hall, the pedestal, the man kneeling before them.
Cain's breath caught. The eldest stood closest—tall, radiant, with silver-white hair cascading over generous curves that defied the modesty of the moment. Her figure was breathtaking—soft, strong, maternal. The younger two flanked her—one small and fierce, the other trembling with timid uncertainty.
For a heartbeat, Cain's mind short-circuited. Weeks of isolation. Eighteen years of celibacy. Desperation. Gratitude. Hormones.
He rose suddenly—too fast—and crossed the space in two long strides, catching the eldest in a powerful embrace."Thank the gods," he choked, voice cracking. "You're finally here. You can feed her, right? With breasts like yours—you have to have milk!"
The words spilled from his lips before he could think, raw and unfiltered.
The woman gasped."What?!" Her voice rose sharply, her eyes wild with panic. "I—I'm not pregnant!" She struggled in his arms, her smaller frame trembling violently. "Let me go!"
"Don't touch her!" shouted the smallest of the three—Reika, fierce despite her size. She hurled herself at Cain, her fists pounding uselessly against his chest. "That's our mother!"
Cain blinked. Mother?
Behind them, the middle sister—Freya—staggered backward in terror. Her scream echoed through the hall as she crumpled to the floor, memories of blood and orcish cruelty flashing behind her eyes."Please don't hurt us!" she sobbed.
Realization struck Cain like a club. He released Reina immediately, stumbling backward in horror, hands raised."I—I didn't know. I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—"
But then a sound cut through the chaos.
A weak, whimpering cry. Familiar. Fragile.
The infant.
All three women turned sharply. Time seemed to freeze.
Freya scrambled to her feet, tears still streaking her cheeks. She ran to the bundle on the ground, dropping to her knees and scooping the baby into her arms. Her breath caught."Aila…?"
Reina and Reika rushed to her side, their fear forgotten, replaced by disbelief and unspoken grief.
"Oh Light…" Reina whispered, reaching to touch the baby's cheek. "Aila, you're alive. You're really alive…"
Tears flowed freely. Reika clutched the baby's tiny hand, pressing it to her cheek. "We thought… we thought she died with us…"
Cain stood in stunned silence, breath frozen in his lungs. He watched as the women crowded around the child—each of them touching her, whispering to her, crying quietly. It wasn't just recognition. It was reunion.
And suddenly, he understood. These weren't strangers. These women—this mother and her daughters—had known Aila in their past life. They had loved her.
He had summoned a family.
His embarrassment faded into awe.
And yet—he was still a man. And the morning light did their bare forms no favors. As they knelt over the child, the curve of a hip, the gentle slope of a back, the smooth glint of skin sent a wave of warmth up his neck. For a brief, shameful moment, he felt like a man watching a dream unfold.
But he quickly shook it off.
Cain turned and strode to his bedding, grabbing several soft furs. He approached the women carefully this time, holding them out with open hands."Please," he said softly. "Take these. I'm… I didn't mean to scare you. I just… I was desperate."
They looked up at him, still wary, but no longer terrified.
Reina accepted the fur first, her fingers brushing his hand. Her skin was warm. She pulled the pelt around her shoulders, her cheeks burning red.
Cain moved next to Reika, draping one gently over her back. Then Freya, who flinched but didn't pull away. Her arms were tight around Aila, her body trembling—but her eyes no longer pleaded.
Shadowfax, still watching from the far side of the hall, huffed through his nose and gave Cain a long, judgmental look. Cain smirked faintly."Yeah," he muttered. "I deserve that."
Reina glanced up again. Her voice was soft, vulnerable."Thank you… for keeping her alive."
Cain nodded, throat tight."I didn't do enough. But I tried."
She reached out then—hesitantly—and touched his hand."You did more than most would've."
Cain's chest ached. He stepped back and let them huddle close around the child. They were whole again—at least partly. And he, for the first time in months, felt like he wasn't alone.
As the light spilled gently into the hall, Cain exhaled. Whatever this strange twist of fate had brought—he welcomed it.
This was no longer just survival.
This was the beginning of something new.
Something worth fighting for.