In the chaos of fire and blood, just before the raiders had descended on Catler, Malcolm had left for the village market to buy new farm tools. He had no idea what was coming.
After the last raider fell and the village began to quiet, Axel didn't rest. He didn't bask in victory. The first thing he did was make sure Martha was safe—guiding her to shelter, checking her for wounds. Once he knew she was unharmed, he turned toward the market.
Smoke curled into the sky. The once-lively streets were stained red. Cries echoed—some from children, some from wounded adults, others from those mourning their dead.
Axel sprinted through the broken stalls and burning carts, his eyes scanning every face, every form. At a half-burnt pastry stand, he saw Hogery—the old baker—leaning against a post, blood on his apron.
"Hogery!" Axel called out, breathless. "Did you see Malcolm?"
The baker wiped his brow. "He was headed to the farm tool shop at the end of the street... just before the attack."
Axel didn't wait. He ran.
Past the cries. Past the fire. Past the fallen.
At the far end of the marketplace, near a shattered tool stand, he finally found him.
Malcolm lay in a pool of blood, his shirt torn, hand clutching his side. His breathing was shallow, his face pale—but his eyes were open, waiting.
"Malcolm!" Axel dropped to his knees, cradling the old man's head.
"My boy..." Malcolm coughed weakly, blood on his lips. "Look after Martha. When I'm gone, she'll need you more than ever. You're the only one I can place my hopes in now."
Tears welled in Axel's eyes. He had fought through fire, death, and fear—but now he faced something even harder.
"Malcolm… Can I—can I call you Father?"
Malcolm smiled softly, his voice fading. "The moment I brought you home… I didn't buy a slave… I found the son I never had. You've always been my boy."
Then, with one final breath, Malcolm closed his eyes—and let go.
Axel sat in silence for a long time, holding his father's hand. Then, with quiet strength, he lifted him into his arms and began the long walk home.
He stepped into the farmhouse and called out, voice low and shaky.
"Mom…"
Martha froze.
Axel had never called her that—not once.
She turned the corner, and when she saw Malcolm's body in his arms, she collapsed to the floor, sobbing with a pain only a widow could understand.
They buried Malcolm the next morning, beneath the old tree near the barn. The place where he taught Axel to plant. The place where he once said, "Everything begins from the soil."
The sky was gray. The wind still. Even the clouds mourned.
Axel stood beside Martha in silence, his hands clenched at his sides. He had just begun to heal from one lifetime of pain—only to be thrown into another.
That night, he fed Martha and sat with her. She was barely aware of anything, staring into nothing, her world shattered.
But Axel didn't break. He made sure she was warm. Safe. Fed. Watched over. Protected.
Months passed.
The wounds still ached, but life moved again. Martha was heartbroken, but she began doing the chores again, slowly picking herself back up. And every time Axel called her "Mother," something softened in her eyes—a reason to wake up again, a reason to live.
In the house Malcolm built, the son he chose carried on the legacy.
But deep in Axel's heart, something was building—a quiet, burning resolve.
He had lost his first family to treachery. Now he had lost his second to war.
And this time… he would not let it happen again.