A few days had passed since the fruitless interrogations in Miran. On Torren’s Thursday, the three soldiers gathered around the oak table, maps spread open and untouched cups of wine before them. The plan was simple: watch Father Meleq’s church, patrol the Abandonment Trail, wait for the guilty parents to return. Perhaps desperation or guilt would bring them back, but… nothing happened.

  Days turned into weeks of frustration. No suspicious figure near the tree, no whispered confession to the priest, no trace of a mysterious pregnancy. The villagers kept a stone cold silence and denied everything with evasive eyes. It was as if the parents had evaporated from the world.

  “Impossible,” Garrick grunted, slamming his fist on the table. “No one vanishes like that. Are they ghosts? Or traitors? There has to be a reason.”

  Jorem nodded, frustrated. “We watched everything, captain. There wasn’t even a shadow.”

  Torren closed his eyes, the weight of the baby sleeping in the bedroom pressing on his chest, “we will go to the king. The child is mine by right now… he will decide.”

  King Aldric’s castle rose like a grey stone beast against the heavy sky, its towers pierced with banners to reaffirm his power. Walls reinforced with iron from Miran’s mines surrounded courtyards where soldiers trained under the relentless rain. Slaves hauled barrels of salted fish, the smell mixing with the smoke from the forges. Inside the castle, broad corridors were decorated with gold, the most exotic and expensive tapestries, and ancient suits of armor from naval victories and from the king’s forebears.

  The three soldiers crossed the main hall, their boots echoing on the floor. Guards with crossed spears pushed open the heavy doors of the council room. King Aldric sat at the head of a long walnut table, naval charts spread before him. He had been waiting for them; his steward would have watched and warned him of their arrival.

  “Torren,” Aldric said, his voice commanding. “Report. Did you find the parents of the… burden?”

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  Torren stepped forward, Jorem and Garrick at his side. “No trace, Your Majesty. We spent weeks keeping watch on the trail, we interrogated the villagers exhaustively, and at Father Meleq’s church there was no sign of suspicion. It is as if the parents evaporated.”

  The king furrowed his brow, turning his fingers around the rim of his wine cup. “Impossible. The abandoned baby must have parents, don’t you think? Perhaps the children of spies, that seems most likely. In a panic, upon seeing you, they left him there to throw you off… or it might even have been bait,” he said slowly and calmly.

  Jorem spoke up, his voice firm, “With respect, Your Majesty, we searched like hunting dogs. No lead points to Leganor. The villagers are lying for some reason, but there are no visible traitors… the parents are from Miran, of that we are certain.”

  Garrick added his support, “if they were spies, they would’ve left false leads. This is too clean… a mystery.”

  Torren held the king’s gaze, “allow me to adopt him officially, Your Majesty. He is a child of the Ebon Sea, not of Leganor. I will raise him loyal to the crown, strong as the waves that protect us.”

  Aldric gave a dry laugh while his mind calculated. He needed Torren for the coming war, his best captain could not waste time on orphans. But if he allowed it, Torren would be in his debt. “Very well… keep him. But if this is treachery, it will be your head… Captain Torren.”

  He bowed, heart pounding, “thank you, your Majesty.”

  After taking his leave of the king and the soldiers, Torren returned to the farm. As soon as he entered the house, the first thing he did was lift the baby from the cradle. Syrna watched in silence, a gentle smile on her lips. The little one stirred, his green eyes wide and alert.

  The captain walked out onto the veranda, the salty wind of the Ebon Sea wrapping around them. Waves roared in the distance like a wild hymn. Torren looked at the child with love. “You need a name, don’t you, little one?” he murmured, rocking him against his chest. From there he could just barely see the sea on the horizon, but the sound alone spoke of its unyielding strength.

  “Ebon,” he decided, “you will have the sea’s strength… you survived its grasp, and you will carry its name, my son.”

  The baby closed his eyes peacefully, as if in agreement. Torren smiled for the first time in weeks. He was officially a father and could not be prouder. He remained on the veranda, watching the boy fall asleep, his heart warmed by emotion. In all his life, he had never wanted anything more than that moment with his son in his arms.