Tiny Raven

Odrian didn’t want to be here.

Not on the Tharon shores, not in a war camp, and not tracking a thief through the forest in the middle of the night.

But the thief – whoever they were – had finally made a mistake, leaving a trail of coins (his coins) behind as they ran through the forest. They were intermittent enough that he kept having to search, but often enough that he had a direct path.

The thief had been stealing from the Aurean camps for months now. At first it hadn’t been noticeable – men would swear they’d left drachmae on a table, or the cooks would claim they’d made more than what they had served. Supply counts were off, but only by one or two. Simple accounting errors that could have any number of causes.

Except it kept happening. Reliable as the tides. Once or twice a week another person would approach him or Dionys and tell them that something had gone missing. Coin, jewelry, anything small and valuable.

But tonight, tonight, the thief had made a mistake. They had stolen from him.

He had left his own coin purse out as a lure. Somewhere unattended, ideal for it to go missing. And he had made sure that his coin purse had a hole in it. Small and innocuous, easily unnoticed, but large enough for the coins to fall from when jostled.

His trap had worked.

And now … now he had to deal with the consequences.

But after tonight the thief would be dealt with and he could stop fielding complaints about missing items and get back to winning this gods damned war.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Alessia’s bare feet barely made a sound as she flit through the forest, scurrying away from the Aurean camp. She’d slung a simple canvass sack over her shoulder, filled with food and – more important tonight – medicine.

Stealing the medicine had been the hardest part of the night, forcing her to be patient. But she had waited until the old healer had gone to the latrines, leaving the healing tent unguarded.

She had grabbed everything she thought she could use.

Honey, garlic, bitterroot, and fresh linen bandages for her own wound. Feverfew and willow bark for Stella’s fever. A bundle of laurel leaves and some incense to sacrifice to Apollo.

She hoped it would be enough. She hoped she was right about the herbs’ uses.

She hadn’t wanted to take too much, leaving plenty for the Aurean troops, but she had to help her daughter. She knew nothing of herblore, though. Walus hadn’t let her learn, claiming it a waste of time as they had his physician and healers to take care of any illnesses or injuries.

Alessia had known the real reason was to keep her subservient. Too ignorant to risk running.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

After an eternity, Alessia finally reached the dilapidated shack at the edge of Aurean territory. Before the war it had probably served to protect fishermen from the weather, but it had clearly been abandoned for years.

Its roof was mostly intact, and the walls kept out the worst of the weather. After hiding in caves, burned-out villages, and the open, it had felt god sent.

Alessia ducked inside, immediately going to the nest of stolen blankets and cloaks where a small, still figured lay.

The girl was tiny for her age, and thin as a rail. Her breathing was labored – too shallow and far too fast. Alessia put the back of her hand against the child’s forehead.

The fever was getting worse.

The young woman tossed the coin purse she had taken with the other two she had hidden away. Then she picked up the rough sack and moved behind the child, pulling her up onto Alessia’s lap.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Odrian stepped into the shack with the silence of a hunting wolf, his blade drawn but not raised. The scene in front of him gave him pause.

The thief wasn’t what he expected – a hardened criminal or perhaps a deserter. Instead the thief was a young woman, gaunt and obviously desperate, cradling a sick child in her arms and shaking like a fragile bird.

Odrian’s lips thinned, but the sharp edge of his anger dulls. A thief was one thing, but this? This was something else entirely.

He cleared his throat before speaking, keeping his voice low and controlled.

“So. You’re the one robbing my men blind.”

The words hold no heat, only weary curiosity. He had expected a mercenary or a spy. Perhaps even a Tharon scout. Not … this. Not a woman and an ill child.

His gaze flicked to the child – a little girl, far too young to be caught in the war’s crossfire. His stomach twisted. She was only a year or two younger than his own son, left behind and waiting for him back in Othara.

“Stealing from Aurean soldiers is punishable by death,” he said sternly. His voice was cutting as he suddenly filled the doorway, blocking the woman’s sole exit.

Odrian’s gaze darted between the fevered child and the hollow-eyed young woman. She was almost certainly Tharon. His hand tightens on his sword’s hilt.

“Yet here you are, feeding a child with stolen rations. Explain yourself. Quickly.”

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Alessia tensed, hesitating for a brief moment.

“We were starving. We needed food.”

Stella’s eyes flutter open, glazed with fever but brightening as she recognizes Alessia.

“You came back!” she whispers hoarsely, her small hands clutching at Alessia’s sleeve.

Then she notices Odrian looming in the doorway with his gleaming sword …

She curls into Alessia’s side, frightened for just a moment, before she lifts her chin stubbornly. Her voice wobbles, but she glares at Odrian like he’s any other soldier trying to frighten them.

“Don’t yell at Mama!” she croaks. “She only took food ‘cause I’m sick! And … And if you’re mean to her, Hermes’ll turn you into a frog!”

She proclaims the curse with all the conviction of a five-year-old who truly believes the god of thieves is secretly her friend.

Then promptly ruins her own bravado by coughing weakly into her sleeve.

Alessia hushes her daughter, rubbing a hand over the child’s back in an effort to calm her.

Odrian exhales sharply, torn between annoyance and amusement. He sheathes his sword, although his tone is still stern when he speaks again.

“Your little protector has a lion’s heart,” he mutters. “But invoking the gods won’t shield you from consequences.”

He finally steps fully into the shack, fully taking in the makeshift pallet, the chipped bowl of water, the flush on the girl’s face … how light the sack of stolen items looks if it’s feeding two hungry mouths. His mind tallies it all.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet.

“Three questions. Answer true, and I may forget I found you. Lie, and my mercy ends. How long have you been stealing from my camp? Does she have anyone in Tharos who would ransom her? And why target my provisions?”

The last question is asked in a tone that is almost offended, as if the theft had been personal.

“Three, maybe four months for all the Aurean camps,” Alessia says as she holds up a single finger to show which question she’s answering. She lifts a second, “That’s … complicated. Not on her own, but both of us together? Yes.” And she lifts a third, “Luck. I try to rotate camps. Just got lucky tonight, I suppose.”

A dry chuckle escape Odrian at her bluntness, and he rubs at his temple – half exasperated, half impressed.

His fingers stray to the pouch at his belt, where he had placed the stolen coins as he had found them.

“Rotating targets so no single commander notices a pattern,” he observes. “Clever. Reckless.”

He crouches down, level with Stella, studying her fever – then stands again, abruptly. “You’ll repay your debt. You speak Aurean like a native, and I heard you whispering Tharon to the girl. Clearly you know camp routines. You’re useful. Work for me – gathering information, translating messages and interrogations – and no one hangs you for theft.”

He tosses a hunk of bread from his own rations onto the pallet as he continues, “Starting now. Give me your names and tell me where your father is – before I change my mind.”

Stella’s eyes widened like an owlet’s as Odrian loomed closer, but instead of cowering she bares her teeth at him – all stubborn defiance even as she trembled. Her hands curled into fists like she was ready to fight the great Odrian himself for her mother’s sake.

Then the bread landed beside her and her starving body betrays her. She scoots closer, sniffing, but doesn’t reach for it. First she looks to Alessia, waiting for permission. 

“ … Mama says I shouldn’t talk to bad men.” Her gaze flicked to Odrian’s sword, then back to his face. She squinted at him suspiciously. “Are you a bad man?”

Alessia sighs softly at her daughter’s innocent question.

Odrian’s lips quirked at the child’s defiance as he spared Alessia a sideways glance. The girl was clearly her mother’s daughter. He knelt properly, deliberately setting his sword aside. He allowed the tension in his shoulders to loosen, not into carelessness, but into resigned amusement.

“I’m the worst man you’ll ever meet,” he told Stella solemnly, but there’s a glint in his eye that belied the threat. “But today? Today I’m just a man who wants your Mama’s help. And – “ he nudged the bread closer to her, “ – a man who knows hungry heroes deserve supper.”

Quieter he turned to Alessia, “She needs medicine. I have some in my tent. But the questions still stand.”

His voice hardened faintly, not a threat but a reminder that debts are paid – one way or another.

“Alessia,” she said with a wave at herself, then she waved at her daughter.. “Stella. As for my father, I don’t know if he’s even alive. He sold me when I was twelve. I haven’t seen him since.”

She reached out and handed the bread to Stella, her permission implicit in the act.

Stella took the bread eagerly, nibbling at it with the careful restraint of a child used to making too-small portions last. Her dark eyes never leave Odrian’s face, darting between him and her mother like she’s waiting for a trick – for the moment he lunges at them or takes the food back.

Her chewing slows as Alessia speaks of her father. She doesn’t understand it, but she’s familiar with her mother’s tone. The one that means something hurts. Silently she scoots closer to Alessia, pressing against her side in silent solidarity.

“Mama doesn’t like talking about that,” she says as she clutched the last bite of bread protectively. She reached out, holding the bread out to her mother. A silent ‘You eat, too’ passing between them. Then, with the ruthless logic of a child, she says, “If you’re really not bad, you should get the medicine first. Then we’ll see.”

A beat of silence before she added, “… And maybe more bread.”

Odrian barked out a laugh – sharp and genuine – before he shook his head. The child negotiated like a seasoned merchant and he can’t decide if that’s impressive or infuriating.

Slowly he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he met Stella’s unwavering glare.

“Alright, little strategist,” he conceded. “Medicine first. Then we’ll discuss the terms of your mother’s employment.”

Then, because he couldn’t resist, he adds with mock gravity, “Though if you start demanding my rations as tribute, I’ll have no choice but to remind you who the king here is.”

His tone lacked any bite. If anything there was something approving in the way he watched her – the fierce, half-starved scrap of a girl who hadn’t backed down from him. His gaze slid back to Alessia.

“So,” he said as he stood. “Shall I fetch the supplies? Or do you both come with me now?” He left the choice with deliberate weight.

No demands. Just options.

Either way, he had already decided: These two are his now. And Odrian of Othara never let go of what was his.

Alessia sighed, already moving to get up. “Give me a moment to gather our things. We’ll go with you.”

Stella stiffened instantly, her eyes widening in alarm as her mother began to rise. Her small hand shot out, clutching her mother’s sleeve in desperation.

“No, no, no!” Her voice pitched higher, frantic in her sudden terror. “Don’t go with him, Mama! He’s lying!”

She whirled on Odrian, wild-eyed, bread forgotten as she scrambled to put herself between Alessia and the king – as if her tiny body could shield anyone. Her breath came too fast – no longer stubbornness, but the raw panic of a child who had seen and lost too much.

“He wants to take you away!” she cried before her words tumbled out in a terrified rush, a tangled memory of half-forgotten horrors. “L-like-the-other-bad-men-did!”

She was shaking violently, tears streaking her flushed cheeks.

“Stell- Stell! Stella!” Alessia said, her own voice growing frantic as she tried to calm her daughter, but the little girl was too far lost in her panic.

And then, like a snuffed candle, Stella’s knees buckled as fever and panic overwhelmed her at last. She collapsed forward, unconscious before she hit the ground.

(Somewhere in her nightmares, soldiers drag her mother away forever.)

Alessia caught her before she could fall, pulling the little girl into her arms with a soft sigh.

For a fraction of a second, Odrian is perfectly, utterly still – processing the raw terror in Stella’s voice, the way her body gave out like a snapped bowstring.

Then he moves, swift and precise – Sword and abandoned, hands outstretched as if to catch Stella before realizing Alessia already had her. His jaw clenched.

“Enough.” The word rasped out, uncharacteristically rough. He yanked the woolen cloak from his shoulders and thrust it at Alessia – thin, but better than nothing against the night’s chill. “Wrap her. Quickly.”

Before Alessia can even consider protesting, he’s turned to scan the trees beyond the shack with lethal focus. His voice dropped to a hissed whisper. “You said you hadn’t seen your father. Who are the men she fears?”

And why, he wonders, does a child recognize betrayal so well?

“I don’t break oaths, girl. We leave now.”

No negotiations left, just grim certainty of a commander who knows when a battle has been lost before it had begun.

“I haven’t seen mine,” Alessia explained as she laid Stella down on the nest of blankets. “Hers is a different story.” She looked up at Odrian, “The ‘bad men’ she’s talking about are Tharon soldiers.”

Odrian’s expression darkens like a storm rolling over Othara’s shores. For a heartbeat there’s something dangerous in his posture – the kind of stillness that comes just before a spear finds its mark.

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Tharon soldiers,” he repeated, voice dripping with quiet venom. His gaze flicked to Stella’s unconscious form, then back to Alessia. “That explains the fear and the fear. Fine. New terms.”

He swept his sword up in one fluid motion and strode to the doorway, pausing only to glare over his shoulder – not at Alessia, but at the shadows beyond her, as though daring Tharon’s ghosts to follow them.

“You’ll both stay in my tent, under my protection. The girl gets treated, you work off your debt, and when this war ends – “ he hesitated, just a beat, before his voice dropped and he continued, almost too soft to catch. “I’ll see you both safely away from here. That’s my oath.”

Alessia slung a worn leather satchel over her shoulder, grunting softly when she stood and realized it was heavier than it should have been. A quick glance inside confirmed her suspicion – Stella had been collecting rocks. They had a deal that the child would only keep a ‘handful’ of them. Apparently Alessia would would have to clarify that she meant her hand, not one belonging to a Titan.

“Gods, Stell,” Alessia muttered with an exhausted fondness. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

She knew she couldn’t leave them behind. If she left one of the ‘special’ ones by accident, Stella would be inconsolable and would likely demand they come back for it.

And Stella had so few things that were her own. Alessia wasn’t going to take away her daughter’s belongings. Not without a good reason.

She sighed and removed the satchel before kneeling beside one of the rotting floorboards and pulling out three pouches. One – thin and small – she slipped into the satchel, and the other two she held out to Odrian.

“This is everything I took – with the exception of food.”

Odrian caught the pouches with one hand, weighing them before tucking them into his own belt – less interested in their contents than he was in Alessia’s actions. His sharp eyes tracked the way she hesitated before handing them over.

“You’re missing one,” he observed dryly – not a question, but a reminder abut honesty being part of their deal. He didn’t press, not yet.

“That one’s mine,” Alessia said as she slung the satchel over her shoulder. “A silver ring from my mother, and an old drachma from a friend. I’ll show you, if you want.”

Odrian studied her for a long moment – the weariness in her posture, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her arms tightened around Stella.

He waved a dismissive hand, “Keep it.” The words were gruff, but there’s an unexpected edge of something softer underneath. “A man who steals a mother’s final memento doesn’t deserve to call himself ‘king’.”

His gaze flicked to the shadows outside – lingering too long, as if expecting Tharon soldiers to materialize from the dark. He jerked his chin toward the path.

“Stay close. If I tell you to run – run.”

He paused before adding, almost as an afterthought, “If magic still holds any weight in this wretched war … swear to me that ring isn’t enchanted.”

Not a demand, but a condition. Too many had been undone by cursed (and blessed) trinkets.

Alessia chuckled, “My mother used to say it would guide me home, but no. It isn’t enchanted.”

“Good.” The word was sharp – too sharp, as if the thought of magic had long since frayed his patience. He exhaled through his nose, twisting his signet ring absently. “The gods toy with us enough without cursed heirlooms joining in.”

He led them out, his strides deliberate. Not slow enough to coddle Alessia’s burden, but not so fast that she wouldn’t be able to keep up. Every few steps, though, he glanced back – not at Alessia, but at Stella’s slack face.

(The child’s fever isn’t his concern. The way her fingers twitched in her sleep, as if still trying to cling? That shouldn’t be his concern, either.)

“Your mother,” he said abruptly, voice low but clear over the crunch of underbrush beneath their feet. “Traitor or fool?”

A blunt question – but his tone lacked judgement. Only calculation.

“Neither,” Alessia said. “She got sick when I was a child. She never got better. She died when I was ten.”

Odrian’s steps slow, just slightly, as if the words had physically given him pause. For once, his clever tongue failed him. He knew sickness, he knew loss. But to voice either would be too much like an apology, and Odrian of Othara didn’t apologize to thieves. Not even grieving ones.

Instead, he adjusted their path, veering toward a thicker copse of trees where the shadows would hide them better. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than before – not gentle, but stripped of its usual edge.

“May she rest well in Asphodel.”

Then, practical again because he couldn’t help himself, “And her people? The ones who sold you?”

“Don’t know her family,” Alessia admitted. “She never talked about her life before Ellun. She was Aurean, but that’s the most I know. Her name was Nysa.” She sighed, “It was my Tharon father who sold me, after her death. I don’t know his family either, and – like I said – I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. His name was Tikkun.”

Odrian made a sound low in his throat – part scoff, part grim understanding. “A Tharon with the morals of a starving jackal. Typical.”

The venom in his voice isn’t directed at Alessia, but at the faceless man who had traded his own blood for coin.

“Good riddance, then,” he said, quieter, as they neared the edge of the Aurean camp.

Before Alessia could respond (or worse, thank him), he briskly added, “My tent’s ahead. Dionys will be there. Try not to startle him unless you want a spear flung at your head.”

A deflection and a warning. Even kind gestures have their limits before dawn.

Alessia snorted, “I’ll do my best to not announce my presence with thunder and lightning.”

Odrian let out a sharp, unexpected laugh – genuine amusement cutting through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. For the first time since entering the shack, his shoulders relaxed fractionally.

“Careful,” he said dryly, pushing aside the tent flap to allow her in. “If you’ve got jokes like that, I might actually enjoy your company.”

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