The orphanage stood in the clearing like a fragile bulwark against ANRK’s broken world, its weathered stone walls soaking up the pale dawn light. Cain and Lira crossed the fenced yard, splintered boards creaking under their boots, while children—a mix of scrawny humans and demi-humans with pointed ears or short tails—watched from a distance. Smoke from the chimney carried the scent of stale bread and burnt herbs, an aroma that didn’t fill the stomach but promised something beyond raw hunger. Cain trailed Lira, his burned leg still stinging beneath hardened skin, but his mind was alert, cataloging: About 20 children, ages 5-14, mild malnutrition in most. Structure old but sturdy, cracks in corners but no imminent collapse. Resources scarce, likely surviving on scraps and Lira’s contributions.
Lira stopped at the main door, her posture more relaxed than Cain had ever seen. Before she could knock, the door swung open, and an older woman stepped into the threshold. She was short, stooped by years, with gray hair tied in a messy bun that left strands loose over her wrinkled face. Her eyes, a faded blue, sparkled with a kindness that seemed out of place in this brutal world, and her smile at seeing Lira was so warm Cain almost stepped back. “Lira, little one!” she said, her voice soft but steady, as if she still saw the girl she’d taken in years ago. “You’re early this time.”
Lira smiled, a small but genuine expression Cain hadn’t seen before. “No choice, Mara,” she replied, leaning down to let the woman hug her. The embrace was brief but firm, and when they parted, Mara’s eyes settled on Cain, assessing him without losing her warmth.
“And who’s this?” she asked, wiping her hands on a worn apron that smelled of flour and ash.
“Cain,” Lira said, nodding toward him. “My… partner, I guess. Doesn’t bite, though he sometimes looks like he might.”
Cain tilted his head, a minimal greeting. “I don’t bite,” he confirmed, his voice dry but not hostile. Mara, estimated age 65. Posture suggests physical wear, but energy intact, he thought, noting how the children in the yard edged closer now, curious but keeping their distance.
Mara laughed, a light sound that cut through the air’s tension. “Well, if Lira brought you, you’re welcome. Come in, both of you. There’s soup, not much else, but something’s better than nothing.”
The orphanage’s interior was as austere as its exterior: bare walls with damp stains, a worn wooden floor creaking with every step, and a common room with long tables and mismatched benches. A pot simmered over a fire in the corner, the smell of watery broth—roots and maybe dried meat—filling the space. The children were already inside, about fifteen gathered in small groups, their voices a low murmur. Cain observed as he followed Mara and Lira: Three demi-humans, two with wolf ears, one with arm scales. Humans dominate, patched clothes, some with dry coughs.
“These are mine,” Mara said, spreading an arm as if encompassing them all. “We don’t have much, but we manage. Lira helps when she can.” She gave Lira a look of pride that Lira avoided, visibly uncomfortable.
“It’s not much,” Lira muttered, setting the burlap sack she’d carried from the village on a table. She opened it, pulling out two hard loaves and a handful of copper coins. “This is what’s left after… the village.”
Mara frowned but didn’t press. “It’s always something,” she said, taking the loaves and passing them to an older boy, a human about 13 with unevenly cropped hair. “Share, Jek. Equal for everyone.”
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Cain sat on a bench, letting his leg rest, watching as Jek divided the loaves with near-military precision, giving crumbs even to the smallest kids. But something caught his eye: a child in the corner, a demi-human with short cat ears, lay on a cot, his breathing rapid and shallow. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and a damp cloth rested over his eyes.
“What’s wrong with him?” Cain asked, nodding toward the boy. His tone was practical, but a thread of genuine curiosity ran through it.
Mara sighed, approaching the cot with slow steps. “That’s Tani. Fever for three days. Won’t break, and he’s weak. We give him water, cool cloths, but…” Her voice trailed off, and Cain caught the weight behind it: helplessness.
“No healers,” Lira said, sitting beside him. “Not here. The good ones are expensive, and guilds or clans hoard them. No gold or power, you’re stuck with what’s around: herbs, rest, luck.”
Cain nodded, his mind racing: Persistent fever, likely bacterial or viral infection. Without awakened healers, options limited to traditional methods. Infant mortality in these conditions: 30-40% without intervention. He stood, approaching the cot. “Let me see,” he said, more a statement than a request.
Mara looked at him, surprised, but didn’t object. “Know something about this?” she asked, stepping aside to give him space.
“A bit,” Cain replied, kneeling beside Tani. Fragmented memories: basic physiology, rudimentary pharmacology. Fever: systemic inflammation, elevated body temperature, likely 39-40°C. He touched the boy’s forehead with the back of his hand—hot, too hot—and checked his pulse at the wrist: 120 bpm, weak but steady. “What have you used?” he asked, glancing at Mara.
“Cold water, ground willow root,” she said, pointing to a bowl with brown powder. “It’s what we have. Lowers the fever for a bit, but it comes back.”
Cain nodded, processing: Willow root, likely a salicin analog. Natural anti-inflammatory, but low dose, temporary effect. “He needs more than that,” he said, standing. “Got anything to boil water? Clean cloth?”
Mara pointed to a small pot and a rag hanging near the fire. Cain moved quickly, his mind on autopilot: Basic sterilization, reduce bacterial load. Direct cold compress to lower core temperature. He boiled water, let it cool enough not to burn, and soaked the cloth, wringing it out before placing it on Tani’s chest, not just his forehead. “This cools better,” he explained as Mara and Lira watched. Then he took the willow root bowl, sniffing it—bitter, earthy—and added a pinch more to the remaining water, stirring until it dissolved. “Give it in small sips,” he said, handing the bowl to Mara. “Not too much, or he’ll vomit.”
Lira crossed her arms, watching him with a mix of awe and suspicion. “Where’d you learn that?” she asked, her tone more curious than accusatory.
Cain shrugged, wiping his hands on his tunic. “Just know it,” he said, evasive but honest. Residual memory: basic medical principles, adapted to local resources. Estimated efficacy: 60-70% for stabilization. He wasn’t a healer, not like the awakened ones Lira mentioned, but he knew enough to make a difference.
Mara smiled, a spark of gratitude in her eyes. “If Tani pulls through, I owe you more than soup,” she said, adjusting the cloth on the boy. His breathing seemed slower now, less frantic.
“You don’t owe me,” Cain replied, dry but not harsh. Intervention minimal, outcome pending. Group survival benefits mine. He returned to the bench, sitting with a sigh. The other children watched him now, some warily, others with something like admiration. Jek, the older boy, approached, offering a piece of the shared bread.
“For Tani,” he said, his voice low but firm.
Cain took it, nodding. “Thanks.” The bread was hard, but he ate slowly, letting the calories settle.
Lira sat beside him, her tail tracing a slow arc. “You get weirder every day,” she said, but there was a hint of approval in her voice. “First you try saving villagers, now you play healer. What’s next?”
“Surviving,” he replied, simple but heavy with meaning she understood.
Mara approached, bringing two bowls of soup. “Eat,” she said, her tone maternal but firm. “You’ve had a long day, and you’re safe here. For now.”
Cain took the bowl, the warmth of the liquid soothing his cold hands. He looked at Lira, then at the children, and finally at Tani, whose breathing was a touch steadier. The orphanage wasn’t a home, not for him, but it was a respite. And in ANRK, that was more than he could ask for.
