Arden was a centaur—a proud and formidable leader of his herd. His powerful torso seamlessly merged with the sleek frame of a horse, and his skill with a bow was unmatched. His hooves pounded the earth faster than any other in the herd. Yet Arden carried a quiet sorrow. For all his accomplishments, Arden yearned for something he could not hunt or command: a child. He dreamed of a small centaur, someone to teach the rhythms of the gallop and the art of the hunt, to share in the laughter of youthful curiosity and the warmth of unconditional love. But fate had been cruel. Despite his and his wife’s hopes, they were never able to conceive. Then, heartbreak struck anew when his beloved passed away. Her absence left a void so profound it seemed the very earth mourned with him. As leader, Arden remained strong for his herd, though the ache lingered in quiet moments beneath the stars.

One crisp morning, the herd’s gallop echoed through the forest until the crash of splintering wood broke the harmony. A merchant’s overturned cart lay ahead, its contents scattered. Arden signaled for the herd to stop. Bandits had struck; the cart was empty, its owners missing. He froze, his sharp gaze narrowing as he followed the sound. Beneath a torn piece of canvas, he found the source: a small human child, their legs twisted unnaturally and tears streaking their dirt-smudged face. They trembled as Arden loomed over them. The herd murmured their disapproval. A wounded human was a burden. “Leave it,” someone muttered. Logic agreed, but the ache in Arden’s chest burned anew. In the child, he glimpsed a chance to heal more than their wounds—a chance to heal his own. “Silence,” Arden commanded, cutting through dissent. He gently lifted the child, his massive hands cradling them as if they were the most precious thing in the world. “We move,” he said, his tone final. And with that, Arden led the way forward.