Halvern Trask wiped his hands on the worn cloth that hung at his waist, blinking against the golden morning light spilling through the wooden slats of his small vendor stall. The town square of Windrest was just beginning to stir—a handful of early adventurers stretched their limbs, their armor clinking softly as they prepared for another day of questing. The air smelled faintly of roasted bread and damp earth, the kind of ordinary scent that made Hal's chest ache with quiet contentment.
For nearly a hundred years—or what counted as a century in the game's cycles—Hal had stood here. Behind this counter, beneath a patchwork roof that rattled when the wind sighed through the cracks, he sold trinkets and potions to heroes on their way to glory. A vendor. A fixture. A ghostly face in the bustling fantasy world of EverQuest of Eternity.
He liked to think of himself as harmless. Unremarkable. A little too old, a little too plain, a little too steady. But that steadiness was a comfort, wasn't it? To himself, mostly. The game patch last week had said it would "enhance NPC interaction," but for Hal, nothing had changed—until this morning.
The bell above the stall tinkled—a rare sound, since few players came by so early. He looked up to see a young woman, a player, struggling beneath the weight of a small bundle wrapped tightly in a coarse blanket.
"Are you the vendor here?" she asked, voice trembling like the first leaves of autumn.
Hal nodded carefully. "That would be me."
She hesitated, eyes darting nervously around the square. "I... I can't keep her anymore. The game... it's not what I thought. I have to log out—forever. But I can't take her with me."
Hal's brows furrowed. "Who is she?"
The player gently lowered the bundle onto the counter. The blanket stirred, and a small, pale face peeked out—wide eyes blinking slowly up at the strange world around her.
"She's my daughter. Please, you have to look after her."
Hal felt something shift deep inside—a strange, unfamiliar tug, like the whisper of a memory half-forgotten. NPCs weren't supposed to care like this. They were programmed to exist in patterns, to respond in loops. But the world had changed.
"Please," the woman pleaded. "I trust you."
Before Hal could say another word, the player turned and vanished, leaving the child behind.
Hal sat back on his stool, his fingers tracing the soft fabric that covered the girl. Her name was Elia, he decided. The name came unbidden, as if whispered from some hidden place within him.
She was fragile, but breathing steady. She looked around with wonder, not fear. In her eyes, Hal saw not code or script, but something deeply human: hope.
The town of Windrest carried on unaware. Adventurers came and went, trading stories of battles and treasure. But for Hal, time stopped. He was no longer just a vendor. He was a father.
That first day was the hardest. Elia was hungry. Not just for the food he could offer, but for warmth, safety, love—the kinds of things a game never promised. Hal tried to summon quests, to find ways to level up fast, but the usual systems were silent. No guide, no hint.
All he had was himself.
And the little girl who looked at him like he was the whole world.
Days turned to weeks. The other NPCs whispered in coded phrases, confused by Hal's strange new "purpose." Why protect a player's child? Why try to grow stronger?
Hal didn't know. He only knew he couldn't fail her.
Slowly, painfully, he learned to fight—not for power or glory, but for her safety. Every level gained was a victory. Every skill unlocked was a promise.
Elia laughed sometimes, bright as the morning sun. She gave Hal a reason to push beyond his limits. To be more.
And so, the journey began—not of a hero seeking fame, but a father learning what it means to love fiercely, to sacrifice everything, and to find strength in the quietest places.