The wind carried the scent of burning flesh. It clung to Cian’s clothes, thick and acrid, turning his stomach as he watched the pyres. Flames licked at the bodies stacked like firewood.


    Among the bodies laid out for the fire were people he had known—shopkeepers, farmers, travelers who had passed through the village only weeks ago. The arcane plague had taken them swiftly. Some had wasted away, their bodies brittle and hollow, while others had twisted into something unrecognizable before death finally took them.


    He barely heard his grandfather murmuring the old rites beside him, the scholar’s voice steady despite the horror before them.


    “From dust to dust, from ember to ember—may your souls make it to the Astral Realm.”


    The words felt thin against the roar of the fire. Cian swallowed, gripping the book pressed against his side. The leather was worn, the edges frayed from years of turning pages. His father’s book.


    The one thing he had left.


    A deep, melodic hum broke the silence. Cian turned to see his grandfather’s erefu, a towering, deer-like creature with sleek, dappled fur and antlers that curved like polished ivory. The beast shifted, stamping a hoof against the frost-hardened earth, its long tail flicking anxiously. The heat of the pyre unsettled it, and it let out another low vibration—one of unease.


    Cian reached out, running a hand along its thick coat. It was warm beneath his touch, the creature’s body radiating the steady heat of something built for endurance. Erefu were strong and swift, prized as mounts where horses could not thrive, but their skittish nature made them difficult to handle. His grandfather had spent years training this one, teaching it to trust fire, steel, and battle. Even so, it still startled at shadows when the wind blew wrong.


    Then came another hum—deeper, heavier, resonating like a drum against the earth. Not his grandfather’s erefu. Another.


    Cian turned.


    Emerging from the mist was a rider clad in blackened armor, the sigil of House Blackthorn stark against his cloak—twisted thorns wrapped around a silver sword. His erefu was larger than most, its thick woolen coat the color of deep charcoal, antlers sharpened and capped in iron. It moved with the grace of a predator, each step measured, deliberate. Unlike Cian''s grandfathers mount, it did not tremble at the scent of burning bodies.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The Solider pulled on the reins, the beast stopping mere feet away. Its breath misted in the cold air, nostrils flaring as it watched him with large, glassy eyes.


    The Blackthorn Solider dismounted in one fluid motion, boots crunching over the frost-hardened land. He surveyed the pyres, expression unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke.


    “The Houses are gathering.” His voice was like steel, smooth yet edged with danger. “War is coming.”


    Cian’s fingers dug into the leather of the book. The warmth of the fire pressed against his back.


    The Solider’s gaze darkened. “They blame the plague on magic.”


    The erefu beside him let out another hum, this time softer—watchful.


    “They say sorcerers are hiding among us. That the sickness is their doing.”


    Cian’s jaw tightened. His grip on the book was white-knuckled now.


    His grandfather, standing still as stone beside him, spoke at last. “Blame does not cure sickness.”


    The solder’s lips thinned. “No. But steel can.” His hand rested on the pommel of his sword. “House Blackthorn will not allow this madness to spread.”


    Cian barely felt the heat of the flames anymore. His father had wielded magic. Had used it to protect the village, he believed deeply in it.


    And now magic was a death sentence.


    The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “What if it isn’t?”


    The soldier turned, his gaze sharp as a blade.


    “What if the plague isn’t caused by mages?” Cian forced himself to hold the man’s stare. “What if it’s something else?”


    Silence.


    Then, a smirk—cold and humorless. “You sound just like your father. I knew him, a great solider, but he gave it all up to chase a woman and to study magic.”


    The erefu shifted, letting out a low, rolling hum. A warning.


    The soldier moved faster than Cian and his grandfather could react. In an instant, steel was at his throat, the cold bite of a blade pressing into his skin.


    “You should have burned with him,” the soldier murmured. His voice was quiet, almost pitying. “Maybe I should fix that mistake.”


    Cian swallowed, his pulse hammering in his ears. He could see the reflection of the fire in the soldier’s visor, dancing like hungry spirits.


    The soldier’s grip tightened. Cian braced himself—


    A sharp whistle cut through the air.


    Another Blackthorn soldier rode into view, his erefu kicking up dirt as he pulled to a stop. “Commander! We’ve got orders—urgent!”


    The soldier didn’t move at first. The blade didn’t waver.


    Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he withdrew it.


    “Count yourself lucky, boy,” he said. “You’ll see your father again soon enough.”


    Cian exhaled, barely realizing he’d been holding his breath.


    The soldier mounted his erefu in a single motion, the beast letting out a low hum as he pulled the reins.


    Without another word, he rode off into the snow, disappearing like a shadow.


    Cian let out a shaky breath. His grandfather placed a firm hand on his shoulder.


    “We need to leave.”


    Cian didn’t argue.


    The flames still burned behind them as they turned toward the road back towards the village.