Year 1257, Month 4, Day 25.


    The fields surrounding Claye were still white. Spotless. Emptied of the bodies and blood that had once painted the wheat. Verac could almost taste it. The memories were still laced with the metallic bitterness of blood. But now, the wheat swayed peacefully. Forever ignorant of the blood that soaked their soil. Verac plucked a stalk, bending it in half. He twirled it between his fingers, the golden head of grain shimmering in the morning light. He scanned the field, wind rippling over it like golden water, sprawling up to the city walls. The wooden gates were wide open, men driving in and out on carts pulled by one or two tree-horns. Just another day in the field. Even those who were old enough to remember had forgotten. They had to forget. But the memories still loomed over the fields like clouds.


    Verac walked on, boots clomping against the dirt path. Hardened beneath the decades of man and beast walking over it. Much like the hearts of most people.


    He held his hand out, letting the heads of wheat brush against his fingertips as he walked. Men and women worked the rows he passed, laughing as they tended the soil, smiles slipping from some faces when they saw him. Those old enough to remember. He held the collar of his white cloak together, a sharp wind flapping the edges of the hood around his face, wheat rustling on either side. The creaking roll of a wagon grew behind him.


    “Woah,” a man bellowed.


    Verac turned around. A wagon drawn by a pair of tree-horns had stopped a few steps behind him. The animals snorted, mist leaving their dark nostrils. They were like massive deer, their horns spreading like tree branches, patched with green moss and pale blue lichen. The animal on the right had half a horn missing, the breaking point sharp as an arrowhead. The man atop the wagon met Verac''s gaze, his eyes narrowing beneath peppered brows.


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    He leaned forward, clutching the tree-horn’s reins. He wore a dark green coat with a fur collar that framed his short neck and draped down either side of his half-open top. Leaf-shaped earrings made of gold hung from his ears, and a chain rested against his open, hairy chest.


    “Are you…” the man started.


    Verac clenched his jaws. The same question they all thought to ask, but none of them wanted to. It’s always easier to ignore the first spark of fire than contemplate the blaze.


    “You’re an Innan?” Verac asked.


    The man grunted. “For now, at least.”


    Verac gave a slow nod, staring out at the wheat fields. “This place hasn’t changed as much as I thought it would.”


    “Nothing has,” he said.


    Nothing. The word echoed as if it had taken on a voice of its own in his head. Nothing. After ten years of peace. Of dreaming. Ten years of forgetting, and nothing had forgotten him.


    “Are you a Nightfinder?”


    Verac closed his eyes, turning back to the Innan. One of the tree-horns shook its head, ears flopping.


    Verac sighed. “Yes.”


    The man took a deep breath, cheeks puffing as he exhaled. “It’s only been ten years.”


    Verac nodded, running his tongue over his lips. “Yeah.”


    “Did you receive a message?”


    Verac clenched his gloved right hand into a fist, a throb pulsing in his spine. Again.


    “Yes,” he snarled.


    The man nodded, scratching the back of his head. “May Scirtotig help us,” he muttered, his beady eyes widening. “Well, get on the wagon. I’ll take you into Claye.”