The village of Iltown sat on the quiet border between two kingdoms, nestled in the shadow of old battlefields. Long ago, war had torn through this land, leaving its scars on the people who remained. Some bore them as missing limbs, others as old wounds that never quite healed. But war was a thing of the past. Now, Iltown was a place of peace, a place where those who had suffered could live without fear.


    Winter had settled heavily over the village, burying rooftops and pathways beneath thick blankets of snow. Icicles hung like jagged teeth from the eaves of houses, and the river that once carried merchants between kingdoms now lay frozen, its surface reflecting the dull gray of an overcast sky. The scent of burning wood lingered in the air, mixing with the crisp bite of cold, as the people of Iltown huddled indoors, escaping the bitter frost.


    At the very edge of the village, far from the bustling market and the blacksmith’s forge, stood a small, lonely house. Its roof sagged under the weight of snow, and frost clung stubbornly to its windows, but the land around it remained strangely untouched by winter’s grasp.


    Al, once a name that inspired dread, now belonged to nothing more than an old man with dirt under his nails and a grumpy bird perched on his shoulder. Unlike the rest of Iltown, his land was warm—unnaturally so. The greenhouse behind his home, a tangled fortress of vines and rare plants, pulsed with life even as the world outside lay frozen and dead. It was Al’s pride, his refuge, the only thing he had left.


    He hummed softly as he worked, his hands deep in the soil. The tune was old—older than the war, older than the village, perhaps. A song of the sea, meant to be sung in laughter and drunken joy, but here, in Al’s voice, it was slow and wistful.


    "Yo-ho-ho-ho… yo-ho-ho-ho…"


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    The bird on his shoulder, Yvon, tilted its head at him.


    "Your turn," Al said.


    Yvon, a Skychime, was supposed to be a perfect mimic. It had memorized the mayor’s grumbling, the butcher’s sneezes, and even the sound of a chair scraping against the tavern floor. Yet, when it came to this song, it refused to learn.


    Yvon fluffed its feathers, then whistled—horribly off-key.


    Al scowled. "That wasn’t even close."


    Yvon clicked its beak and turned its head away, pretending not to hear.


    "You little bastard," Al muttered. "You’ll sing Theo’s whining but not this? I should’ve eaten you when I had the chance."


    Yvon let out a sharp squawk, clearly offended.


    Al sighed, shaking his head as he returned to his work. Life was peaceful. Life was simple.


    And life was about to be ruined.


    He felt it first—the strange prickle at the back of his neck, like the air had shifted around him. Then he heard it: the crunch of snow beneath hurried, unsteady steps, the snap of a brittle branch, and the quiet, desperate panting of someone hiding nearby.


    He turned.


    A boy stood at the edge of his greenhouse—small, filthy, and trembling. His clothes were in tatters, his bare feet red and raw from the cold. Snow clung to his hair and lashes, and steam curled from his breath in uneven gasps. But it wasn’t his pitiful state that made Al pause.


    It was the way the boy flickered.


    For a second, he was there. Solid. Real.


    Then, in the blink of an eye, he vanished.


    Al’s eyes narrowed.


    And when the boy reappeared, crouching over his precious potatoes, clutching one as if it were a lifeline, Al had seen enough.


    "Hey!" His voice was sharp. "Put that down."


    The boy flinched, his wide golden eyes locking onto Al’s. There was no defiance in them—only fear. But he didn’t move, didn’t run. Instead, his body flickered again, like a flame about to go out.


    A cursed child.


    Al’s gut told him to turn away, to pretend he hadn’t seen. Curses were never simple, never safe. But as the boy collapsed, his fragile form barely holding together, Al knew—


    He was already too late to ignore it.


    Yvon let out a low whistle beside him, this time perfectly clear, as if to say, I told you so.


    Al scowled. This was going to be a problem.