《Wyrmhaven: Epic Progression Fantasy》 Chapter One: Bad Dreams Chapter One: Bad Dreams Hungry flames ate at the stones, the walls, and the wood, attempting to devour everything like a raging, hungry monster. The fire crackled with malevolent intent, sending sparks skyward like vengeful spirits escaping their torment. Heat rippled through the air, distorting the vision of anyone who dared look upon the inferno. The stones blackened and cracked, their ancient strength failing under the relentless assault of the unnatural blaze. "GIVE HIM TO ME, TAELIA!" A growling, booming voice like thunder and rock yelled over the flames, which flared up at the sound of the voice. The fire seemed to respond to the command, reaching higher as if eager to please its master. The voice held power in it, ancient and terrible, a voice accustomed to being obeyed without question. "He is not here! You are too late!" A woman''s voice rang out, defiant and strong despite the peril surrounding her. Her words carried the weight of conviction and desperation intertwined, each syllable infused with determination. The voice belonged to a fighter, someone who would not yield even in the face of certain doom. "LIES! I SENSE HIM!" The thunderous voice reverberated through the burning structure, causing loose stones to tremble and fall. Rage and frustration colored the words, the fury of a predator denied its rightful prey. Putrid yellow and green orbs pierced through the flames. They were eyes, and their malice burned hotter than the fire surrounding them. Within those eyes swirled ancient hatred and cold calculation, a predator''s gaze fixed upon its prey. Those eyes had watched civilizations rise and fall, had seen countless lives snuffed out without remorse. A beautiful blonde woman stood defiant against those eyes. Her ears were pointed, but her skin was silver and white scales that caught the firelight and reflected it back in dazzling patterns. She wore brilliant armor like a shining star within the darkness and flame, each piece intricately crafted with symbols that pulsed with inner light. The armor moved with her as if it were a second skin, not hindering her movements in the slightest. In her right hand was a blade of radiant light, a silver-tongued beacon of power that the woman raised up against the eyes. The weapon hummed with energy, its edge so sharp it seemed to cut the very air around it. The sword sang a silent song of defiance, of light against darkness, of protection against destruction. A chuckle that sent shivers down the spine emanated from the surrounding darkness around the eyes, a sound filled with cruel amusement and anticipation. It was the laugh of something that had seen countless defiances, and had crushed them all. A darkness that was not darkness but scales blacker than a starless, moonless night shifted in the shadows. Like a giant glacier, the darkness moved, and scarlet light built within the darkness before it rushed out like the tide. The creature''s massive form became partially visible in the flare of its attack, revealing glimpses of a nightmare given flesh, of wings that could blot out the sun, of a body made for destruction. Blazing fire bathed the woman, engulfing her completely in a furnace hot enough to melt metal. But when the flame died away, the woman still stood, unburnt. Her armor gleamed even brighter, the scales of her skin reflecting the firelight with defiant radiance. Not even a hair on her head had been singed by the infernal assault. "YOUR POWER HAS GROWN, TAELIA. IT WILL NOT BE ENOUGH. GIVE ME THE BABE AND YOUR DEATH WILL BE QUICK." The voice carried both threat and offer, the promise of mercy a thin disguise for its underlying malice. There was a note of surprise in it too, grudging respect for her strength, but confidence that it would ultimately prove insufficient. In answer, the woman raised her silver sword higher, its light cutting through the shadows like dawn breaking through night. Her eyes, filled with determination and the fierce love of a protector, narrowed at the hidden enemy. The sword trembled slightly in her grasp, not from fear but from the sheer power it contained, barely restrained by her will. "Come, betrayer! We shall see who dies this day!" Her voice rang with conviction, each word a declaration of her willingness to sacrifice everything. She adjusted her stance, feet planted firmly, ready to face the coming assault. This would be her final stand, and she knew it, embraced it, was prepared to make it count. Away from the fire, the woman, and the malicious eyes, another woman was in a tunnel deep under the now-burning castle. She clutched a small form to her chest, wrapped in blankets that obscured all but the tiniest glimpse of a sleeping face, peaceful despite the chaos above. The child''s skin seemed to glow faintly with an inner light, a stark contrast to the darkness of the tunnel. She sat astride a huge black horse, its coat gleaming with sweat in the dim light of the tunnel. The woman''s violet eyes darted nervously behind them, listening for sounds of pursuit, her face etched with worry and determination in equal measure. She spurred the horse onward with gentle but urgent pressure, and it began to trot and then run before galloping as fast as it could through the narrow space. The woman held the bundle closer as the horse''s pace increased, one hand steady on the reins while the other cradled the precious cargo. Her dark hair streamed behind her, occasionally revealing a glimpse of pointed ears similar to the warrior woman''s. Unlike the fighter above, this woman wore no armor, only a traveling cloak that billowed behind her like wings of shadow. Her face, though beautiful, showed the strain of her flight, of decisions made in haste that would echo through years to come. It was some time before she emerged from the tunnel into a dark forest. The stars above were partially obscured by clouds, offering little light to guide her way. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches reaching like grasping hands toward the woman and her precious cargo. The horse''s breathing came in heavy pants, but it continued its relentless pace as if understanding the importance of its burden. Its hooves thundered against the forest floor, the rhythm matching the racing heart of its rider. The great voice roared from behind her, the sound carrying impossibly far, but the woman paid no attention to it. She leaned forward in the saddle, urging the horse to greater speed, her eyes fixed on the path ahead, not on what pursued her. Instead, as if carried on the whispering wind, words stirred the form she clutched to her chest. The trees seemed to lean closer, as if listening to the words that came from nowhere and everywhere. "Ash Lorcan," the words that began as a whisper grew into a gale, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sleeping infant stirred, tiny fingers curling and uncurling against the blanket. A small face, perfect in its innocence, was briefly visible in the moonlight that filtered through the trees. "ASH LORCAN!" The name thundered through the forest, causing birds to take flight in panic and small creatures to burrow deeper into their homes. The sound was filled with rage and promise, a vow that this moment of escape was merely a postponement, not a true evasion. The woman clutched the child tighter, a single tear falling onto the blanket as she rode deeper into the darkness, away from the burning castle, away from the creature of shadow and flame, away from everything she had known before this moment of desperate flight. Her lips moved in silent prayer or promise to the child in her arms, words lost in the rush of wind and the thundering of hooves. ______ Ash opened his eyes with a violent start, his hands snapping to his throat, certain his lungs were filled with smoke. The phantom sensation of choking caused him to gasp and cough, his body fighting against an enemy that existed only in his mind. For one terrifying moment, he was caught between dream and reality, the burning castle as real to him as the bed he lay in. His nightshirt clung to his skin, soaked through with sweat, and his heart pounded like a drum in his chest. His ashen-blond hair was plastered to his forehead, and his ice-blue eyes darted around the room, searching for dangers that weren''t there. "Fore''s teeth, boy, you''re sweating like a pig. Calm yourself, and get ready. We have chores to get done." The gruff voice cut through the fog of his nightmare, pulling him back to reality with its familiar no-nonsense tone. His rapid heart slowed at his uncle''s words, and he lowered his hands, forcing himself to take more measured breaths. The air was clean, crisp with the promise of morning, and there was no smoke at all, just the familiar scents of home ¨C wood polish, the lavender sachets Aunt Dara placed in the dresser drawers, the faint smell of fresh bread already baking in the kitchen. He still felt hot all over, like a fire burned inside him, radiating outward from his core. His skin felt too tight, as if something within him was trying to break free. It''s the same every time, he thought, running a hand through his damp hair. The dream never changed, always ending with that name, his name, screamed into the night. And always this burning sensation afterward, as if the fire in the dream had somehow followed him into the waking world. Chores? He blinked, the familiar word helping to ground him in reality. Nothing is burning. I''m still in Sarvhall, on the farm. The nightmare was just that, a nightmare, not reality. But why did it feel so real? Why could he still feel the heat of those flames on his skin? Why did the woman with the silver sword seem so familiar, though he''d never met anyone like her in his life? And why did the name "Taelia" echo in his mind even after waking, like a half-remembered song? He sat up, rubbing his arms; his skin was sweaty and nearly burned at the touch. The sensation lingered longer each time he had the dream, as if the fire in his mind was becoming more real with every visitation. He wondered briefly if he should mention it to his aunt and uncle, but quickly dismissed the idea. They''d think him childish, still troubled by nightmares at sixteen. Outside his window, it was still dark, the pre-dawn world silent and waiting. The familiar silhouettes of the barn and sheep pens were just visible against the gradually lightening sky. But this had been his life since he was old enough to use his hands, and he knew dawn wasn''t too far off. The eastern horizon would soon turn pink, then orange, then blazing gold, the same progression he''d watched thousands of times before. Some mornings, he''d find himself wondering what that same sunrise looked like from a mountain peak, or from the deck of a ship sailing on the Western Sea, places he''d only read about in his precious books. He pushed himself out of bed, and his uncle''s nose wrinkled in visible distaste. "I suggest a shower before you head out, lad." Uncle Derrick''s voice was gruff but not unkind, the voice of a man used to giving orders and having them followed. His uncle stood an imposing six feet four inches, with shoulders broad enough to cast a shadow over most men. Years of farm work and military service before that had left him solid as an oak, with hands calloused and strong enough to bend iron, or so it seemed to Ash growing up. Ash opened his mouth to object, the routine of washing after chores so ingrained that deviation felt wrong, but his uncle raised one of his burly hands, silencing him before he could speak. Uncle Derrick had never been a man of many words, preferring actions to lengthy explanations. "I know, it''s better to take one after, but you reek, boy. Like ashes and rotting wood. Best you take two, eh? I think the scripts can handle it. Go on, now." His uncle''s face twisted slightly at the smell, genuine concern flashing briefly across his weathered features. The scar that ran along his jaw, a souvenir from his military days, stood out white against his tanned skin. Ash frowned at the description. Ashes and rotting wood? The dream smell was following him into wakefulness now? That was new, and somehow more disturbing than the dream itself. He''d heard tales of prophetic dreams from travelers passing through, but those were just stories, weren''t they? Just like the tales of dragons and heroes and magic that filled his books, entertaining but not real. Not relevant to life on a sheep farm in Sarvhall. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. His uncle stood up from the edge of his bed, and he was so big that he took up most of the room, especially with his dark clothes, wool cape, and shepherd staff. He''d always seemed larger than life to Ash, a mountain of a man who could weather any storm. The staff in his hand was more than just a tool; it was a symbol of his authority over the farm, passed down from his father, and his father before him. Uncle Derrick ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, a habit Ash knew he had picked up from the military. The gesture was as familiar to Ash as his own reflection, a movement he''d seen thousands of times over the years. "I''ll take care of gathering the feed, but it''s your turn to do the mucking out today." The words were delivered plainly, a simple statement of the day''s division of labor. Uncle Derrick had never been one to shirk his duties, and he expected the same from those around him. The farm ran on routine and hard work, the same as it had for generations. His uncle swept his brown eyes over the room, raising an eyebrow at the usual state of disarray. Unlike Ash''s aunt, who would have launched into a lecture about the importance of tidiness, Uncle Derrick''s disapproval was silent but clear. He picked up the basket of rocks near his feet and moved them aside so they were less in the way, his movements careful despite his large hands. Then he picked up a discarded book that had fallen to the floor, raising an eyebrow at his nephew as he held the book. It was one of Ash''s favorites, tales of adventurers exploring the far reaches of Dominion, its pages worn from multiple readings. "And by Fore''s burly beard, boy, would it kill you to get rid of some of this stuff? Do you need all of those books, eh? Or these rocks?" The question was rhetorical, the same one he''d been asking for years. Despite his complaints, he handled the items with care, knowing how much they meant to his nephew. For all his gruffness, Uncle Derrick had never once thrown away one of Ash''s treasures, no matter how worthless they might seem to others. Ash rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly and lowering his eyes. He knew his collection was excessive, but each book was a gateway to somewhere else, somewhere beyond the boundaries of Al''Herder farm. The adventures within those pages were his escape from the predictable routine of farm life, his window into a world of excitement and danger. And the rocks, well, they were his treasures, each one unique, each one telling a story of the land around them. The smooth river stones whispered of journeys through water, the rough geodes held secrets within their seemingly plain exteriors, the quartz-veined specimens caught the light just so, reminding him that beauty could be found in the most common things if you looked hard enough. His uncle shook his head, the gesture more fond than truly exasperated. For all his talk of getting rid of things, Uncle Derrick had been the one to bring back unusual rocks whenever he traveled to the nearby village, slipping them to Ash without comment, pretending not to notice the boy''s delight. "Some things never change. Get to it, boy. Your aunt will have breakfast waiting for us after we''re done. Then, we have the house to get ready for Remembrance Day." The mention of the holiday added weight to the morning, a reminder of duties beyond the everyday care of the farm. Remembrance Day was a time to honor the Hero of Light who had sacrificed himself to seal away the Shadow, a day of reflection and gratitude observed throughout Dominion. Aunt Dara always insisted on the house being spotless, the best linens brought out, and special candles lit in every window to symbolize the light that drove back darkness. Ash nodded, accepting the day''s tasks without complaint. For all his dreams of adventure, he never shirked his responsibilities to the farm and family that had raised him. Before his uncle left, he paused at the doorway, muttering something to himself that Ash couldn''t hear, his expression momentarily distant, as if seeing something far away. It was another habit of his, these momentary distractions, as if part of him was always listening for a distant call. Then he was gone, heavy footsteps receding down the hallway, the familiar sound of boots on wooden floors that had echoed through Ash''s childhood. Ash went to his bathroom, the small space neat and functional. All he had to do was touch the script on the wall under the spigot, and the script along the metal lit up red and blue as water poured out of it in a steady stream. The marvel of it never quite faded for him, how a simple touch could command water to flow, hot or cold at his whim. He adjusted the heat by running his fingers over the script to the right. The red light responded by glowing ever so brighter than the blue, the water warming immediately in response. For not the first time, he wondered how it worked. The script was beautiful, curling lines and symbols that somehow held the power to control elements. No one around could explain it to him, the knowledge as mysterious as it was practical. Only adventurers knew about that sort of thing, and the very few that had passed through Al''Herder farm hadn''t been in the mood to answer a sixteen-year-old''s questions. Their eyes had been distant, seeing beyond the farm to the next destination, the next challenge. They spoke of beasts with acid for blood, of cities built in the branches of trees so tall they touched the clouds, of treasures hidden in caves guarded by creatures from nightmare. Ash had hung on their every word, peppering them with questions until his aunt had pulled him away, apologizing for his enthusiasm. As the hot water washed away the sweat and stink, he again yearned to travel the world, to be one of those people with distant eyes and knowledge of wonders. What would it be like to wake up each day not knowing what challenges you would face? To rely on your wits and skills rather than the predictable cycles of farm life? To discover ancient ruins, decipher forgotten scripts, battle creatures of shadow? The thought made his heart race with excitement even as part of him acknowledged the comfort of his current life. Here, he knew every hill and valley, every sheep by name, every creaking board in the house. There was safety in that familiarity, a security that adventurers sacrificed for their freedom. Dominion was a vast continent that had not yet been fully explored, even by the four large kingdoms that covered it. There were places on maps marked only with question marks or warnings, places where no one had returned from to tell the tale. The mystery of those places called to him, a siren song of adventure that grew louder with each passing year. Sometimes at night, he would point out constellations to the sheep, making up stories about what lay beyond the horizon, pretending he was planning a journey he would never take. Most of all, he yearned to be an adventurer. To learn the secrets of script and magic, to fight monsters, to see things no one from Sarvhall had ever seen. The dream seemed impossible sometimes, farmboy to adventurer, but he clung to it nonetheless. Uncle Derrick had been in the king''s army in his youth, but that wasn''t the same as being an adventurer, with the freedom to choose your own path, to seek out the unknown rather than following orders. Still, it was the closest anyone in his family had come to leaving this quiet corner of Dominion, and Ash treasured the rare stories his uncle shared of those days. He scrubbed his hair under the water, rolling his neck to ease the tension that always followed the nightmare. His hair, when wet, looked more silver than blond, an unusual shade that had earned him teasing from the other children in the area until he''d learned to ignore it. Swiping right over the script, the red light completely overpowered the blue now, steam rising to fog the small mirror. The heat had never bothered him, even when the water was hot enough to turn his skin red. He had only ever felt hot when he had that dream, the internal fire that seemed to consume him from within. The sensation was fading now, the cool reality of morning chasing away the last vestiges of the nightmare. He''d once mentioned his unusual tolerance for heat to Aunt Dara, and she''d looked at him strangely before changing the subject. He hadn''t brought it up again. After his shower, he dressed, not as heavy as his uncle, because the cold rarely bothered him. A simple shirt and trousers would do, with a light jacket to ward off the morning chill that others felt more keenly than he did. His shepherd''s staff was a simple piece of wood but comfortable in his hands, worn smooth by years of use. It was nothing like the silver sword in his dream, but it served its purpose well enough. Longingly, he looked at the large collection of rocks he had found in his walks on the farm and nearby forest. They were all bright, each one special in its own way. Some had veins of quartz that caught the light, others were smooth river stones polished by years of flowing water, still others were rough geodes with crystals hidden within. His favorite was a piece of blue-white stone that seemed to glow faintly in the dark, though he knew that had to be his imagination. One of his favorite things was to polish them, placing them one by one into the basket they resided in, arranging and rearranging them by color, size, or the places he''d found them. His books were unorganized, seemingly thrown on the shelves haphazardly, and many of their pages were bent at the ear, marked at favorite passages he returned to again and again. I better head out before Uncle Derrick gives me an earful, he thought, knowing his uncle''s patience had limits. Leaving the room, he headed for the sheep pens, the familiar path worn into the ground by generations of shepherds before him. The farm spread out around him, a patchwork of pastures, outbuildings, and gardens that had sustained his family for generations. The main house, where they lived, was a two-story structure of weathered gray stone and dark wood, solid and enduring as the people who had built it. Beyond it lay the barn, the chicken coops, the equipment shed, and further out, the pastures where the sheep grazed. To the west, the forest loomed, dark and mysterious, a boundary between the known and the unknown. The huge pitchfork he used waited for him by the pens, its tines sharp and ready for the day''s work. The sheep, woolly and placid, paid him no mind, not only used to him but used to the authority of the staff. Their gentle bleating and the occasional soft thud of their hooves against the ground were familiar sounds, comforting in their normality. He moved them to one side of the pen with the staff, touching them gently with the hook at the end of his staff. The animals moved with docile obedience, their eyes half-lidded in the early morning light. If they didn''t listen, he''d get Bruce, the old sheepdog that had been in the family since he was an infant. The dog was gray around the muzzle now, but still sharp-eyed and eager to work, his loyalty undiminished by age. His flock was so well trained that he hardly ever had to worry about it. After moving the sheep, he started on the mucking. It took time, but he had done this job many times. So many times, in fact, he was hardly bothered by the smell anymore, his nose immune to the stench that would have visitors wrinkling their noses in disgust. The familiar rhythm of work was almost meditative, allowing his mind to wander. He worked methodically, his muscles moving through the familiar patterns with ease. The repetitive nature of the task allowed his mind to wander, back to the dream, back to the woman with the silver sword and the creature with eyes of malice. It felt like more than a dream sometimes, more like a memory, though that was impossible. He had never seen a castle, never witnessed a battle like that. Yet it returned night after night, as persistent as the tide, growing more vivid each time. Sometimes during the day, he would catch himself looking for those violet eyes, or expecting to hear that thunderous voice calling his name. It was unsettling, this sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu for places and people he''d never encountered. He was finished in less than two hours, the job completed efficiently despite his wandering thoughts. The pen was clean, the sheep contentedly munching on fresh hay, and the day was properly begun. The sun was now fully visible above the horizon, casting long shadows across the farm, turning dew drops to diamonds on grass blades. He wiped his brow, watching his breath turn white as it hit the air. Dawn''s light began to play across the farm, painting the buildings in gold and setting the dew-covered grass sparkling. Birds were waking, their songs filling the air with cheerful notes that belied the lingering unease from his dream. A rooster crowed in the distance, announcing the sun''s arrival to all who would listen. He was about to help his uncle with the other chores, perhaps feeding the chickens or mending a fence, when a chilling howl split the air. The sound froze him in place, a primal response to a predator''s call. But this wasn''t right, wasn''t natural. The sound wasn''t right, not the natural call of a predator, but something wilder, more frenzied. It had an almost human quality to it, as if the creature making it was caught between worlds. Ash whipped his head around, scanning the tree line with sudden alertness. The forest seemed darker suddenly, the shadows deeper, as if night lingered there despite the rising sun. Wolves? That didn''t make sense. Wolves didn''t just attack out of nowhere, especially not with the sun rising. They were cautious creatures, avoiding humans unless driven by extreme hunger. And they certainly didn''t sound like that, a howl that seemed to carry madness within it. But sure enough, he saw several gray forms emerge from the forest, fangs bared in snarls that revealed teeth too long, too sharp for normal wolves. Their eyes glinted with a strange light, a wildness that went beyond animal hunger, almost glowing with an internal fire. Their fur was matted and patchy, revealing skin that looked diseased beneath. They moved wrong, too, with a jerky, uncoordinated gait that no natural predator would employ. They were headed right for him and the sheep, a wild light in their eyes that spoke of more than hunger, something like madness or possession. The sheep began to bleat in terror, pressing against the far side of the pen, sensing the wrongness of the approaching predators. Their panic was justified; these wolves were not natural hunters seeking food, but something else entirely. His hands tightened on his pitchfork, the familiar weight suddenly feeling inadequate against the oncoming threat. What good was a farming tool against creatures that moved like nightmare made flesh? His heart began to hammer on the anvil of his ribs, adrenaline flooding his system. This wasn''t the normal order of things, this wasn''t right. Something was very wrong, and deep in his gut, Ash knew that everything was about to change. For a brief, inexplicable moment, he felt like he''d been waiting for this moment his entire life, as if everything before had been merely preparation. Then the feeling was gone, replaced by the very real fear of facing down creatures that should not exist outside of stories. The wolves drew closer, their mad eyes fixed on him, and Ash raised his pitchfork, prepared to defend his flock whatever the cost. Chapter Two: Lost Sheep Chapter Two: Lost Sheep High-pitched fearful bleats cut through the air, mixing with the snarls of the oncoming wolves. The morning sunlight caught on the wolves'' fur, turning their sleek forms into ghostly apparitions as they charged across the pasture. The sheep were well trained, but no matter how well trained they might be, their fear overpowered their discipline. They pressed against the wooden pen in a panicked frenzy, their woolly bodies bunching together in terror. Ash could feel the vibrations of their hooves through the ground as they scrambled against one another. His uncle had used good, strong wood to build the fence, oak planks nearly three inches thick, but there were more than twenty sheep in that pen, all struggling, pressing, desperate to escape the approaching predators. The wood cracked with a sound like lightning splitting the open sky. Splinters flew as the pressure finally broke through. The sheep fled in a wave of dirty white, with wolves pursuing, nothing more than gray blurs with flashing fangs. Ash stood frozen for a heartbeat, his throat suddenly dry as dust. Then instinct took over. Fingers tightening around his pitchfork until his knuckles whitened, Ash rushed forward to defend the animals his family depended on. The weight of the pitchfork felt awkward and unbalanced in his hands, not at all like the swords in his adventure books. His heart pounded against his ribs as if trying to claw its way out of his chest. "Get away from them!" Ash shouted, his voice cracking. He swung the pitchfork in a wild, untrained arc, somehow catching a snarling wolf on its flank. The prongs scraped against the creature''s thick fur. It yelped, spinning with startling speed, but Ash had achieved little with his attack, not even piercing the skin. The wolf''s yellow eyes locked on him, recognizing a new threat, or perhaps easier prey. "No!" he yelled as another wolf bit into the heels of a sheep nearby, dragging it down. The sheep''s terrified bleating cut off abruptly as the wolf went for its throat when it stumbled. Crimson sprayed from the animal''s throat like a slashed tomato, smearing its white fluff and the dirt beneath it. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, turning Ash''s stomach. The predator tore at the fallen animal, its muzzle quickly stained red. This wasn''t right, wolves normally hunted at night, taking the weak or sick. This was something else entirely. Ash tried again to attack the nearest wolf, but his vision had narrowed to a tunnel, his throat constricting as everything seemed to heighten around him. Sounds became sharper, colors more vivid. The wolf''s breath steamed in the cool morning air as it dodged his poor excuse for a weapon, its eyes gleaming with an unmasked madness that sent ice through Ash''s veins. Before he could recover, the wolf lashed out at him, jaws snapping. Ash tried to dodge, but his boot caught on a tuft of grass. He tripped, falling hard on his backside with a painful jolt that rattled his teeth. He skidded back through dirt and sheep droppings as the wolf went for the kill, bearing down on him with a snarl that revealed teeth designed for tearing flesh. The stench of its breath, rotten meat and something wilder, more feral, washed over him. He tried to get the pitchfork between them, desperately thrusting it forward, but his palms were slick with sweat. The tool slipped from his fingers, landing uselessly beside him. With nothing left to defend himself, he crossed his arms over his face. "I''m going to die here," the thought flashed through his mind with startling clarity, making him cry out as he was unable to contain the fear that rose in his throat. This was nothing like the heroic deaths in his books, just terror and the knowledge that no one would reach him in time. Heat and sharp pain exploded in his arm as the snarling wolf bit into his flesh. Drops of saliva splattered across his face as the creature''s jaws clamped down. At that moment, all that existed was the blood running from his wound, the growling of the monster wolf trying to kill him, and the pain like a thousand needles plunging into his arm. The weight of the beast pressed him further into the ground, its claws scrabbling at his chest. Then, suddenly, the pressure was gone. The wolf was hefted off of him and thrown away with remarkable force. It hit the ground with a yelp of surprise, rolling twice before scrambling to its feet. His uncle stood over him, but the man looked far different than Ash had ever seen him. The familiar shepherd''s staff was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Uncle Derrick held a sword that gleamed in the morning light, not a rusty, forgotten weapon, but a well-maintained blade with intricate patterns along its length. Where had he been keeping this? How had Ash never noticed it in sixteen years of living under the same roof? More striking than the weapon was the change in his uncle''s demeanor. Gone was the quiet, sometimes gruff farmer. Uncle Derrick wielded the sword with the practiced ease of the heroes from the adventure novels Ash loved to read. His footing was sure, his stance balanced and fluid. His weathered face showed not fear but determination. The wolf that had attacked Ash recovered and leaped at Uncle Derrick, jaws wide. The older man flowed like river water around the attack, pivoting on one foot. The razor-sharp blade cut through the air with a whisper before slicing the wolf open from jaw to tail in one continuous motion. Hot, stinking viscera spilled to the ground in a steaming pile, the wolf''s corpse following with a solid thud. Blood pooled in the dirt, steam rising from it in the morning chill. The remaining wolves paused, perhaps sensing that the situation had changed dramatically. Ash clutched at his injured arm, blood coating his fingers. The pain throbbed in time with his racing heart, but he couldn''t tear his eyes from his uncle, who suddenly seemed like a stranger. "Uncle, watch out!" Ash called as another wolf lunged from behind. But the warning was unnecessary; Uncle Derrick was already moving, spinning with surprising agility for a man of his size and age. The blade flashed once more, ending the second wolf''s life as easily as the first. Blood sprayed across the ground in a crimson arc. Ash''s jaw fell in awe as his uncle moved as fast as a free-flowing stream, dispatching a third wolf with a thrust that seemed almost casual in its precision. That should have sent the pack running, Ash was sure. From everything he''d read, wolves were intelligent predators that valued survival. They didn''t keep attacking over and over like this, throwing themselves at an opponent who was clearly superior. But they normally didn''t attack in the open and in the light of day like this, either. Two more wolves attacked in tandem, coming at Uncle Derrick from opposite directions. But it did the predators no good. Uncle Derrick didn''t just move like water; he fully embodied the element, his body twisting in ways that seemed impossible for a farmer who spent his days tending sheep. The wolves could not touch him, their jaws snapping on empty air where he had been moments before. In his books, Ash had read about adventurers who could control water so precisely that they could use the element like a blade. These were legendary figures who harnessed something called "elar" to perform almost magical feats. This wasn''t one of his books, this was his ordinary, quiet uncle, but the way Uncle Derrick lashed out at the wolves reminded Ash of those storybook adventurers wielding water like a weapon. No matter how many came at him, the wolves didn''t have a chance. Uncle Derrick''s sword sang through the air, claiming life after life until he was surrounded by six dead wolves. Steaming piles of blood and guts scattered the ground around him, the metallic smell mingling with the earthier scents of the farm. Only then did Uncle Derrick relax his stance, lowering the blade to his side. The steel was coated in crimson, but he seemed unconcerned by it. He was barely breathing hard, showing no more exertion than he might after a brisk walk to the barn. His brown eyes swept around methodically, scanning for more threats. The remaining wolves had finally gotten the message and slunk back toward the forest line, tails tucked between their legs. When he was satisfied they were gone, Uncle Derrick grunted. He turned to Ash, his eyes landing on the bloody gash in his arm with a clinical assessment that seemed oddly detached. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. "We need to get that looked at," he said, his voice once again the gruff tone Ash was familiar with. "Come on, boy, close your mouth and go see your aunt. Get that wound tended to." Ash gaped for a second or two, a thousand questions bubbling up. He slowly closed his mouth and shook his head, trying to process what he''d just witnessed. "How? What?" The words tumbled out clumsily as his mind struggled to reconcile the sheep farmer with the warrior he''d just seen. "No questions now, lad." Uncle Derrick''s tone brooked no argument. "Go on before you pass out from blood loss." Uncle Derrick looked into the forest, the early sunlight casting long shadows from the trees. He turned his lips downward into a frown, his eyes gaining a troubled shadow that Ash had never seen before. His grip on the sword tightened, knuckles whitening. "Something''s not right here," he muttered, almost to himself. "Not right at all." Ash barely caught the words as he stood up on shaky legs, his injured arm throbbing. The shock was beginning to wear off, and with it came the full force of the pain. His arm felt like it was on fire, the bite marks deep and jagged. Blood soaked through his sleeve, turning the fabric a dark, sticky red. "But, Uncle, what about the sheep?" Ash asked, glancing toward where the flock had scattered. Some had already been killed, but many more had fled into the forest. They represented his family''s livelihood. Derrick waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes remained fixed on the treeline. "Go," he commanded. "I don''t want you in the forest just now. I''ll be retrieving them." His voice softened slightly as he added, "If you really want to help, you can help your aunt around the house after your wound is seen to. Guests will be arriving in a few hours." With that, his Uncle turned, striding purposefully into the forest. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword he held, and there was something in his bearing that reminded Ash of a soldier marching to battle, not a farmer seeking lost sheep. Ash watched him go for a moment longer, blood still trickling down his arm, his mind reeling from what he''d witnessed. Then, the pain fully registered, and with a wince, he turned and limped back to the farmhouse to see his aunt. The wolf attack had been strange enough, but his uncle''s transformation was something else entirely. What other secrets might his family be keeping? "What happened, dear? Slip and fall?" Aunt Dara asked as Ash entered the kitchen, cradling his injured arm. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air. The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. Ash shook his head, still trying to process what he''d seen. The kitchen''s familiar warmth and the comforting scents felt bizarrely normal after the violence outside. "No, Auntie. Wolves attacked," he said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "The sheep got out of the pen and fled into the forest. Uncle Derrick killed some of the wolves; he had a sword! He used it like a real adventurer! Did you know he could do that?" Aunt Dara furrowed her brows, her knife pausing above the potato she''d been peeling. Her storm-gray eyes studied him with a mixture of concern and something else, was it wariness? "Wolves?" she asked, her voice carefully controlled. "Speak plain, dear, start at the beginning." Ash sat at the worn wooden table while Aunt Dara retrieved her healing kit from above the cooling box. The box itself hummed softly, another of those mysterious conveniences they had on the farm that worked by power sources Ash didn''t understand. His aunt moved with practiced efficiency, laying out bandages, salves, and a small bottle of clear liquid. As she worked on cleaning his wound, causing him to wince as the liquid stung fiercely, Ash laid out the story from the beginning. The breaking of the pen, the mad attack of the wolves, his failed attempt to fight them off, and then his uncle''s surprising transformation from simple farmer to warrior. With each detail he shared, Aunt Dara''s expression grew more troubled, though she continued her ministrations without pause. "Hold still now," she murmured, wrapping his arm in a clean bandage. Her fingers were gentle but firm, winding the cloth with practiced ease. "This isn''t too deep, but we''ll need to keep it clean. Wolf bites can fester if not properly tended." When Ash finished recounting his tale, Aunt Dara merely looked troubled, her storm-gray eyes looking out the window toward the forest where her husband had disappeared. Almost absently, she tugged on her silver-white braid that hung over one shoulder, a habit she fell into when deep in thought. "Wolves don''t attack like that," she stated flatly, her voice quiet but firm. There was certainty in her tone, the kind that came from knowledge rather than opinion. Ash shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandaged arm. "But they did," he insisted. "Did you miss the part where Uncle Derrick had a sword? Did you know he had a sword, Auntie?" The question felt almost trivial compared to the skill his uncle had shown, but it was the most tangible detail to cling to. She waved a hand dismissively before smoothing her brown apron over her dress, turning back to the vegetables on the cutting board. "Never mind the sword, dear," she said, her tone shifting to something deliberately lighter. "We have a lot to be about. We can start with prepping the food to be cooked. Do you think you can handle a knife without cutting yourself again, hmm?" The attempt at humor fell flat, but Ash appreciated the effort. He nodded before getting to work, picking up a knife to help with the vegetables. The familiar task gave his hands something to do while his mind raced with questions. The kitchen filled with the sounds of chopping and the occasional scrape of a pot or pan. "Did Uncle Derrick always have a sword?" he asked, trying to sound casual as he sliced carrots into neat rounds. The vegetables were from their own garden, harvested just days ago. Aunt Dara paused in peeling a potato, her hands going still. The silence stretched between them for several heartbeats. "You''re not going to let this go, are you?" she asked finally, turning to look at him. Even as she asked the question, her eyes held a hint of amusement, her matronly features softening into a wry expression. Sunlight caught the silver strands in her otherwise white hair, making them shine like polished metal. Ash rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture he''d picked up from his uncle years ago. "Come on, Auntie, please tell me?" He gave her his best pleading look, widening his eyes slightly and tilting his head. The same look he used when he was small and wanted an extra sweet before dinner. Aunt Dara threw her head back, rich laughter pouring from her throat. The sound filled the kitchen, chasing away some of the tension that had built up. Ash grinned, knowing he would be getting an explanation out of her now. Some tactics never failed, even as he grew older. She shook her head before returning to peeling potatoes as she spoke, her hands moving deftly despite her age. "It''s no great mystery, dear," she said, though something in her tone suggested otherwise. "Your uncle served in the king''s army. All soldiers pick up some swordplay in their service." Ash''s jaw dropped for a second time that morning, his knife clattering onto the cutting board. "How come no one told me?" he asked, unable to keep the accusation from his voice. Sixteen years, and somehow this crucial detail about his uncle''s life had never come up? Aunt Dara sighed, laying down the peeler. Her voice hardened just a bit, taking on an edge he rarely heard. "You need to understand something, Ash, my dear," she said, turning to face him fully. "The world is not one of your fantasy novels. Soldiering is dangerous, and when it''s wartime..." Aunt Dara closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as if gathering herself. When she opened her eyes again, they held shadows of old pain. "It''s one thing to fight monsters. That''s horrifying, but it''s a whole new level when you''re killing other men. We don''t talk about it because your uncle doesn''t like to remember that time." Ash nodded slowly, feeling chastened. He hadn''t considered that there might be painful memories behind his uncle''s silence. Still, the explanation didn''t quite kill his excitement at this new revelation. "Do you think he''d teach me?" he asked, unable to help himself. "Uncle, I mean, do you think he''d teach me to use a sword?" "You''d have to ask him," Aunt Dara said, turning back to her work. Then, after a moment of consideration, she added, "I might have said he would be against the idea...but you might need to know how to defend yourself now." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Ash wanted to press further, to ask what she meant exactly, but something in her demeanor told him the conversation was over for now. He lapsed into silence, working alongside his aunt as he allowed his mind to wander. Despite the pain in his arm, he couldn''t help imagining the epic training sessions he would have with his uncle and all the wolves he''d fend off with a shining blade of his own. Maybe Uncle Derrick would tell him stories of battles and adventures, filling in the gaps of a life Ash had never suspected. They worked for several hours, prepping food, cleaning, and decorating the large farmhouse for the coming celebration. Furniture was pushed aside to make room for guests, and white flowers were placed in vases throughout the house. Even with his wounded arm throbbing beneath its bandage, Ash whistled as he worked, the tune a popular folk melody that travelers often brought to their remote farm. "Someone''s excited," Aunt Dara observed with a knowing smile as she arranged white candles on the mantelpiece. "Well, it''s Remembrance Day!" Ash replied, his enthusiasm genuine despite the morning''s events. Remembrance Day had always been his favorite celebration, with its stories of light and darkness, heroes and sacrifice. "Mm. Which means the story, of course," Aunt Dara nodded, striking a match to light the candles. The small flames flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls. "Am I that predictable?" Ash asked, feeling a flush creep up his neck. Aunt Dara laughed again, the sound warm and affectionate. "Dear, you''re sixteen," she said with a gentle pat to his uninjured arm. "Of course, you''re predictable. I think you''d be tired of hearing the story by now, having heard it every year of your life. But come now," her eyes twinkled mischievously, "there''s another reason for your joyful mood, isn''t there? Rosalia will be here." He was about to reply, his face heating up at the mention of the elven girl''s name, when the sound of trotting horses and voices drifted in from outside. The guests were arriving earlier than expected. Ash straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly conscious of his appearance despite the bandage on his arm that would surely prompt questions. Guests had finally arrived, and Remembrance Day was just about to start. Whatever strangeness had occurred with the wolves and his uncle''s hidden talents would have to wait. But Ash knew one thing for certain, after today, he wouldn''t look at his uncle the same way again. Chapter Three: Remembrance Day Chapter Three: Remembrance Day Ash greeted the guests at the door with a smile on his face, though his arm still throbbed where the wolf had bitten him earlier that day. Aunt Dara would give him a thorough tongue-lashing if he didn''t act like a proper host, bandaged arm or not. He straightened his shirt collar nervously, running his fingers through his ashen hair to make sure it wasn''t sticking up at odd angles. The polished wooden door swung open to reveal the first guests of the evening. Ash''s heart quickened instantly when he recognized the figure standing on the porch. Rosalia. She was his age, with a smile that always made his stomach feel like it was filled with butterflies. Her delicately pointed ears poked through her wavy hair, which reminded him of the dying light of a sunset, all copper and rose and golden hues mingling together. Those ears and her lovely, near-perfect heart-shaped features marked her unmistakably as an elf. He only thought her features were near perfect because she had a smattering of freckles across her nose that some might consider a flaw. To Ash, though, those freckles were the best part about her. They grounded her ethereal beauty and made her seem more real, more approachable to a farm boy like him. Her blue eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky, lighting up when they landed on him, and he felt the familiar warmth bloom in his chest. "Ash!" she exclaimed, stepping forward without hesitation and hugging him in a tight embrace that he silently wished would never end. The scent of wildflowers and pine needles clung to her, a fragrance that always made him think of the forest beyond the farm. She was wearing forest green riding clothes that fit her slender figure rather well, Ash thought, his face heating up yet again. The fabric was finer than anything he owned, reminding him of the difference in their families'' stations despite their friendship. "Rosalia, it''s good to see you," he said, trying to keep his voice casual. He spotted the imposing figure behind her and quickly added, "Here, sir, let me help you with your bags!" Rosalia''s father, Court Va''Sear, was a huge human man with chestnut hair and an impressive beard that spread across his broad chest. Standing nearly a head taller than Ash, he commanded respect without even trying. Court had always intimidated Ash, though the man had never been anything but cordial to him. Court grunted acknowledgment, his deep-set eyes studying Ash briefly before allowing the boy to pick up their travel bags. Ash hoisted the heavy leather satchels, wincing slightly as the weight pulled at his injured arm, but he was determined not to show weakness in front of Rosalia or her father. "Father''s been in a mood all day," Rosalia whispered conspiratorially as she followed Ash through the farmhouse. "Something about trading disputes with the merchants from Aleria. He''ll brighten up after a cup or two of Uncle Derrick''s special cider." Ash nodded, knowing full well the reputation of his uncle''s apple cider. It was potent enough to make even the sternest visitor relax after a single mugful. They walked through the main hall, and Rosalia gasped appreciatively. "Your Aunt Dara did a really good job on the decorations! These are beautiful!" She stopped by a large ceramic pot of white campion flowers dominating a small oak table. Reaching out a slender hand, she gently caressed one of the delicate white petals with an adoring smile that made Ash momentarily forget to breathe. "Yeah, we had to go all the way to Deharra for them," he explained, setting down the bags to give his aching arm a brief rest. "There''s a script on the pot that preserves them. See that faint blue light? That''s what keeps them fresh. But, you know how we need white flowers on Remembrance Day, and not many are around the farm this time of year." Aunt Dara had been adamant about having the proper flowers. "Tradition matters," she''d told him firmly while instructing him and Uncle Derrick to make the journey for them three days ago. The trip to Deharra had been worth it, though, seeing the delight on Rosalia''s face now. "The script work is exquisite," Rosalia remarked, bending closer to examine the pot''s base. Her family had enough wealth to have scripted items, but even among them, quality work was appreciated. "Whoever crafted this knew what they were doing." She straightened and looked around at the other decorations while Ash picked up the bags again. The whole room was decorated in white, with crisp tablecloths, landscape paintings of snow-covered mountains, and even scripted lamps burning with pure white flames that cast no shadows. The effect was ethereal but not overwhelming. It was just enough to honor tradition without seeming ostentatious. "The whole farm looks like it''s been touched by the Light itself," Rosalia commented, running her fingers along a white silk banner hanging from the ceiling. "I always love visiting during Remembrance." The next room they passed through was the dining room, and the massive oak table was also decorated in white, from the tablecloth down to the polished silverware that had been in Ash''s family for generations. He knew Aunt Dara had spent hours polishing each piece until they gleamed. Beyond this room was the living room with its large stone fireplace, where the story would be told later that evening. "Are you looking forward to the story?" Ash asked as they climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the guest room. The worn steps protested beneath their feet, smooth from decades of use. Rosalia shrugged, her ears twitching slightly, a sign Ash recognized as mild irritation. "It''s nothing new, is it? It''s the same old boring story. I would much rather hear about the Nythum, or the Il''Aegra. Those tales have monsters and heroes and actual excitement." Ash pushed open the guest room door, its hinges squeaking softly. The room was simple but comfortable, with a feather bed, a small dresser, and a window overlooking the sheep pastures. He set the bags down by the closet and turned to Rosalia, trying not to show his disappointment at her dismissal of the Remembrance tale. "But Amalia tells it so well!" he protested. "The way she makes the Hero of Light come alive in her words... it''s like you''re actually there, watching history unfold." He had to admit that Rosalia did have a point, though. It would be nice to hear something different every once in a while. But it was Remembrance Day, and the story was an essential part of the tradition. Not hearing it or changing the story that was told seemed... wrong somehow. Like disrespecting the sacrifice of the Hero who had saved them all. Rosalia raised a hand conciliatorily, seeing the expression on his face. "She does tell it well, I''ll give you that," she admitted. "But it''s still the same story, no matter how well it is told. My father says storytellers used to have hundreds of tales, not just the approved ones." There was something in her tone that made Ash wonder what she meant by "approved," but before he could ask, Rosalia changed the subject, her eyes darting around the room. "Do you still have that rock collection?" she asked with a teasing lift to her voice. Ash shifted his eyes away, suddenly embarrassed by his childish hobby. "Umm..." She giggled, the sound like tinkling bells in the quiet room. "It''s okay to have a hobby, you know! My brother collects pressed flowers, and he''s nearly twenty now." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as she laughed, relieved that she wasn''t making fun of him. Most of the village boys would have mocked him mercilessly for his collection of interesting stones and minerals. "I''ve added some new ones," he admitted. "There''s this blue one with silver flecks that I found by the creek last month. It almost looks like it has stars trapped inside." Rosalia''s eyes lit up with genuine interest. "You''ll have to show me later," she said. "I''ve always thought your eye for beauty was¡ª" "Oh no, what happened?" Ash turned to see what had interrupted her and found her looking back toward the entryway, shock written across her features. He followed her gaze and saw immediately what had distressed her. The white campion flowers they had admired just moments ago were dead. Every single one had withered and turned black as coal, the once pristine petals now shriveled and decaying. The pot that held them seemed unchanged, but the contents had transformed completely in the brief time they''d been upstairs. "How?" Ash wondered aloud, a chill running down his spine despite the warmth of the house. He shook his head in confusion, bending down to look more closely at the pot''s base. The script still seemed to be working; the faint blue light pulsed steadily as it should. He could not fix it if it were broken anyway¡ªadventurers knew scripts, not common shepherds like him. But the script''s light was still there, so as near as he could tell, it was doing what it should be. The flowers'' sudden death had nothing to do with a failure of magic. "Let''s go tell my aunt Dara," he said, straightening. "She''ll want to replace these before the ceremony." If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. As they descended the stairs, voices filtered through from the entryway, growing clearer as they approached. "Brought all the sheep back, but there''s somethin'' wrong in that forest," Uncle Derrick was saying, his deep voice grave. "All the animals... they''ve gone wild. Even the sheep didn''t want to mind. Found three of them dead, throats torn out. Never seen anything like it." Rosalia''s father''s rumbling bass responded, though Ash couldn''t make out the words. The two men fell silent as Ash and Rosalia appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Uncle Derrick''s weathered face briefly softened when he saw them. He grunted acknowledgment, his brown eyes quickly assessing Ash. "See your Aunt Dara patched you up. That''s good, boy," he said, nodding toward Ash''s bandaged arm. Rosalia looked over, brow furrowing in concern, then her eyes widened as she noticed the bandage for the first time. "You''re hurt! I''m so sorry, Ash, I didn''t even notice," she exclaimed, reaching out as if to touch his arm but stopping just short. "What happened?" He rubbed his face with his uninjured hand, hoping she wouldn''t see the embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks. "It''s nothing," he muttered, not wanting to admit he''d been attacked by wolves while doing his chores. It made him sound weak, inexperienced¡ªexactly what he didn''t want Rosalia to think of him. Uncle Derrick caught his eye and winked, a knowing look passing between them before he turned back to Court, extending a calloused hand. "Always a pleasure to see ya, Court. I need to get cleaned up for tonight, if you''ll excuse me," he said, then nodded respectfully to Rosalia. "Oh, and you''re looking lovely as ever, young lady. That green brings out your eyes." Uncle Derrick walked past them, his large frame moving with surprising grace for such a big man. Ash noticed the subtle way his uncle''s gait had changed since this morning¡ªmore deliberate, more watchful. Whatever he''d seen in the forest had troubled him deeply. The tips of Rosalia''s ears went pink at the compliment, and she shifted her right boot against the floorboards, a nervous habit Ash had noticed years ago. "Your uncle is always so kind," she said quietly after he''d gone. "My father says there aren''t many men like him left in Aleria." Court grunted agreement, the most conversation Ash had heard from him all day. As the day passed, more people began to arrive, filling the farmhouse with laughter and conversation. Families from nearby farms trickled in, along with a sizeable contingent from the village of Dahara, a few hours'' ride away. The smell of Aunt Dara''s cooking filled the air¡ªroasted lamb with herbs, freshly baked bread, and apple pies cooling by the windows. Outside, children who had been cooped up during the journey found release in the farm''s open spaces. They began to skip, play, and sing a rhyme that carried through the open windows: "Oh, twelve dark lords on dragons ride, With purple smoke and spooky pride. Their dragons twist, their hearts gone bad, They make the flowers droop and sad. Where wild light flashes and skies turn gray, They laugh and chase the sun away. Dead flowers fall and trees don''t play, The Ir''Aegra''s near¡ªdon''t stay! They hum a tune, a creeping sound, Their shadow crawls along the ground. So run, run fast, don''t stay too long, Or you''ll join their scary song! So sing and skip, but watch the night, The Ir''Aegra hide from lantern light. When purple smoke begins to swirl, Stay inside, good girl or boy!" Ash had heard the rhyme before, long ago when he was too young to understand its meaning. Something about it nagged at him now, especially after seeing the withered flowers. The song mentioned flowers drooping and dying when the Ir''Aegra were near. He stared for a few long moments at the children as they skipped in a circle, singing it again, their innocent voices somehow making the words more ominous. "Always found that light-cursed rhyme to be creepy." The baritone voice came from beside him, deep and rich with an accent Ash had never been able to place¡ªsomething from the eastern mountains, perhaps, but with hints of coastal inflection. He turned, finding exactly who he expected to find standing beside him. Nicholas Al''Smith was a short, stocky dwarf with skin like polished ebony and hair as dark as painted twilight. His beard was neatly trimmed close to his jaw, contrary to the flowing beards many dwarves preferred. Despite his mother''s constant prodding to dress appropriately on Remembrance Day, he always wore the same outfit, no matter the occasion. A dark shirt tucked into dark jeans and a white smith''s smock over it all, the fabric singed in places from forge work. At his side hung a large hammer he never left home without¡ªnot a weapon, but a craftsman''s tool that had shaped countless pieces of metal. His father always liked to say that his boy was born with a hammer in his hand. With how Nicholas treated the tool¡ªcleaning it daily, keeping the handle oiled, always within reach¡ªAsh didn''t doubt the story''s validity. "Good to see you, Nick," Ash said, genuinely pleased to see his old friend. Nick waved a dismissive hand, though his dark eyes held warmth. "If Pa didn''t give me so much Hero-cursed work, I''d visit more often," he grumbled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Haven''t had a day off in three weeks. Straight from the forge to here, and back to the forge tomorrow." Ash winced slightly at Nick''s choice of words, glancing toward the children to make sure they hadn''t heard. "Far be it for me to judge, Nick, but do you have to blaspheme? Especially today of all days?" Nick laughed, the sound rich and full, looking up at the ceiling and spreading his hands in theatrical defiance. "Why? Do you think the Light will smite me? Come on then, smite me down, o''great Light!" he called out, drawing a few disapproving glances from nearby adults. Ash''s mouth fell open halfway, genuinely expecting the Light to do just that. He''d been raised to believe that such direct challenges were dangerous, especially on Remembrance Day when the veil between the Light and Dominion was said to be thinnest. No bolt of lightning struck his friend, however, and the ceiling remained intact. "It''s a bad idea to mock the Light, Nick," Ash warned, glancing nervously at the older folk who were now watching them with narrowed eyes. "Bah! What has the Light ever done for us, eh Ash?" Nick scoffed, lowering his voice slightly. "Your arm still got torn up, didn''t it? Where was the Light then?" "The Bore..." Ash began the traditional response, feeling uncomfortable with his friend''s irreverence. "Ha! The Bore!" Nick interrupted with a derisive snort. "Who even knows if it were the Light that made that eyesore, hmm? Ever thought about that? Just something we''re told to believe." Ash flicked his gaze instinctively to the north, as every child in Aleria was taught to do when the Bore was mentioned. Hanging there in the sky, as it always did, and Light willing, always would, was what looked like a giant black line¡ªa cosmic wound that never healed. He had always thought it resembled a zipper, though he''d never said so aloud for fear of sounding disrespectful. The Bore was where the Shadow had been imprisoned, according to the Remembrance story. To question its origin was to question everything they had been taught. Nick caught the expression on Ash''s face and sighed, his shoulders dropping. "Never mind. I''m sorry I argued. We don''t see each other much, and the first thing I do is argue with you about religion. I''m a Lighting fool." Ash put a reassuring hand on his friend''s shoulder, relieved to move past the uncomfortable moment. "No, you aren''t. I''m the one who made a big deal out of it. Hey, let''s go inside; Amalia should be here soon," he suggested, steering them away from the skeptical gazes of the elders. Nick grunted agreement, adjusting the hammer at his side as they made their way into the farmhouse. "Tell me about these wolves that got you," he said as they walked. "Pa says animals have been acting strange near the forge too. Nearly had my hand taken off by Old Tanner''s hound last week, and that dog''s never so much as growled before." The conversation shifted to safer ground as they joined the others inside, but Ash couldn''t quite shake the unease that had settled over him¡ªabout the wolves, the dying flowers, and the children''s rhyme that now seemed less like a playful song and more like a warning. As twilight settled over the farm, a hush fell across the gathering. Everyone knew what was coming next, and even the most talkative guests found reasons to glance toward the door with anticipation. When Amalia Vane arrived, everyone knew it without announcement. The storyteller lived just outside the village of Dahara in a small cottage few had ever entered. Dressed in fine black and violet robes that seemed to absorb the light around them, her face was as pale as moonlight, and her eyes shone like amethyst in the light of a clear day. She was slender but walked with the confidence and strength of an adventurer, not a mere tale-spinner. Her movements were deliberate, graceful, and somehow ancient, as if she had walked Dominion for centuries rather than decades. Her hood was pulled up, obscuring much of her face, but the one time Ash had seen her with it down, her hair had been like dark ocean waves, flowing and mysterious. She always had eyes for Ash when she visited, and that made him both proud and nervous. It was as if her violet eyes could read every thought that popped into his mind, weighing and measuring him against some standard he couldn''t comprehend. When he was younger, he had tested the theory once, looking at her and deliberately thinking that she was beautiful. She had smiled at him¡ªnot her usual polite smile, but one of genuine amusement! He was embarrassed to admit that he had made a fast retreat to his room after that, convinced that she had somehow heard his thoughts. Now, as she had every Remembrance Day past, she was here again. The crowd parted for her naturally, like water flowing around a stone. In her right hand she carried a staff of purest light, with strange engravings etched into the wood. He had asked her what the engravings were at one point, as they didn''t look like any script he had ever seen¡ªnot the blocky commercial script used on everyday items, nor the flowing academic script taught in schools. These were angular yet curved, seeming to change slightly whenever he tried to focus on them. All she would say about them was that they were, "A gift." The way she said it had suggested there was a story there, but not one she was willing to share. Amalia moved through the room, nodding greetings to those she recognized. When she reached Ash, she paused, her violet eyes studying him with that disconcerting intensity. "You''ve had an eventful day, I see," she commented, her voice melodious yet somehow ageless, like a song that had always existed. "Yes, ma''am," he replied, wondering how she knew about the wolves. "Just a small accident with the sheep." Something flashed in her eyes¡ªdoubt, perhaps, or concern¡ªbut she merely nodded and continued her circuit of the room, speaking briefly with Uncle Derrick, who seemed troubled by whatever she said to him. Amalia talked for a while with the various guests, her voice too low for Ash to catch her words. Then everyone sat down for the evening''s meal, the table filled to bursting with foods of all kinds. Aunt Dara had cooked for days in preparation, though everyone helped set the dishes out on the table. The conversation flowed easily, old friends catching up, farmers discussing crops, children fidgeting with excitement for the story to come. Through it all, Amalia remained largely silent, observing rather than participating, as if gathering impressions of everyone present. After the meal, when the plates had been cleared and the younger children were fighting to keep their eyes open, everyone packed into the living room. Some sat on chairs or cushions, while others stood at the edges, unwilling to miss the yearly ritual. The scent of woodsmoke hung in the air, mingling with the sweet remnants of Aunt Dara''s apple pie. Amalia stood before the fire, reaching up and slowly pulling down her hood with deliberate ceremony. Her black hair spilled forth like water in the night, catching the firelight and reflecting it in ways that seemed almost unnatural. The firelight made her silken hair shine like polished obsidian, a rock Ash had read about in one of his books and hoped to see in person one day. She lifted her white staff, murmuring words too soft for anyone to hear, and the fire suddenly dimmed. Dark shadows engulfed the room, causing several of the younger children to gasp and clutch at their parents. The atmosphere transformed instantly from cozy to otherworldly. Ash felt the hair on his arms rise, not from fear but from anticipation. Despite having heard the story every year of his life, there was something about Amalia''s telling that always made it feel new, immediate, and important. It was time for her to deliver the story of Remembrance, and despite Rosalia''s earlier dismissal, Ash found himself leaning forward with the others, eager to hear the ancient words once more.