The village burns like a funeral pyre.

  Flames crawl along the thatched roofs with a hunger all their own, devouring wood and memory alike. Smoke coils in thick curtains through the narrow lanes, choking the moonlight into a dull, dying smear across the sky. Embers whirl like maddened fireflies, carried on the howling wind that stinks of scorched timber and flesh.

  Every step I take crunches through ash and splintered wood.

  Nemain thrums at my hip—quiet at first, then insistent. The pulse runs through the scabbard like the heartbeat of a trapped animal, restless and eager. I feel the faint whisper at the back of my skull:

  Fffeed.

  Bbbleed.

  Lllet mmme llloose.

  I keep the cursed blade sheathed.

  Not out of mercy.

  Not out of restraint.

  But because drawing Nemain is a bell—one loud enough to wake the things that hunt it.

  Tonight, does not need the hunter’s attention.

  A sharp cry knifes through the smoke.

  “Please! NO! Someone—help!”

  My body moves before thought catches up. I slip through a veil of falling embers, turning the corner of a charred house, boots sinking into the smoldering debris.

  There she is.

  Aibell—Innkeeper Rua’s daughter.

  The same lass who once patched my wounds when I was nothing but a battered stranger at her father’s hearth. The same who slipped me bread in the dead of night when the gossiping tongues of Blackthorn dared not.

  Now she kneels in the dirt, hands bound, a raider’s blade pressed to the fragile line of her throat. A thin trickle of blood glistens red-black in the firelight.

  The man gripping her looks at me with greedy eyes, teeth bared in a wolfish grin.

  “That’s a fine blade on your hip,” he growls. “Hand it over, druid. Maybe she lives.”

  Three more raiders fan out behind him, their silhouettes flickering in the blaze—shadows with steel.

  I take a slow breath.

  A controlled one.

  “Leave her,” I say, voice low as a winter river. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. This blade is not yours to wield. It’s alive—and it devours.”

  The raider laughs. A harsh, barking sound.

  “Alive or not, it’ll fetch a good price.”

  He digs the blade deeper. Aibell flinches, a soft gasp escaping her.

  Behind my ribs, old instincts stir. Not Nemain’s hunger—mine. The thing I was before I became this half-cut shadow of a druid.

  I let the smoke swallow me for a breath.

  Let the wind shift.

  Let the dying village speak.

  A gust of ash rises at my feet—a swirl, a phantom. To the raider, it’s just smoke.

  To me, it’s enough.

  The ash lashes across his eyes. He snarls, blinking tears. His grip loosens.

  I move.

  A single step closes the space between us. My hand clamps around his wrist. The other twists the blade free from his grip. Aibell is yanked backward, stumbling into my shadow.

  Two of the raiders react fast—too fast.

  One swings a broken axe. It clips my shoulder, sending a burst of heat and pain down my arm. I pivot, slam my weight into him, and send him stumbling into a burning heap of hay. Flames swallow his hair before he screams.

  The second lunges through the smoke—but a cracked beam groans above him. I shove Aibell aside as the burning timber collapses, burying the man beneath it.

  The leader hesitates.

  Nemain pulses once—sharp, eager.

  Dddraw mmme.

  Fffinish hhhim.

  Eeend iiit.

  But I push the blade back into silence. The raider sees something in my eyes—something older, something worse—and he staggers away, shouting retreat.

  The remaining raiders melt into the smoke like cowards into fog.

  Silence falls, broken only by fire and Aibell’s ragged breaths.

  She clutches her throat, blood smeared across trembling fingers.

  Her eyes find mine—fearful, grateful, haunted.

  “You… you could have drawn it,” she whispers.

  Nemain hisses in my thoughts, disappointed.

  I hold Aibell by her shoulders until her shaking steadies.

  “The blade of misery wasn’t meant for this,” I say gently.

  Her breath shudders. She glances toward the inn—her home—now nothing but a collapsing frame of embers.

  “My father…”

  Her voice breaks.

  “He stayed inside. He tried to save the ledgers. The casks. Everything. He didn’t make it out.”

  Grief falls over her like a cloak.

  A heavy one.

  I squeeze her hand.

  “I’m sorry. Truly. But we must move. Blackthorn is lost.”

  A far-off crash answers my words. Somewhere deeper in the village, another house caves inward.

  A child screams.

  Not pain—fear.

  Aibell’s head snaps toward the sound.

  She wipes her face with the back of her hand and nods sharply.

  “Alright,” she whispers. “Lead the way.”

  And so, side by side, we run into the burning maze of Blackthorn.

  We push deeper into the burning village.

  The smoke thickens, coating my throat like soot and iron. Houses crackle around us, collapsing into heaps of glowing ruin. Every corner groan with the weight of dying timber. The air tastes like endings.

  Aibell stays close behind me, one hand pressed to the shallow cut at her neck, the other clenching her skirt. Her eyes dart constantly—searching for movement, for danger, for familiar faces that will never rise again.

  Then we hear it.

  A voice—thin, cracking under smoke.

  “Help… please…”

  A child.

  I quicken my pace, stepping over a charred signboard that once read The Willow Wagon, though half the letters are burned away. The shed beside it has collapsed into blackened rubble.

  Something moves beneath the splinters.

  A small hand.

  “Kaelen—there!” Aibell shouts.

  I drop to my knees, shoving aside broken timbers. Beneath the wreckage lies a boy, no older than seven. His cheek is streaked with soot and tears, his breathing shallow. He looks up at me with wide, glassy eyes.

  “Mister… help,” he whispers. “M–my mom—she’s still inside.”

  He points with a shaking arm toward the house beside us—roof sagging, flames licking out of shattered windows. The building groans like a dying beast.

  Aibell pulls the boy free, cradling him against her chest.

  “Ciara, my mum…” he sobs. “Please… please save her. His voice cracks.

  The world stills.

  Aibell’s fingers tighten around the boy.

  “Kaelen… the house is about to collapse.”

  I nod once.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I step into the inferno.

  Heat slams into me like a physical blow, scorching my lungs, drying my eyes. The air shimmers with waves of unbearable warmth. Each breath tastes like smoldering cloth and dying dreams.

  Through the haze, I see her.

  A young woman in her twenties—Ciara—pinned beneath a fallen support beam. Ash dapples her hair. Her face is pale with smoke inhalation, yet her eyes burn fiercely.

  “Not me!” she rasps, voice shredding under the fire. “My daughter—save Aine first. She’s only three.”

  Her hand reaches toward the stairs, where fire curls up the railing like a serpent.

  I nod once. No words needed.

  I take the stairs two at time.

  They groan beneath my weight—old wood straining, threatening to surrender to the flames. Every second is a tight-strung thread waiting to snap.

  A small shape lies curled on a charred bed upstairs.

  A girl.

  Aine.

  Tiny. Fragile. Arms wrapped around a soot-blackened toy. Her breaths are small, frightened puffs that barely rise above the roar of the flames.

  I scoop her up gently. She clings to me instinctively, burying her face in my cloak. The floor shudders beneath my boots.

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  Downstairs, Ciara calls out weakly, “My girl…”

  My magic stirs—faint and flickering. Enough to brace a beam for a heartbeat. Enough to buy a moment where none should exist.

  I carry Aine down through the collapsing skeleton of her home.

  Outside the threshold, Aibell stands with Eammon, both staring with hope so fragile it hurts. She takes Aine into her arms, rocking her gently.

  Ciara watches from inside, pinned, terrified—now that her children are safe, there is room enough for her to fear for herself.

  I kneel beside her.

  Her leg is crushed beneath the timber. Mangled beyond healing.

  Even if I had the strength I once had, even if the grove still lived within me, this… this is ruin.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Her eyes shine.

  She knows.

  From my belt I draw not Nemain, but the other blade—the one that does not whisper of misery and blood. Cold steel glints dull in the fire’s glow.

  Ciara draws a sharp breath, gripping my arm tightly.

  “Do it,” she chokes. “Please. Before the flames do.”

  With grim resolve, I cut.

  Her scream rips through the night—raw, agonized—but it is life screaming, not death. Blood spills freely. I bind the wound as tightly as I can with a strip torn from my cloak, then lift her into my arms.

  Behind us, the house gives its final groan.

  It collapses.

  A bloom of sparks erupts, swallowing the place where Ciara had been seconds before.

  Outside, Aibell gasps. Eammon cries out, tears streaking soot from his face.

  I lay Ciara gently on the ground, the heat of the burning house still clinging to her skin. Her breath comes in ragged bursts, half-sobs, half-gasps, as though the fire still claws at her lungs from the inside. Blood seeps through the makeshift bandage I’ve wrapped around what remains of her leg — too much blood, but not enough to steal her life. Not yet.

  Aibell is already at her side, hands trembling as she wipes soot from Ciara’s face.

  Aine whimpers softly against her mother’s chest, and Eammon hovers, pale and shaking, torn between collapsing and helping.

  The night around us groans — timbers falling, flames snarling, distant screams fading into the rising howl of the wind.

  The village of Blackthorn is dying.

  And we are running out of time.

  Ciara looks at me with haunting eyes. “They… they have my husband.”

  I nod grimly.

  “The raiders took no survivors.”

  The poor woman’s strength failed to mask the terror that dawned on her face at my words. But there was no time for grief, not yet.

  “Stay with me,” I murmur to Ciara, pressing a hand against her shoulder as she gasps. “You’re alive. Your children are alive. But we must move.”

  She nods — or tries to. Her eyes flutter, unfocused with pain and loss.

  Aibell’s voice trembles as she speaks:

  “Kaelen… the fire’s spreading. If we stay here—”

  “I know,” I say softly.

  She swallows hard, gripping the boy closer. “Where do we go?”

  I lift my gaze toward the northern edge of the village where the flames are thinnest, the smoke drifting outward like a torn veil.

  “North,” I answer. “Away from the raiders. Away from the fire.”

  To Ciara, I speak more gently:

  “Can you walk?”

  Her face contorts — fear, pain, uncertainty — then she grits her teeth and nods once.

  Good.

  I turn to Aibell. “Help her. Support her weight on the right.”

  Aibell slips under Ciara’s arm, barely steadying her. The woman bites her lip until blood blossoms, but she stays upright.

  Brave soul.

  I hoist Eammon into my arms without asking. He yelps — not in pain, but in surprise — then clutches my cloak with white knuckles.

  Aine, still dazed and trembling, wraps her tiny hand around her mother’s tunic as Ciara limps forward.

  The firelight behind us swells, illuminating our shadows across the ash-choked street.

  We move.

  The wind shifts violently, driving a wave of heat toward us. Sparks lash at our clothes. A collapsing roof sends embers swirling in a fiery halo.

  Aibell shields the children as debris rains down. Ciara stumbles, crying out, but keeps moving, teeth bared in determination.

  Every step is a fight against exhaustion — theirs and mine.

  The smoke thickens as we navigate the twisted skeletons of burning homes. The road is blocked in places, forcing us to weave through alleyways warped by flame.

  Aibell coughs harshly. “How much farther?”

  “Until we’re out,” I answer. “Keep your head low. Follow my steps.”

  I guide them through a narrow passage where the air is clearer. The walls are scorched black, the heat radiating through the stone. A lone chicken sprints past us, feathers singed.

  Behind us, a distant horn splits the night.

  A raider’s signal.

  Aibell’s breath hitches. “They’re calling to each other.”

  “They won’t find us easily in the fire,” I say. “But we cannot slow down.”

  As we press forward, Nemain vibrates faintly at my hip — a subtle pulse I can feel in my ribs. The blade is restless, disturbed by the chaos around us.

  It whispers… faintly.

  Bbbleed…

  Fffight…

  Fffeed…

  I grit my teeth and push it down.

  Not now.

  Not here.

  We reach the outskirts of the village, where the flames thin into smoldering ruin. The buildings give way to open farmland — now reduced to blackened earth and charred stumps of wheat.

  Smoke drifts in slow, heavy curtains across the fields.

  Aibell exhales shakily. “We made it out…”

  “Not yet,” I murmur.

  Because Blackthorn, even dying, has eyes.

  I sense movement behind us — not raiders this time, but the weight of the night itself thickening with intent. The world seems to hold its breath, waiting.

  Then—

  A shape moves through the smoke.

  Then another.

  Feral silhouettes. Quick. Silent.

  Not wolves. These shapes are too small, too erratic.

  A pair of lean ash-foxes dart across our path, their fur blackened by soot. They hiss, startled by our presence, then vanish into the brush.

  Aibell exhales a shaky sigh of relief.

  We keep moving.

  Ciara leans heavily on Aibell. Her face is ashen, sweat dripping down her temple. Every few steps she winces, breath catching.

  “We need to rest,” Aibell whispers.

  “No,” I say. “Not here. Not where the plains can give away our position.”

  “But Ciara—”

  “I’m alright,” Ciara rasps, though the tremor in her voice betrays her.

  I shake my head gently. “Just a little farther. Once we reach the tree line, we can stop.”

  Aibell nods reluctantly.

  The northern tree line looms ahead — dark, dense, whispering with nocturnal life.

  Aibell stares at it with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Kaelen… monsters live in the woods.”

  “Monsters live everywhere,” I reply quietly. “But the forest is watchful. And it does not howl for blood like men do.”

  With every step closer, the air cools. The soil softens. The silhouettes of burned houses fade behind us, replaced by the towering limbs of ancient oaks.

  The children cling tighter.

  The wind turns colder.

  Something moves in the shadows between the trunks — but only in the way forests always move, creaking with secrets older than flame.

  Ciara’s breath trembles. “Is it safe?”

  “No,” I answer honestly. “But safer than Blackthorn.”

  Aibell glances back at the burning village — now no more than a wall of orange light and falling embers.

  “Then let’s go.”

  We cross the boundary where field becomes forest.

  The air changes immediately — thick, damp, humming with unseen life.

  I lower Eammon to the ground, letting him stand on shaky legs. Aibell adjusts Ciara’s arm around her shoulder.

  The moment our feet pass the first ancient root, I feel Nemain shiver violently at my side.

  Something is following.

  Something aware.

  Something drawn.

  A low rustle behind us freezes Aibell mid-step.

  The brush shifts.

  A branch snaps.

  A voice murmurs sharply in the dark:

  “Tracks. Fresh.”

  Another answers:

  “Then they’re close.”

  Aibell’s eyes widen in terror.

  I motion for silence.

  The raiders have made it to the forest.

  And they are hunting.

  I gesture to the right, guiding the group into a narrow pathway between the trees. Our footsteps soften on damp soil, swallowed by moss.

  Behind us, lantern-light flickers through the trunks.

  “They went this way!”

  Aibell tightens her grip on Ciara.

  I whisper:

  “Keep moving. Stay low. Do not look back.”

  The forest seems to hold its breath with us.

  Every heartbeat is a thunderclap in my chest.

  Then — steel scrapes.

  Boots crunch leaves.

  Voices draw closer.

  We slip between the pines… deeper… deeper…

  Until the raiders’ voices pass inches from where we crouch in the underbrush.

  Aibell’s hand clamps over Eammon’s mouth to silence his trembling breath.

  Ciara’s body shakes against mine, her pain barely contained.

  Nemain thrums like a heartbeat against my hip, eager, hungry, whispering:

  Bbbleed ttthem.

  Bbbleed ttthem aaall.

  I force my mind still.

  When the raiders finally drift past us, their lanterns bobbing deeper into the wrong direction, I let out a long, slow breath.

  Aibell sags in relief. Ciara sobs quietly into her sleeve. The children cling to their mother.

  We rise.

  I guide them deeper into the forest shadows.

  And at last we reach a clearing at the forest’s edge— a small pocket of moonlight carved out of the darkness.

  Here, the world exhales.

  The crackle of burning thatch fades into a distant murmur. The screams dissolve into the night, swallowed by wind and trees. The smoke thins, replaced by the cold scent of moss and river-stone.

  Ciara slumps against a leaning birch, breath ragged. Aibell helps her ease down, whispering soft words meant as comfort, though her own voice trembles.

  Eammon collapses beside them, chest heaving, face streaked with ash and tears.

  Aine curls into her mother’s lap, small fingers clutching desperately at Ciara’s torn tunic.

  For a moment, I let them rest.

  My own lungs burn. My vision swims. The exhaustion inside me pulls like a tide.

  But this place… this glade… it feels different.

  Alive.

  Still listening.

  Still dangerous — but not with claws or blades.

  With memories.

  I rest my palm against the nearest tree, its bark cool beneath my fingers. Old instincts stir faintly beneath the layers of ash and fatigue. The forest recognizes me, in a way only living things remember.

  Once… I belonged everywhere trees rose from the soil.

  Now, I belong nowhere.

  But the trees still know.

  Aibell’s voice reaches me softly.

  “Kaelen… are we safe?”

  I look at her — soot-streaked, red-eyed, trembling, but standing.

  “We’re safer,” I say. “Not safe.”

  Her jaw tightens. She nods.

  A thin wind pushes through the glade, making the leaves shiver like anxious hands.

  Something aches deep in my bones — an old pain, old loss — but I push it aside.

  “We move soon,” I murmur. “But breathe while you can.”

  They do.

  And for a fragile handful of minutes, the forest watches silently as a broken mother clings to her children, as a young woman steadies her shaking hands, and as a scarred man leans on a tree, listening to the echo of a life he once lived.

  When the children’s breathing steadies and Ciara muster enough strength to stand again, we leave the glade behind and re-emerge from the forest’s cradle.

  Ahead, the world opens into a wide stretch of land blanketed in gray.

  The fields of Blackthorn.

  Except they are no longer fields at all — just a vast expanse of ash where wheat once grew tall and golden. The moon hangs low, staining the ruined landscape silver. Every footstep stirs a small ghost-grey cloud.

  Aibell gazes upon the devastation, shoulders slumping.

  “Gods…” she whispers. “It’s all gone.”

  Ciara doesn’t speak; she only holds her children closer, her eyes empty with grief.

  But somewhere far to the north, on the edge of the horizon— torchlight flickers atop a wall.

  Fallowspire.

  Hope.

  I point toward it. “There. That’s where we go.”

  Aibell nods, determination tightening her grip on Ciara’s arm.

  We begin to cross the open stretch.

  The ash is deep in places, soft in others. Every step is slow, sinking, uneven. My legs ache. Ciara stumbles frequently, each falter tightening a knot in my gut. The children are exhausted, dragging their feet through the powdery grey.

  But we keep moving.

  The wind shifts.

  And the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

  Aibell notices first.

  “Kaelen… do you hear that?”

  I do.

  A faint crunching behind us.

  Soft.

  Measured.

  Predatory.

  I turn slightly, eyes narrowing at the shadowed rim of the forest.

  Two small glints reflect the moonlight.

  Then four.

  Then six.

  Wolves.

  But not ordinary wolves — these ones are leaner, ribs showing through soot-stained fur. Hunger drives them. Smoke and fire have pushed them out of the woods, desperate, wild.

  Aine whimpers. Eammon clutches Aibell’s leg. Ciara goes pale.

  Aibell whispers, “Kaelen… what do we do?”

  “Keep walking,” I say softly. “Do not run. Do not scream.”

  The wolves slink out from the treeline, grey shapes made darker by the ash caking their coats. Their eyes are bright, their bodies coiled low to the ground, muscles taut.

  One growls — a deep, hungry rumble.

  Aibell flinches. “Kaelen…”

  “I know,” I murmur.

  Nemain stirs.

  Yesss.

  Aaat lllast…

  Bbblood.

  Fffeed.

  My hand twitches toward the hilt — just an inch — before I force it still.

  Not unless I must.

  Not in front of the children.

  The wolves fan out, forming a crescent behind us. Their paws make no sound on the ash. Their breath steams in the cold air.

  We walk.

  They follow.

  A tense, stalking silence stretches between us, broken only by the crunch of ash under our boots and the soft thud of paws.

  Ciara limps, her strength fading.

  A wolf edges closer.

  Too close.

  I growl softly under my breath — not a human growl, but something older, pulled from a time long buried beneath scars and curses.

  The wolf halts.

  Its ears flatten.

  Its lips pull back in a snarl.

  The pack hesitates.

  Nature still recognizes me… even if I no longer deserve the title of druid.

  Aibell watches me with wide eyes. She doesn’t speak.

  I take a slow step forward, placing myself between the wolves and the others.

  “Go,” I whisper to the pack. “Find easier prey.”

  They don’t understand my words.

  But they understand my stance.

  My presence.

  A low rumble passes through the pack. They pace, restless, torn between instinct and caution.

  The lead wolf huffs sharply and circles back. The others follow.

  Not gone.

  Not defeated.

  But redirected.

  They disappear into the night, slipping across the ash fields toward whatever scraps the fire has left.

  Aibell exhales shakily.

  “They… listened to you.”

  “Not quite,” I murmur. “But the forest remembers some things.”

  Ciara sags in relief. Eammon leans against her, trembling.

  We continue toward Fallowspire.

  The torchlight grows brighter.

  The walls grow taller.

  Hope grows nearer.

  But so do Nemain’s whispers:

  Yyyou cccould hhhave kkkilled ttthem.

  Aaall ooof ttthem.

  Fffed mmme.

  Fffed yyyourself.

  Wwwhy dddeny wwwhat iiis cccoming?

  I shut the voice out with effort.

  We trudge through the last stretch of ash until the ground hardens beneath our feet. The scent of smoke thins, replaced by the iron tang of the distant city walls.

  And finally—

  We stand before Fallowspire’s torchlit gates.

  Alive.

  Barely.

  Scarred.

  But alive.

  The city looks almost unreal in the night—torches flickering along battlements, guards moving in steady patterns. Safe. Still. Unburned.

  Aibell lets out a breath that is half a sob.

  “We made it,” she whispers.

  Ciara stirs, lifting her head weakly. “Thank the gods…”

  I raise a hand.

  “Wait.”

  Three guards stand at the gate, spears lowered. Their faces wary, illuminated by torchlight.

  One steps forward.

  “Halt! Identify yourselves!”

  His voice is strong, disciplined. Not hostile—guarded.

  I lift my free hand.

  “We are survivors of Blackthorn,” I call out. “We come seeking aid.”

  The guard glances at other.

  One mutters something about the smoke. Other curses under his breath.

  But they do not raise their spears.

  They watch.

  Judging.

  Weighing the threat.

  Then— A man appears on the battlements above.

  Broad-shouldered.

  Grey at the temples.

  Armor worn and practical.

  A captain by bearing alone.

  “Open the gate,” he orders.

  The guards hesitate only a moment before obeying.

  As the heavy doors creak open, the captain’s eyes fall on me— on the blade at my hip.

  For a moment, his gaze deepens into something like understanding.

  Then he speaks, voice steady:

  “Get inside. Quickly. Whatever happened to Blackthorn… it isn’t done with you.”