The wind carried the scent of burning flesh. It clung to Cian’s clothes—thick, acrid, and suffocating. His stomach churned as he watched the pyres, flames licking hungrily at the bodies stacked like firewood.

  Among the dead were faces he had known—shopkeepers, farmers, travelers who had passed through the village only weeks ago. The arcane plague had claimed them swiftly. Some had withered away, their bodies brittle and hollow, while others had twisted into something unrecognizable before death finally took them.

  Beside him, his grandfather murmured the old rites, his voice steady despite the horror before them.

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

  The words felt thin against the roar of the fire.

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

  The only thing he had left.

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

  Cian reached out, running a hand along its thick coat. Beneath his touch, it was warm, radiating the steady heat of an animal built for endurance. Erefu were prized as mounts. They are swift and strong—but their skittish nature made them difficult to tame. His grandfather had spent years training this one, teaching it to trust fire, steel, and battle. Yet even now, it still flinched when the wind blew wrong.

  Another hum resonated through the air—deeper, heavier, vibrating like a drum against the frozen land.

  Not his grandfather’s erefu.

  Cian turned.

  Emerging from the mist was a rider clad in blackened armor, the sigil of House Blackthorn stark against his cloak—twisted thorns wrapped around a silver sword. His erefu was larger than most, its thick woolen coat the color of deep charcoal, its antlers sharpened and capped in iron. It moved like a predator, each step measured, deliberate. Unlike his grandfather’s mount, it did not tremble at the scent of burning bodies.

  The soldier pulled on the reins, halting mere feet away. His mount exhaled, breath misting in the cold air, nostrils flaring as it watched Cian with large, glassy eyes.

  The Blackthorn soldier dismounted in a single, fluid motion, boots crunching over frostbitten earth. He surveyed the pyres, his expression unreadable. Then, at last, he spoke.

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

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

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

  His erefu let out another hum, softer this time—watchful.

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

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

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

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

  Cian barely felt the fire’s heat anymore. His father had wielded magic. Had used it to protect the village. Had believed in it.

  And now, magic was a death sentence.

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

  The soldier turned, gaze sharp as a blade.

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

  Silence.

  Then, a smirk—cold, humorless. “You sound just like your father. I knew him. A great soldier. But he threw it all away for a woman and the pursuit of magic.”

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

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

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

  Cian swallowed. His pulse pounded in his ears. In the soldier’s visor, he saw the fire’s reflection, dancing like hungry spirits.

  The grip on the blade tightened. Cian braced himself—

  A sharp whistle cut through the air.

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

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

  Then, with slow, deliberate precision, he withdrew it.

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

  Cian exhaled sharply, only then realizing he had been holding his breath.

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

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

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

  “We need to leave.”

  Cian didn’t argue.

  Behind them, the flames still burned as they turned toward the road back to the village.

  The village of Glen had always been slow to change. Nestled between rolling fields of wheat and the great plains of Crilan, it was a place of steady hands and patient labor. The scent of tilled earth filled the air, blending with the ever-present smoke from the blacksmith’s forge.

  Inside the Black Anvil, the village inn and pub, old farmers sat hunched over wooden mugs, their faces worn by years of sun and toil. A handful of younger men leaned in near the hearth, listening intently as a traveler spoke in hushed tones.

  “… I tell you, the cities are rising higher than the clouds,” the merchant murmured, tipping his brass-rimmed hat back. “Steam-powered plows. Carriages that move without horses. Even the army—new rifles, new armor. It’s all changing.”

  A few of the farmers scoffed. “More toys for fools,” one muttered, tapping the rim of his mug.

  But not everyone dismissed the words so easily. Near the door, a boy no older than sixteen gripped the broom he’d been using to sweep, his brow furrowed. He had never seen an airship, never touched the smooth brass of a machine. But he’d heard the whispers, seen the way traders carried themselves—the gleam of opportunity in their eyes.

  Outside, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed through the village. The sound was steady, unchanging. Reliable.

  For now.

  Cian and his grandfather reached the village gates just as the last torch sputtered in the night breeze. The guard on duty yawned, rubbing his eyes.

  "Back late again, Givrel," he muttered. "Monsters roam the lands. Without your son's magic, there's nothing keeping them at bay anymore. I worried about you."

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  Givrel’s expression hardened. His erefu snorted, sensing the shift in mood. "There will be no more talk of my son or magic. You hear me?" His voice was as cold and cutting as a winter wind wrapping itself around their bones.

  The guard crossed his arms, his face darkening. "Look, I'm just tired, same as the rest of us. We’ve buried too many of our own lately.” He sighed, glancing over his shoulder. “And the soldiers… they're close now. If the captain doesn’t know yet, he should. I’ve heard rumors of war." Givrel apologized.

  "War?" The word hung heavy in the night air.

  "Aye," Givrel confirmed, his tone grim. "House Blackthorn. I saw them myself."

  That woke the guard up. His posture stiffened, all traces of fatigue gone. Without another word, he unlatched the gate and pulled it open just wide enough for the erefu to squeeze through before shutting it tight behind them.

  Cian shifted uncomfortably behind his grandfather on the mount. The village gates had long since disappeared behind them, swallowed by the night. Finally, he found his voice.

  "Who was that soldier?"

  Givrel didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was heavy with memory. "The man who trained your father." He let out a slow breath. "Your father wanted to be a soldier once—to fly across Aliriel on an airship, see the world beyond these fields. But then he met your mother. She taught him magic, and with a child on the way, he returned home."

  Cian felt his grandfather tense.

  "You’re not safe here, boy," Givrel continued. "Magic is a powerful tool if mastered, but many who try… go mad. And now, people blame it for the plague." He shook his head. "Anyone caught using magic in this village might be killed. If you truly wish to learn, as your parents did, you must leave."

  Cian’s stomach twisted. "Leave? But where would I go? This village is all I know."

  Givrel’s grip tightened on the reins. "I have a friend—a Smarar—just across the river in the Okosoll Forest. He has a cottage where you can stay." He hesitated. "Most fear the forest and do not enter it... but if you survive, if you learn to control your gift, then maybe—just maybe—you can return. And this time, protect the village."

  Cian’s thoughts wandered back to the many books in his grandfather’s library, where he had read on rainy nights by the fireplace about the many races of Aliriel such as the Smarar. But to see one in person… that felt impossible. Givrel turned his head to see Cian's unsure expression.

  "You’ve never met one of them, have you?" Givrel’s voice was soft, almost amused.

  Cian hesitated. "No. Only in your texts. I’ve read about them, but... I’ve never actually seen one."

  Givrel’s eyes twinkled with a knowing smile. "Ah, right I forget it's mostly only humans who pass through this village. Well my Smarar friend—an Alchemist, actually—living just across the river in the Okosoll Forest. You’ll meet him soon enough."

  "An Alchemist?" Cian repeated, intrigued.

  "Yes, hes alot like me, but he specializes in the natural world, in herbs, potions, and ancient elixirs. He’s a scholar of sorts—studies the world’s mysteries through chemistry and alchemy. Unlike most of his kind, he’s not a craftsman of machines or airships. His mind is bent toward nature, not gears." Givrel paused, his gaze distant as though recalling old memories. "The Smarar are small, yes, barely three feet tall, but their minds are extraordinary. They have this insatiable curiosity, always seeking knowledge and understanding. And their hair... it's not just hair, it’s almost like a symbol of their creativity—colors like the sunrise, reflecting their inner brilliance."

  Cian listened intently, his curiosity piqued. "They sound... amazing."

  "They are," Givrel said, a hint of warmth in his voice. "But be wary. Their drive for knowledge can push them too far. Sometimes they dive into things best left untouched, all for the sake of discovery. It’s a fine line they walk between brilliance and obsession."

  "Sounds like your kind of company," Cian teased, half-smiling.

  Givrel chuckled softly. "Perhaps. But don't be fooled by their small size. The Smarar might not be warriors, but their intellect is their weapon. And like any weapon, it can be used for both good and ill."

  After they led the mount into the barn and secured it, Givrel gestured for Cian to head inside. The house was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth in the main room. Cian walked up the stone steps and through the door, greeted by the familiar scent of old books and parchment.

  He made his way to the washroom, a small space tucked away at the back of the house. The washbin, a simple wooden basin filled with cool water, stood in the corner. Cian leaned over it, wiping the sweat from his brow as he examined the cut on his neck. It wasn’t deep, but it had bled enough to stain the collar of his shirt.

  Splashing some water onto his hands, he gently pressed them to the wound, wincing slightly. The coolness of the water provided a momentary relief, and he lifted his gaze to the small mirror hanging above the washbin.

  His reflection stared back at him: an 18-year-old with an average build, neither too tall nor too short—just a boy on the cusp of manhood. His fair skin was smooth, the slight glow of youth still evident, though the day’s fatigue had begun to show in his eyes. His green eyes, often described as bright but uncertain, flickered as they met his own gaze. They held a spark of curiosity, but also a hint of fear, lingering from the day’s events.

  His dark brown hair was curly, its ends wild as though eager to escape the confines of his hairline. It framed his face messily—neither neat nor unkempt—but with a certain charm. It was the sort of hair that required no effort to maintain yet still held its own appeal.

  Cian sighed, running a hand through his hair as he inspected the cut one last time. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could suppress the tension building inside him, but for now, he had no choice but to focus on the present.

  Cian ladled steaming vegetable stew into two wooden bowls, the rich scent of simmering broth filling the modest home. The ingredients, gathered from the nearby farms, were humble but nourishing. He set one bowl at the head of the table for his grandfather, then took his own to a small corner of the room. As he ate, the warmth of the stew settled in his stomach, but the weight in his chest never lifted.

  His grandfather’s words still echoed in his mind. You must leave the village.

  Cian turned the thought over and over, but no answer came. Instead, exhaustion won out, and he trudged to bed, the flickering lanternlight casting long, wavering shadows across the walls.

  Sleep took him swiftly.

  The world around him twisted. Cold seeped into his bones, a bitter chill that had nothing to do with the night air. He stood in a barren field, the sky above stretching endlessly, suffocated by swirling clouds the color of bruises. A thin mist curled around his ankles, shifting and writhing as if alive.

  A whisper—soft, insidious—slid into his ear.

  Cian…

  He turned sharply, but there was nothing. Just the empty field. The mist thickened. Shadows slithered at the edges of his vision.

  Then, movement.

  Figures emerged, staggering forth from the fog. Their bodies were wrong—contorted, their limbs bending in unnatural angles. Flesh clung loosely to their frames, pale and rotting, revealing bone beneath. Eyes, sunken and hollow, gleamed with an eerie, hungry light.

  Vetala.

  Cian stumbled back, his pulse pounding. The stories had described them as restless spirits, denied passage to the Astral Realm due to improper burial rites. But here, in the dream, they were far worse than mere myths.

  One of them twitched, its head snapping toward him with a grotesque crack. A gaping smile split its face, stretching too wide.

  We hunger.

  The voice wasn’t spoken but felt—a creeping whisper that crawled beneath his skin.

  The Vetala lunged.

  Cian tried to run, but the mist was thick, heavy, like wading through unseen hands grasping at his legs. Fingers—cold, clawed, and impossibly strong—closed around his wrist. He let out a strangled cry, yanking back, but their grip only tightened.

  Darkness swarmed him.

  A sharp gasp tore from his throat as he bolted upright.

  Morning light flooded the room, golden beams cutting through the lingering haze of the nightmare. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, sweat dampening his brow. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, the sensation of ghostly fingers lingering on his skin.

  It was just a dream.

  The reassurance barely had time to settle before—

  CRASH!

  A violent shatter rang through the house. Then a scream—raw, filled with agony.

  His grandfather.

  Cian sprang from the bed, kicking off the sheets as he stumbled toward the stairs. His bare feet barely touched the wooden steps as he rushed downward, skipping two, three at a time. His heart pounded harder than before, not from fear of ghosts but from something far worse—something real.

  He nearly lost his balance as he reached the bottom, catching himself against the doorway.

  And then—

  His breath caught.

  His grandfather lay sprawled on the floor, his body twisted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But it was his veins that held Cian’s gaze, glowing faintly beneath the skin with an eerie, sickly blue light.

  Not just sickness.

  The plague.

  Before Cian could move to his grandfather’s side, the door burst open with a heavy thud. A man strode in—broad-shouldered, clad in iron armor that gleamed despite its wear. Captain Edric. His copper-toned skin was slick with sweat, his breath labored as if he had run the entire way. Two guards followed, their visors lowered, hands resting on their weapons.

  "I was outside when I heard a scream," Edric said, his voice sharp with urgency. Then his gaze fell upon Givrel’s motionless form, and for a fleeting moment, his expression cracked—horror flashing across his face before he steeled himself.

  "Get him out of here," he ordered.

  The guards obeyed without hesitation, snapping their visors shut as if the thin slits of metal could protect them from the sickness. One grasped Givrel’s head, the other his feet, and they carried him out into the morning light.

  Cian stood frozen, his chest tight, his body refusing to move.

  Edric turned to him, his expression unreadable. "Cian… your grandfather—" He hesitated, his gaze shifting past him, as though seeing straight through the walls of the house. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, heavier. "He’s already gone."

  The words hit like a physical blow. Cian’s knees threatened to give out, but he clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay upright. Tears blurred his vision, but through ragged sobs, he managed to speak. His voice trembled as he recounted what he had seen the night before—the figures of the Blackthorn soldiers, lurking too close to the village.

  Edric listened in silence, his jaw set. When Cian finished, he took a slow breath before resting a firm hand on his shoulder.

  "My men and I… we can’t protect you," he admitted, his voice low, almost reluctant. "This property, this home—it’s yours now. But if you’re leaving, we can’t keep the place up." His grip tightened slightly. "We’ll have to use it to house the sick. We can’t keep them near the healthy."

  Cian swallowed hard and nodded, unable to find his voice.

  Edric sighed. "If you need me, you know where to find me. But I suggest you pack and go. The army might still be close. I know this is all too fast, and I’m sorry—for your grandfather, for your parents." His voice softened. "Your family was loved, Cian. We’ll all miss them."

  For the first time, Cian saw something raw in the captain’s expression—something vulnerable.

  "I lost my wife just last month," Edric murmured, almost to himself. A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken grief. Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. The captain straightened, his demeanor hardening once more. "I must go. Be packed and gone before noon."

  Without another word, he pulled Cian into a brief, firm embrace. Then he turned, stepping through the open door and shutting it behind him.

  Cian stood there for a moment, staring at the worn wood, his mind blank. Then, as if the weight of everything finally crashed down on him, his legs gave out.

  He collapsed to the floor, his body wracked with sobs, tears spilling onto the wooden planks of the home that no longer felt like his.