That last question stopped Elara short.
The endless flood of eager, chaotic chatter had been easy to field—questions about her bow, her ears, her presence in the village—but this one carried a different weight.
She turned her attention to the little girl who had spoken, crouching to meet her at eye level. Up close, she could see that the child was about seven, maybe eight, with rich auburn hair woven into two neat plaits, deep green eyes, and a button nose sprinkled with freckles.
Before Elara could speak, one of the boys scoffed.
“Don’t listen to her.” His tone was dismissive. “She makes up stories.”
Elara ignored him, much to his disappointment. Instead, she gave the girl a warm smile, keeping her voice soft.
“Hello,” she greeted gently. “I’m Elara. What’s your name?”
The child scuffed her shoe against the ground, shifting uncertainly.
“Naomi,” she mumbled.
“Well, Naomi,” Elara said, voice light, “why don’t you and I have a little talk about the Night Man?”
From her pouch, she pulled out a small bag of sweets, freshly bought from the market, and held one out to Naomi before passing the rest to the other children to share.
The girl studied Elara as she chewed, her gaze thoughtful, as though weighing her answer carefully. A small dribble of sticky syrup escaped from the corner of her mouth, but she seemed too deep in thought to notice.
“You have pretty eyes,” she declared suddenly.
Elara chuckled. “Thank you, Naomi. So do you.”
Naomi beamed, pleased by the compliment, but as soon as the sweets were gone, the other children began losing interest in the conversation, drifting away to find new entertainment.
Elara took the opportunity to guide Naomi toward a low stone wall, brushing away a few fallen leaves before sitting down. She patted the space beside her, offering the girl a chance to join her at her own pace.
Naomi hesitated, glancing once more at her departing friends. For a moment, it seemed she might bolt after them, torn between the pull of familiarity and the weight of her own words. But then, with a small, determined nod, she climbed up onto the wall, swinging her legs slightly as she settled beside Elara.
Elara let the silence sit for a beat, watching as Naomi’s fingers twisted the hem of her tunic, her confidence from earlier dimming slightly now that it was just the two of them.
"I guess they don’t know the Night Man, do they?" Elara asked casually, keeping her tone light, conversational—offering an easy path for Naomi to follow.
The girl shook her head immediately, her plaits bouncing slightly with the movement.
"I don’t either," Elara admitted, tilting her head as if sharing a secret. "But I think I might be looking for him."
Naomi’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak.
Elara reached into her pouch, sneaking out another sweet, glancing around before passing it over. She made sure the rest of the children were safely out of sight before giving Naomi the treat—after all, she wanted some left for herself later.
Naomi held the sweet between her fingers for a moment, as though considering whether or not Elara truly deserved to know. Then she tucked it into her mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully.
"I saw him," she said at last, her voice hushed, secretive.
Elara studied her carefully. "Have you?"
Naomi nodded fiercely, her small hands clenching into fists, as if expecting to be challenged.
"I really did."
Her voice was louder this time, more certain.
"But they don’t believe me. They didn’t believe me when I said a fox was going to steal the chickens, either. But it still came!"
She straightened her back, indignance settling into every inch of her small frame, her green eyes flashing with frustration.
"They just say I make up stories."
She stood up suddenly, her boots scraping against the stone wall, her fists clenched at her sides.
Elara remained still, letting Naomi say what she needed to say.
"I don’t make things up," the girl declared fiercely, glaring up at Elara as if daring her to say otherwise.
A tense beat of silence.
Then, as if needing to solidify her point, Naomi stamped her foot sharply, sending a small flurry of dust scattering off the wall’s edge.
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Then, with a huff of frustration, she plopped back down, arms folding tightly across her chest.
Elara remained quiet for a moment, turning the girl’s words over in her mind.
See them?
It wasn’t just the certainty in Naomi’s voice—it was the way she held herself, the way she had stopped caring whether or not her friends believed her.
Elara chose her next words carefully.
"You see them when you sleep?" she asked gently. "Like… in a dream?"
Naomi hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her tunic, and for the first time, she looked uncertain.
Finally, she gave a tiny, embarrassed nod.
"Yes."
Her voice was barely above a whisper, as though admitting it out loud might make it less real.
"That’s why they don’t believe me," she added. "They say I’m just making things up."
Elara felt the edges of a smile tugging at her lips, but this time, it wasn’t out of amusement—it was out of understanding.
She reached out, giving Naomi’s small hand a gentle squeeze.
"I believe you."
Naomi’s entire face lit up, her grin so wide and bright it could have outshone the moon.
Naomi’s entire face lit up, her grin so wide and bright it could have outshone the moon.
Elara stood, brushing dust from her cloak before offering her hand to the small girl.
“Alright, Naomi. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”
Naomi slipped her hand into Elara’s without hesitation, her small fingers gripping firm and trusting.
“Where are we going?” she asked, suddenly eager. “I can’t go far. I’m not allowed out the village gates yet.”
“No, not far,” Elara assured her. “We’re going to have a talk with Paolo.”
Naomi’s eyes widened into a perfectly round ‘O’, her fingers tightening around Elara’s hand.
“Oh.”
Elara laughed, the sound light and musical.
“It’s alright,” she said, giving Naomi’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “He’s a friend of mine.”
As they passed back through the market, Elara felt the weight of idle stares settling on them. People watched, curiosity flickering across their expressions, though none dared to ask outright.
A butcher, halfway through carving a joint of meat, paused just slightly, his knife hovering mid-slice before he resumed his work, eyes tracking them as they passed. A seamstress at her stall, her fingers deftly threading a needle, missed a stitch, muttered a curse under her breath, then subtly turned her head to follow their movement.
No one stopped them.
No one challenged them.
Naomi wasn’t crying, wasn’t afraid, and that seemed enough to keep outright confrontation at bay.
Still, there was a quiet tension in the air—something unspoken, something that made Elara all too aware of the weight of their attention.
Behind them, she could sense the presence of the other children.
A few yards back, they trailed behind, shadowing their steps, their interest growing with every turn. Their voices rose in hurried, hushed whispers, carrying just far enough for Elara to catch fragments.
“Where’s she taking her?”
“Is she in trouble?”
Elara merely smiled to herself and kept walking, but Naomi slowed slightly, her fingers tightening around Elara’s hand.
She glanced over her shoulder.
The other children quickly looked away, pretending to be busy inspecting a stack of apples at a nearby stall. One of the younger boys, perhaps no older than five, made a superstitious gesture, a quick tap of his knuckles against his forehead before darting away toward his mother.
Elara caught the movement and filed it away.
Even at this age, the children knew when something wasn’t quite right.
She gave Naomi’s hand a reassuring squeeze and kept moving, guiding her forward, step by step, until the buzz of the market began to fade behind them.
Once they passed through the gates of the elder’s residence, the onlookers were left behind, and the village noise muffled into quiet.
Inside, the front office was still, the heavy hush of the building pressing in around them. She led Naomi through the open doorway beyond, where she found Paolo seated at his desk, head in his hands.
He barely stirred at their approach.
“Are you busy?” Elara asked.
Paolo lifted his head, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
He shrugged, his movements slow, weighed down by something heavy.
“I can’t seem to get my mind on things today.” He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Emily…” His voice trailed off, thick with grief.
Elara nodded in understanding.
She pulled out a chair and sat, motioning for Naomi to join her. After a moment’s hesitation, the child climbed onto her lap, half-hiding herself against Elara’s shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of her tunic.
Elara smoothed a hand reassuringly over Naomi’s plaits.
“This is Naomi. I’m sure you know her.”
Paolo’s brow furrowed, but he managed a faint nod.
“Yes, I know her. One of the Cooper children, aren’t you?”
Naomi gave a small, shy nod, her face still half-buried.
Elara took a slow breath, choosing her words carefully.
“I believe Naomi is a Dreamwalker.”
Paolo’s expression flickered—confusion first, then something akin to scepticism.
Elara anticipated it and continued smoothly before he could object.
“A Dreamwalker is someone gifted with the ability to walk the astral—the space between waking and sleeping, life and death.” She kept her voice steady, calm, as she watched Paolo process her words. “It’s a rare talent, but it emerges in early childhood. If encouraged and nurtured, Dreamwalkers can grow into powerful seers and scryers. But if they are ridiculed, ignored, or made to feel ashamed, the gift often fades—lost to the ether as childhood ends.”
Paolo leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest.
“You truly believe Naomi has this gift?”
Elara glanced down at the girl, who was watching her intently, small fingers still gripping the fabric of her tunic.
“Yes.”
She met Paolo’s gaze again.
“She has seen things and remembers them when she wakes.”
A flicker of hesitation crossed Paolo’s face, but Elara pressed on.
“She saw foxes before they raided the chicken coops. No one believed her then, but she was right.”
Naomi nodded eagerly, her confidence growing. “They never listen,” she muttered. “But I see things. I really do.”
Elara could see she had Paolo’s full attention now.
She hesitated for only a moment before delivering the final piece of information.
“And what’s more, Paolo—she has seen the Night Man.”
Paolo’s reaction was immediate.
He almost pushed himself upright, his hands pressed hard against the desk, the tension in his shoulders shifting from exhaustion to alarm.
His mouth opened, a sharp intake of breath—
Then a sudden noise cut through the room.
Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Pounding against the wooden floorboards.
Elara’s head snapped up, every muscle instinctively tensing. Someone was running. Hard.
Paolo turned toward the door just as a sharp thud echoed from the hall—a misstep, a shoulder clipping a doorframe, a stumble, a desperate recovery.
Then—
The door slammed open.
Del.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving, sweat dampening his collar. His face was flushed from exertion, but it was his eyes that stopped Elara cold—wild, frantic, burning with urgency.
For a brief moment, he just stood there, his whole body locked in the momentum of his sprint, his fists clenched at his sides as if his muscles had yet to catch up with his mind.
Then he forced the words out, voice raw, urgent—
"Vita's gone."
The air in the room seemed to tighten, waiting, dreading.
Del gulped in another breath, barely able to contain it, his whole frame vibrating with adrenaline.
"She’s been taken."