Chapter 1: Beneath the Pale Moon

A village slept under the moon’s pale light, unaware of the approaching danger. The Small town was nestled in a remote, insignificant ridge surrounded by pine trees. This town sat quietly under the moonlight, and at the center of it stood a two-story stone manor, owned by the town’s mayor. A dim room was softly illuminated within the stone manor as silver shine passed through a tall, thick stained-glass window, casting intricate patterns on the hewn stone walls and wooden beams. The soft glow gently revealed parts of the room that were otherwise veiled in darkness. A wooden desk and matching chair were set against one wall, while a canopy bed made of carved wood stood directly opposite. On the bed lay a young man in a simple tunic, likely in his late teens, sleeping peacefully on his feather-stuffed mattress.

This young man, Abel, slept soundly after a long day of helping his family with town management and attending literacy classes with the local scholar. Despite his peaceful slumber, a hint of anticipation could be seen on his brow, as only he knew how excited he was to learn swordsmanship from his father the next day. Abel was of average height for his age, with short brown hair and slightly tanned skin. The room was cool, the air carrying a passive chill. The familiar scent of leather, wax, and incense lingered until, in an instant, it was replaced by the acrid smell of metal and smoke. Abel's nostrils twitched slightly as his body began to detect the change. Before he could wake naturally from his dreamland, the heavy sound of footsteps vibrating through the wooden floors startled him awake.

“Knock! Knock! Knock!”

“Abel! Abel! Open up!” his mother's voice, full of alarm, called out from the other side of the wooden door. The knocking was hurried and panicked.

Abel jumped out of bed and hurried to the door, his heart racing frantically from the sudden disruption. Something as chaotic as this in the middle of the night had never happened before. On his way to the door, he grabbed a hanging brass holder that held a candle, his hands trembling slightly.

Opening the door, he found a middle-aged woman, the same height as Abel, with brown curly hair cascading down to her shoulders. Her striking gaze was now sharp and piercing with urgency. She wore a dark blue kirtle with white embroidery on the cuffs, and in her hand was a brass holder carrying a lit candle, which Abel quickly used to light his own.

“Mom, what’s going on…?” Abel asked, his voice still tinged with sleepiness and confusion.

His mother shook her head, a look of desperation in her eyes, and grabbed him by the hand, pulling him along toward the end of the hall and the stairs. “We don’t have much time, Abel! Your father and I—we have to protect you. The town—it’s not safe anymore!” Her voice shook as she spoke, and she quickened her pace, her grip on Abel’s hand tightening.

They reached the stairs and began to run down toward the first floor and the front door of the manor.

“But Mom! Why so suddenly!?” Abel’s voice was frantic, his mind unable to grasp the sudden chaos unfolding around him.

Still pulling him, his mother responded, her voice breaking, “It’s too complicated—your father and I—we tried to make this village a safe place for everyone—”

As Abel and his mother descended the stairs, a tense scene unfolded before them. A small group of familiar faces gathered in the dimly lit hall—his father, Luther the family guard, and several village warriors. Their hushed, urgent conversation was punctuated by the muffled sounds of battle outside—screams and the clashing of metal filtered through the thick walls of the manor. The air was suffocating with tension, fear clinging to every corner of the room.

When Abel and his mother reached the group, his father and Luther quickly moved toward them, both visibly tense. Abel’s father, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a long black beard, placed a firm hand on Abel’s shoulder. His thick eyebrows were furrowed with worry as he handed Abel a belt holding a sheathed dagger.

“Abel! Take this,” his father’s voice was commanding but underlined with desperation. “Go with Luther to the stables. You must escape as quickly as possible!” His father’s dark blue tunic and sturdy black boots made him look taller and more imposing than usual. He pointed toward a side door leading to the back of the manor, where Abel knew the stables were located.

The stables, where a carriage waited, would be their escape. But Abel could hardly grasp what was happening. His father, the respected and beloved mayor, had always been so calculating and protective of his people. The village had grown and flourished under his leadership, with no clear sign of unrest. Abel struggled to understand how everything could turn to chaos so quickly. Just this morning, he had picked berries with his mother. Now, everything felt surreal.

Abel was lost in thought when Luther stepped forward. “Sir, with all due respect, I cannot leave your side,” Luther said firmly, his loyalty and sense of duty clear. “I can send one of my men to accompany him. He’s a qualified warrior, and capable of protecting the young master.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Abel’s father paused, clearly conflicted. His eyes flickered between Luther and Abel, a storm of emotions passing through him in those fleeting moments. Reluctantly, he nodded, accepting Luther’s proposal. “Go,” he said softly to Abel, his voice heavy with both sorrow and urgency.

Luther called out to one of his men, a warrior clad in light leather armor, who understood the command without hesitation. He moved swiftly, grabbing Abel’s arm and leading him toward the stables. Abel, still in a haze of confusion and grief, was stunned by the abruptness of it all. His mind was swirling with memories—quiet days spent with his family in their peaceful village. It felt as though those cherished days were slipping through his fingers.

As the warrior guided Abel toward the stables, Abel’s eyes filled with tears. He turned back, watching as the figures of his parents grew smaller and eventually disappeared from view. The sight made his heart ache, but there was no time to process it. The warrior wasted no time in placing Abel into the waiting carriage, his movements efficient and sharp. Before Abel could even catch his breath, the horses took off, their hooves pounding against the ground with relentless speed.

The wind rushed past Abel’s face, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed by the chaos that had descended on his once tranquil home. The weight of the dagger at his side was heavy, a reminder of the unknown dangers that awaited. As the carriage sped through the village, Abel could only hope that his parents would be safe, and that this nightmare would end before it could take everything from him.

Abel was consumed with fury, but he restrained himself. He understood that the warrior beside him was simply following orders, orders given by his parents in a desperate bid to protect him.

The warrior’s voice was strained, heavy with guilt as he spoke. “I’m sorry, young master... It’s for your safety. The villagers... they’re being slaughtered, but Luther will do everything to ensure your family’s safety.” His words carried a deep sorrow, but there was little comfort to be found.

Abel’s tears fell uncontrollably as he stared out the small carriage window. Dark shapes moved through the village in the distance—twisting shadows cast by the fires and chaos that had overtaken the streets. Flickering lights danced ominously against the night sky, and the cries of his people reached his ears like haunting echoes. His heart clenched as he balled his fists, feeling an unbearable weight settle over him.

Powerlessness. It consumed him entirely. He had grown up in this peaceful village, surrounded by a loving family and kind neighbors, but that world was being ripped away before his very eyes. The cries of the villagers seemed distant, yet close enough to strike fear deep into his soul. The warrior beside him had tried to console him, but it was no use.

Abel’s life had shattered in a matter of hours. Everything he knew—the simple joy of walking through the village, the laughter of his family, the safety he had taken for granted—was slipping through his fingers like sand. He could do nothing but watch as his world burned behind him, fading into the distance as the carriage sped forward into the unknown.

…

The carriage bounced violently as the horses galloped, their speed fueled by the fear that hung thick in the air. Inside, Abel gripped the dagger tightly to his chest, the blade cold against his skin, grounding him in the midst of chaos. The coachman, voice strained with fear, shouted back, “We’re being followed! We have to cross the Palito Bridge—hold on!”

Abel’s heart raced at the mention of the eastern ravine, a place tangled in dark legends whispered by the village’s elders. Parents used tales of the ravine to scare children from wandering too far, stories of kids vanishing into the depths, never to return. Those myths now seemed all too real, lurking just beyond the edge of reason.

The carriage rumbled across the uneven dirt roads, its frame rattling so violently that Abel feared it might collapse under the strain. Splinters of wood flew off, the wheels struggling to grip the road. When the bridge came into view, Abel’s breath hitched—it was nothing more than a fragile structure, a relic of an old world that should have long since fallen apart. It swayed ominously in the wind, teetering over the yawning ravine below, as if daring them to cross.

The coachman hesitated for a moment, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins. Abel could sense his fear—he was considering abandoning the carriage, leaving them all to fend for themselves. But something kept him there, perhaps loyalty or the sheer terror of the consequences if he fled.

As they approached the bridge, Abel heard the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves growing louder, the rhythm of their pursuers beating like war drums behind them. His pulse quickened as the danger closed in. But just as they reached the edge of the bridge, the galloping stopped. Abel glanced back, his heart in his throat, but there was nothing. Their pursuers had stopped at the edge, unwilling or unable to cross the perilous structure.

Relief washed over him for a brief moment, but it was fleeting. The bridge creaked ominously as the carriage began to cross, its wooden planks groaning under the weight. The wind whipped through the ravine, sending a shiver down Abel’s spine. He could feel the pull of the abyss below, as if the darkness itself was reaching up to claim them.

The carriage swayed dangerously as they made their way across, each gust of wind threatening to tear the fragile bridge apart. Abel gripped the seat tightly, his knuckles turning white as he stared ahead, willing the horses to keep moving. The sound of the ravine's eerie whistle filled the air, mixing with the creaks of the planks beneath them. Abel’s breath hitched with each step the horses took, the fear of falling consuming his thoughts.

They were halfway across when the bridge let out a loud crack, sending shockwaves through the carriage. Abel’s heart leaped into his throat as he felt the bridge give way beneath them for a moment before miraculously holding. The horses neighed in panic, their hooves slipping on the unstable boards, but somehow they pressed on, driven by the same primal instinct to survive. As they were approaching the other side, there was a feeling of relief.

There was also a brief moment of eerie silence, and then suddenly, a loud snap echoed through the ravine. The sound reverberated off the walls, and in that instant, time seemed to slow. Abel’s stomach lurched as the ground disappeared beneath him. The weightlessness of freefall gripped him with icy terror, and all he could do was cling to the dagger as the carriage, the horses, and the coachman plummeted into the ravine, shattering the myth that it only pulled in children.