The wind, a constant presence in Yash’s life, snaked through the cracks in the window frames of his small house, whistling a mournful tune. It was a sound that echoed the general mood of the village. The once-vibrant marketplace, usually bustling with activity, now wore a weary air. Stalls stood half-empty, their owners haggling with strained voices, the usual lively banter replaced by anxious whispers. Arguments flared easily – a raised voice here, a sharp retort there – a reflection of the economic hardship that had gripped the community. Yet, even amidst the tension, life persisted. Children, oblivious to the worries etched on their parents’ faces, chased stray dogs through the dusty streets, their laughter a fragile counterpoint to the prevailing gloom. Mothers, their eyes filled with a mixture of worry and fierce protectiveness, watched over them from doorways and windows, a silent promise of hope in their gaze.

Yash’s house, perched on the edge of the village, seemed to absorb some of that prevailing melancholy. The paint peeled like sunburnt skin, and the wind, finding its way through the cracks in the window frames, carried the scent of dust motes dancing in the faint sunlight and the musty smell of old paper. It was a testament to his grandfather’s scholarly life. Since his grandfather’s departure – a sudden announcement of “something to investigate” when Yash turned fifteen – the house had become a quiet echo of its former self.

Inside, a small, worn wooden table sat beneath a framed photograph. It was a picture of Yash’s mother, Elara, her smile warm and radiant. She held a young Yash in her arms, her eyes filled with love. Every morning, Yash performed a small ritual. He would light a small candle before the photograph, offering a silent prayer for her soul, a moment of connection to the memory of her warmth and unwavering belief in him. This morning was no different. He lit the candle, the small flame flickering in the dim light, casting dancing shadows on the walls. He bowed his head, whispering a silent “Namaste,” a gesture of respect and remembrance.

His grandfather, a man whose twinkling blue eyes belied a sharp intellect, had filled Yash’s childhood with stories. Not the boisterous tales of heroes and battles that other children heard, but quiet whispers of forgotten lore, of ancient texts and the mysterious power known as Arkas. He’d taught Yash to read the language of the stars, to identify constellations and decipher their hidden meanings.

Yash’s mother, Elara, had been a different kind of storyteller. Her tales were filled with passion and fire, stories of peace and sacrifice. It was from her that he’d first heard of Primus Arkasher, the highest military honor, a dream that now flickered like an ember in his heart.

Yash adjusted his school uniform, a nervous habit, a subconscious attempt to shield the secret branded onto his very flesh: a black, symbol-like birthmark on his back, an exact replica of the symbol of massacre. It was a crude design, a circle bisected by a jagged line, said to represent the enemy’s crushing defeat of the village defenders centuries ago—a visual shorthand for the slaughter that followed. It wasn’t the kind of mark that drew open stares anymore. Time, and perhaps a weary acceptance, had dulled the initial shock. Now, it was more subtle. A flicker of recognition in a shopkeeper’s eyes, quickly masked by a forced smile. A momentary silence in a conversation, a shift in the air that Yash could almost feel.

“It’s just a birthmark, my little firefly,” his mother had told him once, her voice soft but firm, tracing the lines of the enemy’s brand with a gentle finger. “It doesn’t define you, Yash. It’s just a mark.”

But it felt like more than just a mark. It felt like a weight, a constant reminder of a history he hadn’t lived but was somehow inextricably tied to. It felt like a silent accusation, a question whispered on the wind: Whose side are you on?

He sighed, the weight of the unspoken question settling in his stomach. He glanced to his right, where Aria hovered near a stack of old textbooks, her translucent form shimmering in the dim light. She was a ghost, a remnant of a life long past, her presence a constant, if unseen, companion. She was humming a tuneless melody, completely oblivious to his internal turmoil.

“You worry too much,” she’d said to him just the other day, her voice, a faint echo in his mind, barely a whisper. “It’s not like anyone even remembers what it means anymore.”

“They remember,” Yash had thought, but didn’t say aloud. “They just don’t talk about it.” He knew the truth was in the averted gazes, the hushed whispers when he passed, the way some mothers would pull their children closer when he was near. The scar of the enemy was a constant presence, even if unspoken.

The other secret, the one that Aria was, was more… unusual. He could see ghosts. Not the terrifying, chain-rattling specters of folklore, but lingering echoes of people who had once lived, fragments of memories and emotions clinging to the world.

The bell signaling the start of classes at Village school jolted Yash from his reverie. He closed the worn copy of “Celestial Navigation,” a parting gift from his grandfather, and tucked it into his bag.

The hallway buzzed with the chaotic energy of students rushing between classes. Kato bumped Yash’s shoulder, nearly sending him sprawling into a gaggle of giggling girls. “Earth to Yash! Come in, Yash! We have a visual on… well, mostly just a lot of sweaty teenagers. But still! Earth to Yash!” Kato bounced on the balls of his feet, his eyes darting around like a hummingbird on caffeine, a stark contrast to Yash’s taller, leaner frame. He looked like an overexcited terrier next to a stoic greyhound.

Yash blinked, glancing at Aria, who hovered near a trophy case, tracing the bulbous nose of a former headmaster’s bust. “Just thinking,” he murmured.

Kato followed his gaze, focusing on the general vicinity of the trophy case. He couldn’t see Aria, but he knew the routine. Yash would look, mutter, and Kato would somehow translate. It was their own bizarre game of charades, with a ghost as the invisible third player.

“She says you need to stop moping and appreciate the finer things,” Yash relayed, wincing slightly.

Kato snorted, folding his arms. “Like dust mites and cafeteria surprise? Because those are the only ‘finer things’ this place offers.” He squinted at the trophy case. “Still making faces at Eldridge’s nose?”

“She calls it a ‘veritable masterpiece of nasal architecture,’” Yash said, suppressing a grin.

Kato burst out laughing. “Of course she does! That ghost has a weird sense of humor.” He clapped Yash on the back, then froze, his jaw dropping.

Yash followed his gaze. Sarah. Leaning against a wall, dark hair cascading over her shoulder, a textbook tucked under her arm. Effortlessly stylish, she radiated cool confidence. In Kato’s words, she was “so far out of his league she was practically in a different galaxy.”

Kato swallowed hard, his usual energy replaced by awkward stillness. He straightened his collar and smoothed his unruly hair, a futile attempt at presentability.

“Oh, look,” Aria whispered to Yash. “The object of his affections. Perhaps now he will stop complaining.”

“Aria says you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Yash relayed, a playful glint in his eye.

Kato shot him a panicked look, then glanced at Sarah, who had just looked their way. “N-no! I’m fine! Just… admiring the structural integrity of the wall,” he stammered, forcing a grin.

“Right. The wall,” Yash said, glancing at Sarah. She was indeed striking.

“Just… don’t say anything, okay?” Kato mumbled through gritted teeth.

“About what?” Yash asked innocently.

Kato glared at him, then looked back at Sarah, who thankfully had turned away. He sighed dreamily. “She’s… amazing.”

“She is,” Yash agreed, relaying Aria’s earlier comment, “Aria thinks she has a nice smile.”

Kato’s eyes widened. “She said that?” He looked around, then sighed. “Tell her… thanks.”

As they continued, they passed a group near the main staircase—the school’s social epicenter. Kael, burly and sneering, led the pack. He elbowed a nervous-looking crony and nodded towards Yash. “Look who it is. The marked one.”

Sharp laughter rippled through the group. Yash felt his cheeks burn, his hand instinctively going to his collar.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Lucas leaned casually against the banister, radiating cool confidence. Tall, with neatly styled dark hair, he was the mayor’s son, a star athlete, and the only student in the village to have activated his Arkas—blinding speed. He was the golden boy of Arkas Academy, and his association with Kael’s crew bewildered many, including Yash.

Sarah was among them, her laughter softer, almost hesitant. She met Kato’s gaze briefly, her expression unreadable, then looked away.

Lucas turned at Kael’s comment, a flicker of annoyance—or perhaps boredom—crossing his features. He remained silent, observing the interaction with detached disinterest.

Yash quickened his pace, trying to disappear into the crowd. Kato muttered curses, his fists clenching. He wanted to defend Yash, but knew it would only escalate things. Kael thrived on confrontation, and Lucas never intervened, a silent endorsement that stung more than any insult.

In Master Valerius’s history class, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the teacher’s booming voice. “The invasion,” he thundered, pacing before the class, “a dark stain on our history, a testament to the brutality of those who sought to conquer our land.”

Yash felt a familiar heat rise in his cheeks. He kept his eyes fixed on his textbook, trying to ignore the subtle glances from his classmates.

Lucas raised his hand. “Master Valerius,” he asked, his voice smooth and confident, “what was the symbol they used? The one they… marked people with?”

A shadow crossed Master Valerius’s face. He paused, his gaze sweeping over the class, lingering for a moment on Yash. “A symbol of shame, Lucas,” he said finally, his voice low. “A reminder of a time we’d all rather forget.”

Later, in the quiet solitude of the library, Yash spoke to Aria. “Do you know anything about the invasion?”

Aria tilted her head, her shimmering form flickering slightly. “Invasion? What invasion?”

Yash blinked, surprised. “The one Master Valerius was talking about. The one that happened… a long time ago.”

Aria shrugged, her expression dismissive. “Oh, that. No, not really. I’m more interested in… well, it’s not important.”

Yash frowned. To him, the invasion and Aria were entirely separate things. He’d never considered any connection.

Then, Kato burst into the library. “Did you hear?” he whispered excitedly, pulling Yash away from a particularly dusty tome on celestial navigation. “They say there’s a herb in the Whispering Woods that can boost your chances of activating Arkas!”

Yash’s breath caught in his throat. Primus Arkasher. His mother’s dream, now his own. He looked at Kato, a spark igniting in his eyes. “We have to go.”

The Whispering Woods lived up to its name. A constant rustling of leaves, a whisper of wind through the dense canopy, created an atmosphere of hushed secrets. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick foliage, casting long, dancing shadows that played tricks on the eye. The air was damp and cool, thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth.

Yash and Kato moved carefully through the undergrowth, following the vague directions they’d gleaned from whispered rumors. Yash clutched a tattered piece of parchment, a crude map with a series of symbols etched onto its surface. No names, no landmarks, just abstract markings that offered little concrete guidance.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Kato asked, wiping sweat from his brow. He tripped over a gnarled root, stumbling slightly. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“It’s the only lead we have,” Yash replied, his gaze fixed on the map. He pointed to a symbol that resembled a twisted tree. “The rumors said the herb grows near a ‘gnarled sentinel.’ This must be it.”

As they pushed deeper into the woods, the whispers of the wind grew louder, almost like hushed voices. Yash felt a familiar shiver, a sense of being watched. He glanced around, but saw nothing but trees and shadows.

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream shattered the silence. A figure burst from the undergrowth, stumbling towards them. It was a young woman, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror. A deep gash marred her left arm, blood staining her sleeve.

“Help me!” she gasped, her voice hoarse. “They’re… they’re after me!”

Before Yash and Kato could react, a group of rough-looking men emerged from the trees, their faces grim. They carried crude weapons – rusty swords, gnarled clubs, and some with glowing hands indicating use of their Arkas.

From behind a thick oak tree, Lucas watched the scene unfold, his expression unreadable. He had also heard the rumors of the herb and had been following a different trail, drawn by the same promise of enhanced Arkas.

The goons surrounded Yash, Kato, and the injured woman. “Hand her over,” their leader, a hulking man with a scarred face and a cruel smile, growled. “We just want what she’s hiding.”

The woman, her eyes flashing with defiance, drew a gleaming sword. A faint aura of energy surrounded her, revealing her awakened Arkas. “I won’t let you have it!” she declared, her voice trembling but firm.

“Lyra, don’t!” Yash shouted, but she was already moving, her sword flashing in the dim light. She unleashed a series of swift slashes, each one leaving a trail of shimmering energy in its wake. She also managed to create a shimmering shield of force that deflected some of the goons’ attacks.

The fight was brutal and swift. Kato, with no combat experience, was quickly overwhelmed and shoved aside, landing heavily on the forest floor. Yash, driven by a surge of adrenaline, threw himself in front of a blow aimed at Kato, taking the brunt of the attack on his shoulder. A searing pain shot through him, and he cried out, falling to his knees.

Zedr watched Lyra’s display of Arkas with a calculating gaze. “Impressive,” he admitted, “but not enough.” He raised his hands, and a powerful gust of wind erupted, throwing Lyra off balance. He seized her arm, his grip like iron.

As Zedr dragged Lyra away, she quickly pressed a small, folded piece of paper into Yash’s bloodied hand, tears streaming down her face. The sight of her tears triggered a sharp, painful memory: his mother, on her deathbed, her own eyes filled with the same desperate sadness. A raw, guttural cry tore from Yash’s throat. “Leave her… No!”

Just then, a blur of motion swept past. A gust of displaced air buffeted Zedr, forcing him to release Lyra momentarily. Lucas stood beside her, his expression grim. He had moved with such speed that he seemed to have appeared from thin air. He quickly scooped Lyra up into his arms.

“Let her go!” Lucas yelled.

Zedr, recovering quickly from the surprise attack, smirked. “Impressive for a pup,” he sneered, raising his hands once more. A powerful blast of wind slammed into Lucas, sending him crashing into a nearby tree. Zedr then grabbed Lyra again, ignoring the downed Lucas.

Aria, who had been silently observing the fight, saw Yash’s condition and the deteriorating situation. She quickly devised a plan. Focusing her energy, she manipulated the smoke from the earlier skirmish, creating a thick plume that rose above the trees, a desperate signal for help. Yash, his consciousness fading, managed to whisper one last plea: “Save her…”

Aria, torn between staying with the injured Yash and following Lyra, made a quick decision. She couldn’t fight, but she could gather information. Rising above the trees, she memorized the direction Zedr and his goons were taking, a grim determination settling on her spectral features.

The world swam back into focus for Yash in disjointed fragments: the harsh white light of the infirmary, the rhythmic beeping of a nearby machine, the sterile scent of antiseptic that stung his nostrils. His shoulder throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and his head felt heavy. He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back down.

A shimmering figure hovered near the foot of his bed. It was Aria, her spectral form flickering with a faint, tearful glow. In the next bed, Kato was already awake, his face pale and drawn. As soon as he saw Yash’s eyes open, his brow furrowed with worry.

“Lyra…” Kato’s voice was hoarse. “What happened to her?”

Yash blinked, his gaze drifting to Aria. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Aria, understanding his struggle, gestured towards his hand. “She gave you this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Yash looked down. His fingers, still stained with blood, clutched a small, folded piece of paper. He carefully unfolded it, his brow furrowing as he tried to decipher the crude markings. It was a map, of sorts, a series of lines and symbols etched onto the rough parchment. No names, no landmarks, just abstract markers scattered across the surface.

In a separate room, Lucas sat propped up against the pillows of his bed, a few bandages visible on his arms and forehead. He stared out the window, the bustling village below a stark contrast to the quiet solitude of his room. He felt a pang of guilt, a heavy weight in his chest. He had failed. He had tried to play the hero, and he had failed.

The door creaked open, and his servant, a middle-aged man with a kind face and weary eyes, entered the room. “Has my father been by?” Lucas asked, his voice flat.

The servant bowed his head apologetically. “No, little master. I’m sorry.”

Lucas turned his gaze back to the window, his jaw tightening. He thought of Yash and Kato. “Those two idiots…” he muttered to himself. “I hope they’re alright.” He paused, the image of Lyra’s terrified face flashing through his mind. He had to do something.

Back in the infirmary, Yash managed to croak out a question. “Where… where did they take her?”

Aria shook her head sadly. “I followed them for a while, but… I couldn’t keep up. They were moving fast. But…” she paused, pointing to the map in Yash’s hand. “That’s all we have.”

Later that day, after being discharged from the infirmary, Yash returned to his empty house. The silence was deafening, broken only by the familiar whistling of the wind through the cracks in the window frames. He lay on his bed, the map spread out before him, the memory of Lyra’s screams echoing in his mind.

Aria hovered nearby, her spectral form radiating concern. “The villagers have already told the sheriff everything, Yash,” she said softly. “They’ll find her.”

Yash remained silent, his gaze fixed on the map. He didn’t trust the sheriff. He knew they had to do this themselves.

Meanwhile, Lucas wandered the village, his mind a whirlwind of guilt and self-reproach. He replayed the events in the forest over and over in his head, searching for what he could have done differently. He felt a deep responsibility for Lyra’s capture.

As dusk began to settle, Yash stood on Kato’s porch, the map clutched in his hand. Kato opened the door, his eyes widening slightly before rolling back in exasperation. He sighed heavily. “We’re going, aren’t we?”

Yash offered a weak smile. “You don’t have to come.”

“Shut up and let me get my things,” Kato retorted, a small smile playing on his lips.

As they stepped out of the house, they heard a familiar voice. “Where are you idiots going?”

Lucas stood across the street, his arms crossed, a determined look on his face.

Yash’s jaw tightened. “None of your business, Lucas.”

Lucas scoffed. “I can’t leave this to you two. You’ll screw it up. Two people without Arkas is not great odds.”

“We don’t want your help,” Yash said, his voice cold.

Kato sighed, placing a hand on Yash’s shoulder. “No, we need him,” he admitted, his voice low. “As much as we hate him, he’s the only one who can actually fight.”

Aria shimmered beside them, nodding in agreement.

Yash looked from Kato to Aria, then back to Lucas. He knew they were right. He exhaled sharply. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go then.”