The horizon bled with the first hues of dawn, a pale, ghostly light stretching thin fingers across the plains. The rider cut through the fragile silence of the morning, her steed’s hooves striking a steady rhythm against the dirt path. Each impact echoed like a heartbeat, steady, inevitable, as if carrying her closer to some unseen reckoning. The air was damp, clinging to her skin beneath her cloak, and carried the scent of dew-soaked earth and the faint, metallic tang of distant ruin.

Above her, the hoop pines swayed gently, their elongated needles whispering secrets to the wind. Dust rose in quiet plumes around the horse’s legs, catching in the faint light like shards of memory stirred from long-buried places. The rider sat straight-backed, her figure shadowed beneath her hood. Yet her hands—gloved but tense on the reins—betrayed her, flexing and clenching as though wrestling with an invisible weight.

The village came into view like a scar across the land. Mistwood. Or what was left of it.

The remnants of homes jutted out of the ground like broken ribs, charred beams reaching skyward in a silent cry. A haze of ash still clung to the air, faint but bitter, and the remains of the village lay scattered along the edges of the road. What had once been fields of wheat and rye were now trampled into barren dirt. The few villagers who lingered moved like phantoms, their faces pale, their eyes hollow. Their movements lacked purpose, as though they existed simply because their bodies had not yet caught up with their souls.

The sight twisted something deep within the rider’s chest, yet she kept her head high, her face obscured by her hood.

Her horse snorted softly, shaking its mane, and the sound drew the wary stares of those she passed. One man, wiry and hunched over the reins of a mule-drawn cart, glanced up as she approached. His sunken eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat. He slowed but said nothing, his suspicion plain on his weathered face.

The rider reined in her horse and inclined her head slightly. “Good morning, sir,” she said. Her voice was soft but carried an undertone that demanded attention—polished yet weighted, like silk hiding steel.

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he halted the cart. His mule flicked its ears nervously as though sensing something about the stranger that its master did not.

When she pulled back her hood, the man’s reaction was immediate. His jaw slackened, his eyes widening, and his grip on the reins faltered. The pale morning light caught her silver hair, cascading in soft waves with faint threads of gold that shimmered like dawn breaking through a storm. Her crystalline blue eyes met his, piercing but calm, framed by flawless skin that seemed carved from winter’s first snow. She was both ethereal and unnerving, a beauty that felt more like a curse than a gift.

The man fumbled for words. “M-Morning, noble lady,” he stammered, bowing his head awkwardly.

She gave him a faint smile, just enough to soften the edges of her presence. “Tell me,” she began, her voice dipping lower, drawing him in, “what happened here? The fields are empty, the homes…” She glanced toward the ruins, her expression tightening ever so slightly. “It feels as though death lingers in the air.”

The man shifted uneasily, his gaze darting to the ruins and back to her. “Aye, noble lady,” he said, his voice cracking. “It was a week ago. Dead things. They came out of nowhere... creatures that walked like men but weren’t alive. Half the village was lost that night, and the rest fled or…” His voice trailed off, and he looked away, his hands trembling on the reins. “Those of us left… we’re just trying to rebuild. What else can we do?”

Her eyes darkened, like a storm gathering over a calm sea. “And the family on the outskirts?” she pressed, her tone sharpening slightly. “A woman named Lyra. Her family. Were they here when the attack came?”

The man froze, his face hardening. He scratched at his neck, avoiding her gaze. “Lyna Lambert, you mean?” His voice lowered, bitter. “Her cabin was burned to ash. Haven’t seen her family since. And good riddance, I say. That cursed boy of hers brought ruin to this village long before the dead things came. Bad weather for months, blighted crops for years, and there was sickness—it all started with him and his cursed eyes. Should’ve sent them away years ago.”

The rider’s hand tightened on the reins, her knuckles whitening beneath the leather gloves. Her eyes, so serene moments ago, turned sharp and cold as a blade drawn from its sheath.

“You speak ill of a mother and her children?” Her voice was no louder, but it cut through the man’s words like the crack of a whip.

The man flinched, his mouth opening and closing like a fish caught on a hook. “I-I meant no offence, m’lady. Just… folk were scared with old tales. That’s all.” He flicked the reins, urging the mule forward as he muttered under his breath.

She watched him go, her jaw tight, before turning her horse toward the woods.

The path narrowed as she entered the forest, the world closing in around her. The air grew heavier, and thicker with the mingling scents of damp earth and pine, and the faint tang of ash. Shadows wove between the trees like spectres, and her horse’s hooves crunched softly against the carpet of fallen leaves.

The cabin came into view, or what was left of it. Charred remains jutted from the earth like blackened bones, the roof half-collapsed, the walls reduced to jagged silhouettes. The air here was colder, sharper, as though the land itself mourned what had been lost.

She dismounted, her boots landing softly on the forest floor. Her movements were deliberate, yet her breath quickened as she tethered her horse to a low branch. The bracelet on her wrist—a band of silver inscribed with delicate runes—caught the light briefly before she moved toward the ruins.

Her gloved hands hovered over the wreckage before she began sifting through it. The blackened wood crumbled beneath her touch, scattering soot across her fingers. A broken pot. The remnants of a chair. Her hand froze as it brushed against a small, soot-stained blanket. She picked it up slowly, her breath hitching as the fabric unravelled in her hands.

A sound escaped her—half a sob, half a broken gasp—and she pressed the blanket to her chest, her shoulders shaking. She bit down hard on her lip, the coppery taste of blood grounding her. But the pain in her chest was relentless, gnawing at her with each breath.

Just as she was about to leave the place, she saw something in the plains just beyond the cabin.

Beneath a lone oak tree at the edge of the clearing were three graves. The grass around them was freshly disturbed, the mounds of earth still raw. Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her forward with a desperation that bordered on madness.

She fell to her knees before the graves, her hands trembling as they traced the stone that marked the first. The name Aeron Lambert was etched into the weathered surface, moss clinging to its edges. The other two graves were nameless, marked only by simple stones.

Her hands clenched the soil, and a strangled cry tore from her throat. She slumped forward, her forehead pressing against the cold earth. “No… no… why?” she whispered, her voice cracking with grief. “Why is this happening again?”

The wind stirred faintly, brushing her hair from her face as though in silent mourning. She lifted her head, tears streaking her pale cheeks, and looked skyward.

“Zerathu’um,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I have devoted my life to you. You... you were supposed to protect us. There were only us left of our kind, we had lost everything, our legacy, our family, our clans, and our people. How can you let this happen?”

Her hands clenched the soil, her voice rising as she wept. “I thought staying away would save him! I thought hiding his magic would keep him safe. But I was foolish all along.”

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"W-Why is this union cursed? Cursed for being with someone I shouldn’t have? For trying to change fate?" She traces her hand over the grave, "Light? Pure? I’ve only brought darkness to his life. I thought I was protecting him, keeping him away from his own nature, but instead... I lost him."

Her sobs wracked her body, and she slumped over the grave as though the weight of the world had broken her. “Serena,” she whispered, the name a plea, a prayer. “You sacrificed everything for us, and I couldn’t even protect him. I have failed as his wife.”

The wind fell silent, the world holding its breath as the woman wept. After what felt like an eternity, she straightened, her shoulders trembling but her gaze resolute. She placed her hand on the grave, her voice steady despite the tears still streaming down her face.

————————————

The morning light spilt across the village like liquid gold, pooling in the crevices of its broken walls and glinting off the soot-streaked rubble. Smoke no longer hung in the air, but the bitter stench of ash still lingered, seeping into the earth and clinging to the skin of the weary souls who remained. The wind moved sluggishly through the fields, carrying whispers of the past—of screams, of crackling flames, of the silence that came after.

Loth crouched atop the roof of a house at the far edge of the village, a hammer in one hand and a bundle of nails in the other. The rhythmic thud of his hammer had been a steady companion for hours, each strike an effort to rebuild what the attack had torn apart. Sweat glistened on his brow and trailed down his weathered face, mingling with the dust that clung to his skin like a second layer. He paused for breath, straightening to take in the horizon.

His gaze drifted, and then he saw her.

A cloaked figure had dismounted a black steed near the oak tree by the graves. At first, it was her hair that caught his eye—an otherworldly cascade of silver streaked faintly with gold, glinting like threads of sunlight as it spilled from beneath her hood. The woman knelt before one of the graves, her movements slow and deliberate. Even at a distance, Loth could see her shoulders trembling. A faint breeze carried the sound of her sobs, raw and unguarded, blending with the mournful rustling of the oak’s leaves.

He froze, his hammer still raised mid-air. Einar’s message, he remembered, the boy’s voice echoing in his mind: “Pass my message to the lady with golden hair.” But this woman’s hair wasn’t golden—it was something else entirely, something ethereal, like the light of a dying star.

Sliding down the roof, Loth dusted himself off and adjusted his boots. Curiosity stirred within him, a need to understand who she was and why she mourned in a place already so heavy with grief. His boots crunched softly on the dry earth as he made his way toward the oak, its branches stretching wide like the arms of a grieving sentinel.

As Loth approached, the woman remained motionless, her head bowed. She knelt beside one of the graves, her fingers trailing over the freshly turned soil. Her sobs had quieted, but her breathing came in uneven gasps. Strands of her hair slipped free from her hood, catching the sunlight as she rocked forward slightly, her hand pressing into the earth as if to steady herself against the weight of her sorrow.

Loth hesitated, his hands fidgeting at his sides. He cleared his throat softly, his voice low and cautious. “Do you… did you know Eliza?”

The woman’s shoulders stiffened at the intrusion, her movements halting as if a blade had been pressed to her back. Slowly, she lifted her head. Her tear-streaked face turned toward him, and for a moment, Loth forgot how to breathe.

Her crystalline blue eyes burned with an intensity that rooted him in place. The sunlight caught her features—so flawless and sharp they seemed almost unreal. A face sculpted by gods or something older. Yet grief marred her perfection, deepening the shadows beneath her eyes, pulling at the corners of her lips. Her voice, when it came, was sharp enough to cut stone.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she snapped, her tone a whip crack in the stillness.

Loth flinched, taking a half-step back. “I-I meant the grave,” he stammered. “You were crying over Eliza’s grave, so I thought you might have known her.”

For a moment, her features softened into confusion. Her gaze flicked between the graves, then back to him, as though trying to piece together a puzzle whose edges refused to align. “Eliza?” she echoed, her voice trembling. “This… this isn’t Einar’s grave?”

“Einar?” Loth blinked, his brow furrowing. “No. That boy isn’t dead.” His voice firmed as he shook his head. “Einar’s tougher than anyone gives him credit for.”

The woman’s breath hitched. A single tear slid down her cheek, catching on her jawline before falling to the earth. Then another, and another. But these weren’t tears of despair—they carried the weight of relief, shimmering like dew in the sunlight. Her lips moved, and though her voice was barely audible, Loth caught the words:

“He’s alive... Thank you, Zerathu’um.”

She closed her eyes, pressing her trembling hands to her face. For a moment, the grief that had crushed her seemed to lighten, her body visibly loosening as she let out a slow, shaky breath. When she lowered her hands, her gaze steadied on Loth once more.

“Something’s not right. Tell me, what truly happened here?” she asked, her voice steadier now, though shadows of concern still lingered. “Why is the village in ruins?”

Loth glanced back at the village, the rooftops jagged and broken, the remnants of homes leaning like weary soldiers. His jaw tightened. “The village was attacked,” he said, his tone heavy. “A week ago. Undead creatures attack the village without warning. We were no fighters. Half the village fled, and the rest…” His voice trailed off as his gaze shifted to the graves.

“Einar,” he continued after a pause, “came back to find his home burned to the ground. His mother was dead, but there were traces of fight there, and burnt bodies of men. And his little sister, Alira, disappeared the same night. Einar believes it was done by someone with intent. He thinks someone planned it.”

The woman’s expression faltered. “Alira?” she whispered, the name trembling on her lips as though it were a fragile thing. “His sister?”

Loth nodded grimly. “A sweet girl. She was the light of his life. Losing her... it changed something in him. He left not long after, travelling with a northern tribe of traders left for Duskmoore Haven.”

The woman’s gaze fell back to the graves, her face crumpling as she knelt before the middle one. “I failed you, Lyra,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “You treated me like a sister, and I wasn’t there when you needed me most. I let you down.” Her words shifted into another tongue, ancient and melodic, carrying a resonance that seemed to hum through the air itself: “Mireth’ael sylvar laviraor felnar’ar ithara.”

The soil beneath her hand began to glow faintly, and the air thickened, pressing on Loth’s chest. The oak tree above them shifted, its branches thickening and stretching skyward. Its leaves turned a vibrant green, shimmering faintly with golden light. The tree now stood larger, more alive, as though it had absorbed the woman’s grief and transformed it into something enduring.

Loth stumbled back, his heart pounding. “What... what did you just do?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

The woman stood slowly, swaying slightly from the effort. Her voice was soft but steady. “In my culture, the dead are laid to rest beneath sacred trees. This one will shield the village from malice, warding away creatures and beasts with ill intent. Its shade will bless the soil, ensuring bountiful harvests for generations.”

Loth stared at the tree, his jaw slack. “It’s a miracle,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. Then he straightened, his expression resolute. “I’ll make sure the villagers treat it with the respect it deserves. And I’ll build proper markers for the graves—these old bones of mine still have some use.”

The woman gave him a faint, grateful smile, her eyes softening. “Thank you,” she said simply.

After a moment’s pause, she asked, “Do you know of a tree in this region—one struck by lightning over a century? There were rumours about it, and I believe it has a part to play of its own.”

Loth nodded quickly. “The Thunder Oak? It’s not far from here—southwest of the cabin, just a short walk along the path. You’ll find it easily enough.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you.” As she turned to leave, Loth called after her. “Lady!”

She stopped, looking back over her shoulder.

Loth scratched his beard, hesitating. “Before Einar left, he told me to pass along a message to ‘the lady with golden hair.’ Your hair’s not golden exactly, but there’s a touch of it in the light. So maybe it’s for you.”

Her eyes widened as she turned fully to face him. “What did he say?”

Loth cleared his throat. “‘I remember our seven steps,’” he repeated carefully. “And he has the amulet his mother used to wear.”

The woman’s face lit with a mix of hope and sorrow, her lips trembling. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude.

As she turned to leave again, Loth called out once more. “Forgive my curiosity, but... you’re not human, are you? That magic was not possible for humans or even elves to do.”

The woman paused, her expression softening. “You’re right. My kind was once the overseer of the world we walk in. I believe you must have heard about us in your stories, there are terms for us like: the bringers of dragons, the keepers of magic, and Folks of Forbidden Lands. In some holy books, there is even a term for us ‘Children of Devil’.” She met his gaze, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. “But in truth, I am just a simple woman. My name is Valeria Aetherion.”