The town unfolded before me like a tapestry come to life, vibrant and teeming with energy. The air carried a mix of enticing aromas—freshly baked bread, roasting meats spiced with herbs, and the earthy sweetness of ripe fruits. The cobblestone streets glimmered faintly under the morning light, polished smooth by the steady tread of countless feet. Timber-framed buildings stretched along the streets, their carvings of animals, celestial symbols, and curling patterns adding an artistry to the utilitarian structures.
Above the hum of trade and chatter, a rhythm threaded through the town—the preparations for Celestara, the Festival of Serelith. Streamers of gold and green cloth stretched from poles, fluttering gently in the breeze. Small shrines to the goddess dotted the streets, each adorned with offerings of fruit, coins, and garlands of flowers. At the town’s center, a towering statue of Serelith held court—a figure of elegant elven features, her flowing robes carved to seem alive, with an outstretched hand holding a golden cornucopia spilling with plenty. Children ran around the base, their laughter mingling with the melodic chants of priests preparing the evening’s rites.
The statue gleamed under the sun, its surface polished to a warm luster. Around it, townsfolk laid offerings, their faces reverent. Priests, clad in flowing white and green robes, moved gracefully among the worshippers, marking foreheads with ash from burnt incense and uttering blessings for prosperity.
The celebration held a sense of purpose. Celestara was no mere revelry; it marked the end of spring, a time of gratitude and prayer for the goddess’s continued favor. As the first of six full moons waxed into the new, this festival honored the wealth she bestowed and sought her blessings for the harvest to come. The people of Duskmoore took it seriously, balancing joy with solemnity.
Despite the lively atmosphere, I felt like a shadow slipping between the bursts of sunlight. My black cloak and the bandages on my arms drew more than a few curious stares. My crimson eyes did the rest, earning looks that ranged from wary to outright fearful. I pulled my hood lower, though it did little to quell the feeling of being an intruder in a world that wasn’t mine.
Vendors hawked their wares with booming voices, their stalls laden with bright fruits, roasted nuts, and clay pots of honey. A group of farmers passed by, their carts stacked with freshly cut wheat, the stalks gleaming like spun gold. Beside me, a craftsman hammered at an ornate bronze pendant shaped like the cornucopia of Serelith. Each clang of his hammer felt precise, intentional—a devotion of its own.
I paused near a vendor grilling skewers of spiced meat, the scent drawing me in despite myself. My stomach twisted with a hunger I hadn’t acknowledged. The vendor caught my eye and smiled, though it faltered as he noticed the bandages and the faint glint of my eyes beneath the hood. I moved on, swallowing the urge to linger.
The castle loomed at the edge of the town, its gray stone walls a sharp contrast to the festive hues of the streets. The structure exuded strength, its high towers rising against the clear sky. Thick iron gates stood open, allowing a steady flow of soldiers and workers to pass through. Their movements carried a sense of urgency, the rhythm of a place always preparing for the unknown.
The battlements bristled with activity. Guards patrolled with practiced steps, their armor catching the sunlight in glints and flashes. From within, the clatter of swords and shields echoed, accompanied by barked commands that cut through the air like knives.
As I approached, the two guards at the gate straightened, their polearms crossing in an instinctive barrier. They eyed me with suspicion, their gazes narrowing further as I pulled back my hood. My crimson eyes, coupled with my weary appearance, seemed to shift their suspicion into something sharper—fear, disdain.
“Hold,” one barked, his voice firm but uncertain. “State your business.”
“I have come to speak with Lord Thorvald,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “It’s urgent; about the monster attack in my village.”
The guard scoffed, his lip curling. “You and every other bastard with a sob story. What makes you think our lord’s got time for the likes of your kind?”
“My kind?” My voice dropped, cold and sharp. “And what kind is that, exactly?”
“Don’t play dumb, boy.” The scarred guard pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. “Those cursed eyes of yours give you away. Folks like you bring trouble. Misfortune.”
My fists clenched under my cloak, the bandages biting into my skin. “The attack on Mistwood wasn’t misfortune—it was a slaughter. I’m here to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”
The second guard scoffed. “Mistwood? That forsaken village? If they’re gone, good riddance. Less mouths to feed.”
I clenched my fists, the bandages biting into my palms. The heat of anger swirled with the ache of exhaustion, but I forced myself to keep calm. “Their lives mean nothing to you? Or are you so used to guarding gates that you’ve forgotten what it means to protect people?”
The scarred guard sneered, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of his sword. “Watch your tongue, boy, or you will get a nice cell in dungeons.”
The first guard reached for my sword. “Nice blade for a runt like you. How ‘bout you hand it over, eh? Don’t want you hurtin’ our town folks.”
I stepped back sharply, the movement instinctive. The scarred guard tightened his grip on his polearm, his knuckles whitening. “You’ve got some nerve, don’t you?” he spat. “Think you’re some knight, do ya? Walkin’ up here with your cursed eyes and your fancy blade.”
I felt the weight of their contempt pressing down, my hands twitching at my sides. The tension thickened like a storm about to break.
Before the standoff could escalate, a voice cut through the tension. “What’s going on here?”
A boy’s voice—clear, sharp, and far too confident for his years. I turned to see a young boy standing a few feet away, a bow in his hands, its string taut with a nocked arrow. Behind him was someone I recognized instantly—Rowan. His expression was calm but carried an edge that wasn’t there the last time I’d seen him.
“My lord!” The guards stiffened, stepping back immediately. “We were just—”
Rowan raised a hand, silencing them. “I heard enough.” His gaze shifted to me, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Einar.”
“Rowan,” I replied, inclining my head slightly.
The boy beside him grinned, lowering his bow. “Didn’t think I’d miss, did you?” he said, his voice light but mischievous. The guards bristled but kept their mouths shut.
“Enough,” Rowan said, his tone softening. “He is our guest. See that you treat him as such.”
The guards exchanged uneasy glances before muttering apologies. Rowan stepped forward, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Haven’t seen you in years. Let’s catch up inside.”
I nodded, allowing myself the smallest breath of relief. As we passed through the gates, the boy fell in step beside us, his youthful energy a stark contrast to Rowan’s measured calm.
“Still stirring trouble with that stubbornness, Einar?” Rowan asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Seems to find me wherever I go,” I replied, my voice dry. For a moment, the heaviness lifted, replaced by the flicker of an old friendship rekindled.
But as the castle doors loomed closer, the weight of why I’d come pressed back down. My mother died, Eliza died, and my sister’s fate uncertain. Rowan might be a friend, but the road ahead felt anything but welcoming.
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The castle interior exuded quiet power. The polished stone floors gleamed in the golden light of chandeliers overhead, their countless candles flickering and swaying gently in the still air. Heavy tapestries adorned the walls, bearing intricate designs of the rising sun, a symbol of the Thorvald lineage. Guards stood motionless at intervals, their armour polished to a mirror shine. Servants hurried along the halls, their soft footfalls blending with the distant clatter of steel and the low hum of activity beyond the stone walls.
Rowan led me deeper into the keep, his expression unreadable but his steps purposeful. Roderic had been left behind, much to the boy’s chagrin, and now it was just us. The air seemed heavier here, quieter, as if the walls themselves bore the weight of secrets.
“We’ll talk to my father in his study,” Rowan said, breaking the silence. “Don’t let his... demeanour rattle you. He’s always like that when the festival’s close.”
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“I’m not rattled,” I replied, though the tightening in my chest betrayed me. Eldric Thorvald wasn’t just a lord; he was a man who had carved his way into history through sheer will, rising from a commoner to one of the most respected figures in the realm. Facing him wasn’t something to take lightly.
We reached the large wooden doors of the lord’s study, their carved surface depicting scenes of hunts and battles. A guard stood by the door, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his blade. Rowan addressed him with the ease of someone used to command.
“Let lord father know we have a guest,” Rowan said, nodding toward me. “It’s urgent.”
The guard eyed me briefly but said nothing as he knocked twice on the door. A deep, authoritative voice called out from within. “Yes?”
“My lord,” the guard responded, “Master Rowan has come with a guest. He says it’s urgent.”
There was a pause, long enough to make me wonder if I’d be sent away. Then the voice came again, firm and unyielding. “Let them in.”
The guard stepped aside and pushed the door open, gesturing for us to enter. Rowan turned to his brother. “Stay here, Roderic. This isn’t for you.”
The boy pouted but obeyed, leaning against the wall as Rowan and I stepped into the room.
The room was spacious but practical, a reflection of the man who occupied it. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books, scrolls, and ledgers. A large desk dominated the center, its surface covered in neatly stacked papers and a single, unlit candelabra. Behind it, a tall window let in pale sunlight that cast long shadows across the room. The air smelled faintly of ink and old parchment.
Lord Eldric Thorvald sat behind the desk, a quill in hand, his broad shoulders hunched over as he signed a document. He didn’t look up as we entered. Beside him stood a steward holding a bundle of scrolls, who glanced at us briefly before returning his attention to his lord.
Rowan and I exchanged a glance. I stood just inside the doorway, unsure whether to approach. The steward whispered something to Lord Thorvald, who nodded and handed over the last paper before straightening. The steward left without a word, nodding to us as he passed.
Eldric leaned back in his chair, studying me for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, but when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed.
“You’ve grown much in all these years, boy,” he said, his tone gruff. “And those eyes of yours still make me shiver. But today, they look… different.”
I inclined my head, lowering my gaze slightly in respect. “Yes, my lord. Today, I come with a plea.”
He gestured for us to sit in the chairs across from his desk, his movements deliberate and commanding. “Make it worthwhile, boy. I’m already drowning in preparations for this upcoming festival.”
Rowan and I sat, the chairs creaking faintly under our weight. I wasted no time, launching into my account of the events in Mistwood—the unnatural weather, the attack by monsters, my mother’s death, and my sister's disappearance. As I spoke, I placed my mother’s wand on the desk, its intricate carvings catching the light. Eldric picked it up, turning it in his hands as he listened.
His face remained impassive throughout, though I caught the faint tightening of his jaw when I described the devastation in the village. When I finished, he set the wand down with a soft clink and leaned back, his eyes narrowing.
“You’re telling me,” he said finally, setting the wand down, “that half your village was slaughtered, your mother was killed, and your sister was taken. And yet we’ve heard nothing of this? No reports, no rumours?”
I nodded. “The village is isolated. By the time anyone could have sent word, it was too late. I traveled here with Ravnvald Tribe, who frequently trades with us.”
“If what you’re saying is true,” he began, his voice slow and deliberate, “this is more dangerous than you realise. These events point to forces far beyond my grasp. I’ll have to bring this to the council before taking any step.”
I leaned forward, unable to keep the urgency from my voice. “My lord, we can’t wait for the council. Every moment we delay puts my sister in greater danger. If we act now and send a search party, there’s a chance we can find her.”
Thorvald’s gaze sharpened, pinning me in place. “Mind your tone, boy. I won’t risk the lives of my men for a fool’s errand.”
I hesitated, my hands curling into fists on my lap. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you, my lord. But she’s just a child. She cannot survive with them.”
Thorvald sighed heavily, setting the wand back on the desk. “Do you think I don’t want to help? I have an entire town to protect. If what you’re saying is true, and this is the work of black mages, then sending soldiers is suicide. They’d be walking into the lion’s den.”
“Black mages?” I repeated, the words chilling in my mouth.
Thorvald nodded grimly. “A group wielding forbidden magic has been moving through the lands, leaving destruction in their wake. The monsters you described are more likely summoned creatures. It takes sacrifices to summon them, often humans.”
A sick feeling coiled in my stomach. “Then we can’t just stand by. There has to be something—”
Rowan interjected, his voice steady but urgent. “Father, what about Thresha? If we frame it as other villages being at risk, they’ll have to act.”
Thorvald shook his head. “They only act when it benefits their coffers. The High King’s illness has left them bickering over power like vultures. By the time they decide to lift a finger, it will be too late.”
Frustration burned in my chest, but before I could speak, “I don’t understand,” Rowan started, breaking the silence, “why anyone would attack your family, Einar. Or that damned village, for that matter.”
“Neither do I,” I admitted, my voice low. “But I can guess. Do you know of House Leonhart?”
The room seemed to grow colder. Eldric’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping the edge of the table. “Who doesn’t? House Leonhart—descendants of the Flame Dragon. Once a pillar of the council. But their fall is no secret. Their pride was their undoing.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I’d heard scraps of the story before but never the whole truth.
Rowan leaned forward, his tone shifting to excitement. “It’s the same war that made Father who he is. Seventeen years ago. It all started when Edwinn Leonhart’s daughter disappeared. She was said to be carrying a bastard child.”
The words hit me like a slap, but I stayed silent, my hands gripping the edge of the chair.
Rowan continued, unaware of my reaction. “Her disappearance affected the reputation of Ishlar Valar, who was fiancé of the lady of Leonhart. This gave chance to Head of House Valar, the excuse he needed to provoke a war. That was later interrupted by High King. But when Edward Leonhart, Edwinn’s eldest son, was accused of conspiring with demons beyond the Devil’s Gate. That same High King gave the order of execution of Edward, where even Edwinn has to accept the punishment of his grace.”
Eldric interjected, his voice heavy with memory. “I led the allied forces in that battle. We laid siege to the Devil’s Gate for a week. Edward held it with a handful of knights and sorcerers that were there to protect us from whatever lies beyond that, their defenses as unyielding as the castle itself. They were loyal men who come from noble houses that were chosen to serve the cause.”
His gaze softened, just barely. “Edward wasn’t what they claimed. Those men were loyal to him, that alone proved his innocence but a sword cannot ask why it is being drawn, right? He fought with honor of true noble, even till the end. I dueled him myself. If he’d used magic, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. But he chose the sword and fought as a knight, not as a sorcerer or a traitor.”
The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging thick in the air. I took a shaky breath. “He… was my uncle. My mother is Lyra, youngest daughter of Edwinn Leonhart. I’m the bastard everyone whispers about.”
Rowan’s head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with shock. “You… you’re—”
“Enough,” Eldric said, cutting him off. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “I suspected as much. Your mother’s secret was not well-kept, though your father shielded it well. What has happened then was tragic. After the battle, House Valar replaced House Leonhart over the ownership of Devil’s Gate and since then they have taken over the duty to protect realm from outside. But knowing that doesn’t change the anything. It was all in past.”
He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “What matters now is what you intend to do. You’re determined to do something, aren’t you?”
I hesitated, the weight of the question pressing on me. “I need to find my sister. And… someone else. But I can’t do it as I am now. I need to grow stronger.”
Rowan spoke up. “What about Zenith?”
“Zenith, hmm. It isn’t a simple path and one that I would recommend,” Eldric interrupted, his tone sharp. “But it’s a crucible. He’d need a certification from any school, and his magic would have to be awaken.”
“Magic won’t be a problem,” I said, removing the bandages from my hands. My teeth clenched as the cloth tugged against the scabbed skin, revealing blackened veins that pulsed faintly. “This… happened during the battle. Caused by my own magic.”
Eldric studied my hands, his brow furrowing. “I’ve seen many wounds, but never ones like these. The veins itself have been burnt. What kind of hurts its own user like this?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’ll learn. Whatever it takes.”
A flicker of respect crossed his face before it vanished. “Very well. I’ll send word to Thresha. There’s someone there who can help with the certification.”
“Thank you,” I said, the words heavy with relief. “And… one more thing. When you send the name, use ‘Einar Emberheart.’”
Eldric raised an eyebrow. “Not Leonhart? That name will hold more weight.”
“It’s not mine to claim yet,” I said quietly. “Emberheart is.”
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “You’re asking for more than you should. But I’ll do it. Just remember, you’ll owe me for this. And in future, it will all have to be repaid in full.”
He handed me my mother’s wand, the redwood smooth and warm in my grip. “Rowan, show him to a room. And make sure he’s well prepared. After the festival, you’ll leave for Thresha together. If you think the past few days were difficult, Einar, the road ahead will be far worse. Don’t let your past hold you. Rise from its ashes.”
Rowan led me out of the room, his usual cheer subdued. “That was… something,” he said finally.
I nodded, my thoughts tangled. Eldric’s words echoed in my mind. Rise from its ashes. If I were to survive, to find my sister and Valeria, I’d have to do just that. Denying my truth wouldn’t help me, but embracing it will.
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