Cane's village, a small settlement called Hybacus, lay nestled among fertile farmlands. Just a few dozen families lived there. There were no shops, no stables, not even a tavern—only an abandoned barn left empty when a family moved away. The community had claimed it as their own, using it for gatherings, celebrations, or simply to eat and drink together.
Moxie kept pace beside the gray mountain pony, her ears alert, nose constantly twitching. Overhead, Pudding circled lazily, riding the air currents. From time to time, Cane activated his falconer's rune, his eyes glowing softly as the landscape pulled into focus far ahead.
It was two days inland by wagon. On horseback, maybe one.
Intent on arriving by the following night, Cane stopped briefly to water and feed the pony, then led it by the reins, jogging down the trail until the moon was high overhead. Camp was simple—a cold supper, a hastily pitched tent. Moxie stood sentinel by the entrance while Pudding vanished into the night, hunting. Cane slept soundly.
He was up before dawn, eating breakfast in the saddle, pushing the pony hard.
By midday, he knew he'd make the village by nightfall.
"Scout far," he whispered.
His eyes shimmered amber as Pudding's vision merged with his own. The world shifted. The ground pulled into sharp relief.
Twelve miles ahead: the first outlier farm. One of three before the village proper.
Something was wrong.
No smoke curled from the chimney. The fields were wild, overgrown. Not a soul in sight.
"Why aren't the fields tended?" Cane murmured. "And no fire… it's too cold for that."
He directed Pudding lower. The farmhouse came into view—windows broken, front door swinging open. No animals in sight.
"What the hell is going on?"
An hour later, Cane rode up to the empty farm. He recognized the place, even if he hadn't met the current owners. The previous family had sold it off while he was apprenticing in the highlands.
He tied the gray pony to a tree and motioned to Moxie. "Heel."
"Anyone here?" he called.
No answer.
The house was deserted, not looted—but abandoned. Furniture still in place. Pots and pans on the shelves. It was like the family had left in a hurry and never returned.
He moved through the back door and crossed the yard to the barn.
The horse stall had been shattered—pushed outward, as if the animal had forced its way out.
Then he saw it.
Painted hastily on the back door of the barn: a black skull on a white field.
The plague sign.
Cane's expression darkened.
The plague had taken his parents. That had been years ago—long enough that the disease was thought gone. Buried with the past.
"Could it have come back?" he muttered.
Behind the barn stood three graves, marked with a single wooden sign.
The Ironfoot Family — Husband, Wife, Daughter
Cane cursed softly and returned to his mount. "Someone has to know what happened."
As he continued, he passed two more farms—more plague signs, more graves. It was like walking through a memory he'd never wanted to revisit. His parents had died quickly while he was away. By the time he returned, they'd already been buried. No goodbyes. No closure.
His mood darkened with each mile. He found himself thinking of his mum, and the pies she used to make. His da—how they'd build things together. Memories settled like a weight on his chest.
By the time the village came into sight, shadows stretched long across the land.
Through Pudding's eyes, he saw it from above.
No lights in any of the homes.
Plague signs on every door.
No livestock.
No crops.
Just silence.
And death.
The memories came fast and heavy as Cane approached the front door of his childhood home.
His parents had passed years ago, but the house remained neat and orderly—perhaps kept up by a neighbor in their absence. He had visited once before leaving for Loramo Harbor. Nothing had changed.
Moxie stayed outside while Cane stepped into memory.
His eyes found the kitchen table immediately. There, still faintly curled but intact, was the flower he'd placed in a cup months ago.
He removed a small lamp from his storage ring, lit the wick, and set it on the table. Its warm light flickered across the room. The woodstove stood cold but familiar. Without thinking, Cane gathered kindling from the old bin and lit a fire—not out of need, but for comfort.
The warmth helped. He opened the door and let Moxie in.
The shadow wolf padded softly into the room but didn't explore. He stayed close instead, sensing the sorrow that hung on his master like a heavy coat.
Cane unrolled a mattress and set it down on the kitchen floor. Not in his old room. The kitchen had always been the heart of the house—his mother's laughter, the smell of pies, the hum of life—it all still lived in the walls.
He slept deeply, the first full night in days. He only stirred once or twice to feed the fire.
But just before dawn, Moxie's ears pricked. The low growl in his throat rose to a quiet snarl.
Cane sat up, instantly alert. He drew Starbolt, still in its spear form, and activated the falconer rune. His eyes flashed amber.
Pudding soared above the village, responding instantly.
Wolves. Common ones. Digging at the soil behind a nearby home.
"The Ironfoot residence," Cane muttered, eyes narrowed. "They were alive when I left on the Veda. That was only months ago."
He dropped the vision link, starlight fading from his eyes.
As soon as he opened the door, Moxie bolted into the pre-dawn dark. Regular wolves wouldn't challenge a shadow wolf—not even a young one.
By the time Cane arrived, the scavengers had already fled. But what remained turned his stomach.
Three mounds of dirt stood behind the house. No markers.
One of the graves had been dug up.
"Shit…"
He crouched by the disturbed soil, Starbolt ready in hand. After a pause, he stepped into the shallow pit and brushed the dirt away with his fingers.
Nothing.
"What the—?"
He summoned a shovel from his storage ring and began to dig in earnest. Just enough to be sure.
The grave was empty.
He moved quickly to the other two.
Also empty.
The next two hours passed in grim silence. One by one, Cane visited each home in the village. One by one, he found the same story.
Empty mounds. No remains. No signs of struggle.
Eventually, he returned home.
His parents' graves were different. They were marked properly, with rocks laid over the burial sites—solid and undisturbed. He'd made sure of it himself, years ago.
They were still there.
Moxie whimpered softly, sensing Cane's growing unease.
"Where are the people?" Cane murmured, barely above a whisper. "If the plague came back, why are the graves empty? Burned, maybe… That's common in larger towns…"
But this didn't feel like that.
Moxie pressed a wet nose into Cane's palm, grounding him.
"You're right," Cane said, breathing deep. "I can't delay any longer."
He stood and mounted the gray pony, adjusting the straps.
"Let's head to the valley."
He turned east, toward the mountains—toward the place no one had spoken of in years.