No one left Greyhill of their own free will.
Here, the wind did not howl—it muttered like an old man grumbling to himself. The sky never brightened, and if the earth did not break your back before you were sixteen, the frostbite would claim you before you were twenty.
I was nothing special. Only the mark all the children in the village bore and the title heir to house Hollowden—a title once important, now barely worth speaking of.
Finally, I was nothing but a boy with calloused palms, half-frozen hopes, and a name no bard would waste paper on.
"Snap out of it, kid! Get going!"
That was the voice of a man I didn't feel right calling father—Halka Hollowden.
A leech to other men's success, he was one who was a monument of squandered pride and broken promises. I carried his name as a curse, an unwanted one that burdened me.
"Yes, Father…" I groaned, reaching deep into the reservoir of energy I had left to talk, praying it would be sufficient to silence him from barking once more.
As we walked the cracked dirt path back to our withering house, I found myself trapped in thoughts of the days still ahead.
One day I would be forced to step into my father's shoes—an inheritance I did not wish.
He was a member of the once great Hollowden clan, warriors of brutal honor and unyielding pride, with weakness being shame and with strength carving your name into legend.
But my father was the clan's shame incarnate. A man who bore the name for naught. He complained about the faults of others while his own failures were plain to see, did nothing that was worth doing, and roamed the world like a specter clutching the tatters of a lost heritage.
He was no warrior. He was not even a man. An empty name and a coward's face.
I could sense the force of hatred push deeper into my mind with each day that passed—but I said nothing. I did nothing.
At sixteen, I had hoped for freedom, even a glimmer of the world beyond. But with every morning, the grip closed in. Clarity did not soothe the hurt—it showed the truth.
There was no getting out of Geryhill. No getting in either. Whatever's inside, remains inside. It wasn't a village—it was a completely enclosed prison.
This prison built by no less than my father—the so-called "mastermind," if you really squint your eyes and insert a couple of loose air quotes.
Finally, I arrived at the aforesaid house and was pulled in with a force that hurled the firewood into the room.
"Take your bloody hands off me, you oaf!" I exclaimed, wrenching free from his hold.
He was accustomed to my quick wit by then. No response, only a grunt as he released me like he didn't give a care. I didn't linger. My work was completed, and I just wanted to be out of there, away from him, from that awful place.
So I left—slamming the back door shut after me as if to silence the whole cursed house.
I did not have any shame for the family I had spoken of. I was myself now—free, untethered. I would live on my own terms, not as property.
After all those hours belly-crawling all day long for my dad, I finally experienced a taste of freedom. One moment—that's all I required. One opportunity to slip through the cracks and never return.
And fate, perhaps tired of watching me suffer, offered it to me.
For the first time in years, the iron gates of Geryhill—the ones which had shut us in like cattle—were ever so slightly ajar. They said it was for repair. I knew what it was:
An escape.
"This is my opportunity," I told myself, pounding heart, as the initial strands of a plan started to take shape.
The fix was to be done in the late afternoon, so I had a small window of opportunity—just long enough to sneak out before the workers had even noticed anyone was absent.
I knew what the price of what I was about to do would be. This was not some blind act of defiance. I was not a coward and never would be. If this cost me punishment, then so be it. I'd face it.
The sun had already set below the mountains, casting Geryhill in a blue-gray darkness. Which meant that one thing: Operation Get The Hell Out of This Place—or OGTHOFTS, as I liked to refer to it—had officially begun.
Everyone else would have attempted to slip out unnoticed, like mice in a pantry. Not me.
I employed the only means left at my disposal—my last name. Hollowden.
It got me past the triple-layered security guarding the gates. They eyed me suspiciously, naturally, but the gravity of that accursed name still carried weight.
And I detested myself for it.
But pride could wait. Freedom couldn't.
From there, all I needed to do was slip by while their backs were turned — bless their hearts, those morons had left the gate open just wide enough for me to slip through.
But when I continued on, I stopped. There were voices yelling behind me. I hadn't noticed them before, but there must have been a pair of soldiers close by, perhaps waiting for someone to attempt exactly what I was attempting.
"Hey," one of them growled, his tone low but clear enough to send chills down my spine. "You hear that son of a bitch Halka has a kid?"
My breath caught. My heart pounded against my ribs. They were discussing me.
"He's only about sixteen or so," said one of them, as I sucked in air like my life was on the line. "Well, what does it matter? like that kid wouldn't last a day outside these walls."
They erupted in laughter — loud, foul, and booming like it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever heard in weeks, slapping their thighs like fools in a bar.
I stood there frozen by the corner, horrified. Their words were not thoughtless—thhey were a curse, a mockery, and they stuck in my skin like splinters.
Fortunately, their backs were turned also, too engrossed in talking to realize what was happening around them.
I continued walking, each step burdened with what I had learned. My mind spun, but I forced my body forward.
My battered, cold hand leaned against the gate for support as I heaved myself through the little gap.
CRACK.
I stepped on a twig—crack, harsh, and just in time to spoil everything.
"Did you hear that?!" one of the guards yelled, and the two men spun around with swift speed, their eyes scanning the blackness like wolves that smell blood.
They rushed towards the gate, hoping against hope to apprehend someone in flight, charging towards me with no hesitation.
But there was nothing.
Perplexed, they spread out, covering every inch of the gate and its environs, but this night luck was not smiling on them.
Finally, they grumbled about the wind and departed, thinking that it was all mere coincidence.
But where did I go? How did I vanish into thin air?
Simple.
My bloodline ability—a heritage born from Hollowdens' veins—grants us the ability to vanish inside the air itself, invisible and ethereal.
That's why we've always reigned supreme.
All credit to that very same ability, I escaped the clutches of the home I had known as a child—a blood-and-tradition prison.
Before I could gather the energy to continue, I halted, glancing around. The towering trees ran up to the gaunt sky, and a heavy mist crept along the wall's top like a warning.
But there is a condition to my present—one that rests heavily on my shoulders.
I can't hold the ability for long. It's a fleeting escape, not a permanent shield.
That is why I save it for when it matters most—for those times when there is no turning back, when life itself is on the line.
My final card.
My Ace in the Hole.
And then I stayed still—half-hoping that someone would come bursting out of the shadows, grab me, and drag me back in through the gates as if nothing ever happened.
But nobody arrived. No cries, no pursuing footsteps. Only the great trees in front, shrouded in a low fog, and the beating of my heart—greater than the wind.
This was the moment I had dreamed about for so many years. And here I was, out in the open, finally free… the world was too big, too still. I was not happy or triumphant. Just an odd emptiness.
I peered into the emptiness, the quiet enveloping.
What if I perish out here…?
But I couldn't stay in one spot forever. So I moved on—beyond the more familiar unknown, where the woods thickened and the air thickened, as if something intangible was breathing just above my shoulder.
The deeper I went, the more foreign it felt. Every twisted branch above stretched down like skeletal fingers, and the mist curled around my ankles, clinging to the sole of my dirty shoes. It should have terrified me.
But it didn't.
Once, for the very first time, no one yelled. No one gave orders. This was mine—my moment of quiet, my first experience of freedom.
Then, as I was about to step once more—
Squelch. Squelch.
I was startled by a wet, heavy sound. I dropped my body, years of concealment conditioning my instincts into motion without thought. I crept toward a bush and brushed it aside with trembling fingers.
That's when I noticed it.
It wasn't an animal.
It was something else—black and ravenous, its hide resembling rotting leather pulled taut over a twisted skeleton. Its claws were long and saw-toothed, slicing through a corpse like cloth. Bones crunched under its appetite.
I should have screamed. Or run.
But I didn't.
I just stood there. observing the bloodshed. When I was a child, they would tell tales of flesh-eating demons—tall tales to scare children. I never gave them any credence.
Until now.
I turned my attention to the body.
No sorrow. No pity.
Just a spark—small, ancient, buried in silences and fear.
My flame.
And just as I took a breath, the cold struck me.
"If I'm found missing…"
Without even deliberating, my legs started moving at once—I ran, gasping, back to the only home I knew: Geryhill.
I just needed to be normal.
As though I had just seen a man torn to pieces and devoured.
But when I arrived at the gate… there were no guards.
Nothing but blood streaks. Long, smeared trails leading inside the village. I raised my hand to my shaking chest and grabbed my tunic with whatever strength I possessed.
And then, in the village.
I heard it a wet, dragging sound."