The last sun of autumn hovered like a half-closed eye over the jagged horizon, casting long gold shadows through the crooked fields of Nareth Hollow. Smoke from cooking fires curled lazily into the air, tangled with the scent of burnt garlic, honey-oil, and wild cloves. Chickens clucked. Children shouted, chasing each other between rickety booths half-constructed for the coming festival.
Rael Kurogane stood on the flat rooftop of his uncle's house, one boot on the chimney, arms crossed like he was overseeing a battlefield instead of a village celebration. His black hair was wind-tousled, but not as unruly as the way he scowled at the sight of a stall collapsing beneath a too-eager merchant.
"You're gonna frown yourself into early wrinkles," came a voice from below.
Rael leaned over the edge, looking down to see a boy his age—lean, nervous, arms full of firewood.
"Mak," Rael grunted, hopping down in a casual vault. He landed with a solid thud beside him. "Why're you the one hauling wood? Isn't that Kraed's job?"
Mak shifted the pile in his arms, not meeting his eyes. "Kraed's over at the square. With the guard. Again."
Rael's jaw tensed. "He shaking down kids again?"
Mak nodded.
Rael sighed. "Guess I'm late to the show."
—
By the time Rael reached the town square, a crowd had already formed around the cracked stone well. Kraed was leaning against it with two other guard cadets, puffed up in their mismatched iron padding. Before them, a younger boy—no older than eleven—stood trembling with a bag of sweetroot candies in his fist.
"Didn't your little brother steal from the merchant last week?" Kraed's voice was mock-friendly, like he was trying to entertain the onlookers. "I'm sure a few candies from your bag'll keep things… peaceful."
The kid looked ready to cry.
Rael stepped between them.
Kraed blinked. "Oh. It's you."
"Yeah," Rael said. "It's me. And I'm real tired of your dog voice."
Kraed's expression flickered. "This isn't your business."
"He's a kid, not a criminal. You want candy, earn it."
Rael didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. It was the way he stood—feet planted like tree roots, eyes sharp as broken glass.
Kraed snorted, embarrassed. "You think you're better than me 'cause you throw punches for farmers? You're a nobody orphan. Your Eclipse never even woke up."
Rael smiled then, slow and grim. "Wanna see if that makes me easier to hit?"
A pause.
Kraed's hands clenched, then unclenched. "You're lucky the Captain's watching." He turned and walked off, fuming. His friends followed, not saying a word.
Rael knelt beside the boy and offered a hand. "You okay?"
The kid nodded quickly. "Thanks, Mister Kurogane."
Rael grimaced. "Just Rael. And don't call me mister—I'm fifteen, not fifty."
—
That night, the house smelled of roasted leeks and spice-thick stew. Rael sat at the long, hand-carved table with his uncle Dagen, a burly man with a face like cracked leather and the voice of a lion who'd smoked too much.
"You know," Dagen said, ladling out stew into Rael's bowl, "one day you're gonna pick a fight you can't walk away from."
Rael slurped loudly. "And one day you're gonna cook stew that isn't 80% potato. We all got dreams."
Dagen barked a laugh. "Smartass."
Rael grinned, but it faded slowly. His hand drifted toward the leather strap on his wrist—a talisman his real father left behind. He didn't know what it meant. Neither did Dagen.
"You remember your father at all?" Dagen asked gently.
Rael shook his head. "Not even his voice."
The room went quiet for a breath. Then:
"You've got his spine," Dagen said. "Stubborn as hell. Like the bone's trying to punch through your skin just to argue with people."
Rael smirked, but said nothing. Outside, the wind picked up.
Later that night, the village square glowed with lanterns and laughter. Musicians played bone-flutes, and dancers twirled in painted masks. Smoke rose from the food carts. Rael leaned against a post, arms crossed, watching it all with quiet fondness.
Until the wind died completely.
Not slowed. Not shifted. Died.
A stillness fell over the square so absolute it felt deliberate.
The music faltered. One of the dancers dropped her mask.
In the distance, near the forest's edge, a scream tore through the quiet like a blade through silk.
A heartbeat later, the flames in the lanterns snuffed out.