The sky above Bellshade shimmered with twilight. Pale orange hues melted into violet shadows, casting long silhouettes across the quiet little town nestled at the edge of the Whispering Woods. Lanterns flickered one by one, humming softly as their runestones activated, pushing away the creeping dark.
To most, this was just another day's end. But for Zayne Caldris, it was time for chess with his sister.
"You always pick white, you cheat," Seliah grinned as she plopped onto the wooden stool across from him, her small fingers already moving a pawn.
"Correction," Zayne replied with a smirk, "I let you think you're winning until it's too late. It builds character."
"You're a menace."
"And you're still two checkmates behind. One more, and I get to name your pet squirrel."
"You wouldn't dare."
Their laughter filled the modest but warm home. It wasn't a mansion, not a tower of opulence or arcane power. But to Zayne, it was perfect. The small fireplace crackled with just enough flame, the smell of stew still lingered in the air, and their mother hummed gently in the kitchen, slicing herbs and brewing something undoubtedly more delicious than anything he'd tasted during his brief stint at the academy.
Peace, he thought. Boring, maybe—but beautiful.
The door creaked open minutes later as their mother stepped out from the kitchen with a dish in hand. Liora Caldris was an ageless woman with grace in every step and power in her silence. Her hands, once feared across the continent for the spells they could conjure, now stirred soup and brushed Seliah's curls behind her ear.
"Enough chess, you two," she said. "Zayne, make sure you lock the wards tonight. Something… felt strange today."
He raised a brow. "Strange how?"
She hesitated. Just a flicker of it, but he saw it. A woman like Liora didn't hesitate without reason.
"Like something old passed by. Something that remembered me."
Zayne stood and placed a hand over hers. "We're safe, Mother. No one knows where we are. No one's looking."
She didn't reply—only smiled, kissed his cheek, and returned to the kitchen.
Zayne stood there for a moment longer, his instincts gnawing at him. For a man who found the world boring, that feeling in his gut—the itch of danger—was the only thing that ever felt real.
That night, he triple-checked the arcane locks, even added one of his own. Not many 17-year-olds could forge runes on the fly, but Zayne was no ordinary boy.
By midnight, Bellshade was silent. No wind. No wolves. Not even the whisper of trees.
Then came the knock.
Three soft taps.
Zayne's eyes flew open. He was already on his feet before the echo faded. No one knocked at this hour. No one should even be able to find the house.
He stepped down the creaky wooden stairs barefoot, silent as a shadow, pulse steady. The wards were still active, the magic in them humming faintly. He pressed a hand to the door and whispered a trace spell.
No one there.
Except… something else. A presence.
He yanked the door open.
Nothing. No man, no beast. Only a gust of air carrying the scent of burned wood.
And a white feather.
It lay on the doormat, pristine, but for its edge—scorched and curled, as if dipped in flame.
Zayne's fingers trembled as he reached for it. A noise behind him made him spin—
Screaming.
His sister.
Zayne ran.
The moment he crossed into the hallway, the world turned red.
Fire. Everywhere.
The kitchen was a blackened ruin, and in the middle of it, Seliah—her small body pinned under a beam, her hand outstretched toward him. Eyes wide. Lifeless.
"Seliah—!"
Another scream. This one from upstairs.
His mother.
He flew up the stairs, the steps beneath him cracking. His bedroom was already in flames, but it was her voice he followed.
He found her in the ritual room—blood-soaked, hands clasped in a broken spell circle, standing over the smoking, crumpled corpse of something not human.
"Zayne—" she gasped, her eyes wild.
He ran to her. She shoved a bloodied scroll into his hand and whispered in a voice no one was meant to hear:
"They found me. He found me. You must never trust—"
A blade struck through her chest.
Zayne screamed.
The killer—faceless, shrouded in mist, stepped back through a fold in space.
Zayne tried to follow, tried to burn, strike, teleport—anything.
But the killer was gone. The room collapsed.
He woke up the next morning buried in ash and rubble.
Alone.
---
Three Days Later
Bellshade no longer existed on the map. The Royal Watch listed it as a "localized magical anomaly." No survivors.
No witnesses.
No justice.
Zayne stood on the cliff overlooking the cinders, the feather clutched in his gloved hand. His once-golden eyes had dulled to a cold brown, a shade now locked in calculation rather than curiosity.
He spoke to no one.
He buried their ashes himself.
And when he finally stood again, there was no grief left—only resolve.
"Whoever left the feather," he murmured, voice steady, "I'll find you."
His fingers glowed. Runes of concealment, shadow, and silence danced across his arms. The boy who found the world boring was gone.
In his place stood something else.
A ghost.
A whisper.
A storm.
---
Now You See Me, Now You Don't.