The first pale light of dawn crept through the cracks in the shutters, turning the dust motes in Kaelen's room to drifting gold. He woke with a gasp, heart pounding, the remnants of his dream still clinging to him like the chill of night. Fire—roaring, all-consuming—devoured a sky littered with stars. In his hand, a sword of impossible light hummed with power, and above him, a circle of stars broke apart with a jagged flash, scattering into darkness.
He sat up, breath ragged, and looked down at his forearm. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the faintest shimmer of that broken circle from his dream, but as he blinked, it vanished, leaving only the familiar pale skin and the old scars of fieldwork. He pressed his fingers to the spot, half-expecting a jolt of pain or warmth, but there was nothing. Just the echo of something ancient and important, tugging at the edges of his mind.
Kaelen swung his legs off the cot and padded over to the loose floorboard. He knelt, pried it up, and checked the battered book hidden beneath. The cover was rough and worn, the strange looping symbols still mysterious and alluring. He ran his thumb over them, remembering his father's warning: "Some truths are worth the risk, Kael. Even if they burn." He replaced the book, careful as always, and pressed the board back into place.
The cottage was quiet except for the soft clatter of his mother preparing breakfast and the gentle breathing of Lira, still curled in her blanket on the other side of the room. Kaelen dressed quickly, pulling on his patched tunic and trousers, and splashed cold water on his face. He paused in the doorway, watching his mother knead dough with a nervous energy that betrayed her worry.
"You were restless last night," she said quietly, not looking up.
Kaelen shrugged. "Just dreams," he replied, grabbing the bucket for water.
He stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The village was already stirring. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the sound of a distant rooster echoed over the fields. Kaelen filled the bucket at the well, nodding to old Mrs. Harrow, who was already gossiping with her neighbor.
"Did you hear?" Mrs. Harrow whispered, her voice sharp as a scythe. "The guards were at the Carvers' all night. Asking questions about the fire."
Kaelen kept his head down, but his ears strained to catch every word.
"They say old Ren's gone," the neighbor replied, voice trembling. "Taken by the priests. He won't be back."
Kaelen's grip tightened on the bucket's handle. He hurried back to the cottage, the weight of the water nothing compared to the heaviness in his chest.
Inside, his mother was arranging the dough for baking. She looked up as he entered, her eyes searching his face. "Go help your sister with the chickens. And keep your eyes open."
Lira was already outside, scattering feed for the hens. She looked up as Kaelen approached, her face bright. "Did you hear the bells last night? I think they tolled thirteen times."
Kaelen frowned. "Thirteen? Are you sure?"
She nodded, her braids bouncing. "Mama says that's bad luck. She says it means someone's been taken."
Kaelen glanced toward the temple spires, gleaming cold and white in the morning sun. "Maybe it's just a story," he said, but even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow.
They finished their chores in silence, the tension between them as thick as the morning mist. As the sun climbed higher, the village square began to fill with people. It was tithe day—a day everyone dreaded.
The priests arrived in a procession, their robes immaculate, their faces serene and unreadable. The temple guards followed, armor gleaming, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. High Priest Varin led the way, his eyes cold and sharp as ever.
"People of Elden's Hollow," he intoned, his voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd. "The gods demand their due. Bring forth your tithes."
One by one, the villagers stepped forward, offering what they could—baskets of grain, jars of honey, a few scrawny chickens. The priests accepted each offering with solemn nods, murmuring blessings. For those who gave little, the blessings were perfunctory, almost mocking.
Then came the Turners, a family Kaelen had known all his life. They were poor, their land rocky and unyielding. They brought a single hen, thin and bedraggled, all they had left.
High Priest Varin's lips curled in disdain. "Is this all you offer the gods?"
The Turner matron bowed low. "It's all we have, honored priest. The harvest—"
"Excuses," Varin snapped. He gestured, and a guard stepped forward, brandishing a red-hot iron.
"For your failure, you are marked for atonement. You will serve in the temple fields until your debt is paid."
The guard pressed the brand to the matron's forearm. She did not cry out, but tears streamed down her face. Her children clung to her, silent and terrified.
Kaelen felt his anger burn. This was not faith. This was cruelty dressed in holy robes.
The tithes continued. Those who gave enough received a blessing—a touch to the forehead, a murmured prayer. The rest watched in silence, fear etched into every line of their faces.
When the last offering had been made, a minor priest stepped forward. He was young, with sharp features and eyes that glittered with zeal. He raised his hands and began to chant in a language Kaelen did not know. The crowd parted as a lame boy was brought forward, limping on a twisted leg.
The priest placed his hands on the boy's head, chanting louder. Light shimmered around his fingers, growing brighter until it was painful to look at. The crowd gasped as the boy's leg straightened, the twisted bone snapping into place. The boy cried out, then stood, blinking in disbelief.
"A miracle!" someone whispered.
The priest smiled, basking in the awe of the crowd. "The gods reward the faithful," he proclaimed. "Doubt is the enemy of blessing."
Kaelen watched closely. He saw the strain on the priest's face, the way his hands trembled after the light faded. He wondered if it was truly a miracle, or some trick—some channeling of the faith that the gods demanded.
The crowd dispersed slowly, some uplifted, others cowed. Kaelen lingered at the edge of the square, lost in thought.
As he turned to leave, a voice murmured at his shoulder: "Impressive, isn't it?"
He turned. A stranger stood beside him—a young woman, her cloak pulled low over her face. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and wary.
"Depends on your definition of impressive," Kaelen replied, keeping his voice low.
She smiled, a quick flash of teeth. "Not everyone is so easily dazzled."
He studied her, noting the way she stood—ready to move, always watching. "Who are you?"
"Just a traveler," she said, slipping something into his hand. "Be careful, Kaelen Thorne. The world is watching."
Before he could reply, she melted into the crowd, vanishing as quickly as she had appeared. Kaelen looked down. In his palm was a small token—a disc of bone etched with a broken circle of stars.
His heart hammered. The same symbol as in his father's book.
He tucked the token into his pocket, glancing around. No one seemed to have noticed the exchange, but he felt eyes on him all the same.
He hurried home, mind racing. His mother was waiting, her face drawn.
"You were seen talking to a stranger," she said without preamble.
Kaelen started. "Who—?"
"Mrs. Harrow saw you. She worries for us all."
He hesitated, then showed her the token. "She gave me this."
His mother's eyes widened. She snatched the token, turning it over in her hands. "This is dangerous, Kaelen. You must be careful. The priests—if they find this—"
"I know," he said quietly.
She pressed the token back into his hand, her fingers trembling. "Promise me you'll keep your head down. For Lira's sake, if not your own."
He nodded, though he wasn't sure he could keep that promise.
Lira appeared in the doorway, her eyes bright. "Who was that woman, Kaelen?"
"Just a traveler," he said, echoing the stranger's words.
"She looked important," Lira insisted. "Did she tell you a secret?"
Kaelen hesitated, then ruffled her hair. "Maybe. But secrets are dangerous."
Lira pouted. "I want to know about the Old Gods. The storyteller said—"
"Hush," their mother snapped. "No more talk of that."
Lira's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing more.
That night, as dusk fell and the village retreated behind locked doors, Kaelen sat beneath the willow tree at the edge of the square. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of earth and smoke. He turned the token over and over in his hands, tracing the broken circle with his thumb.
He thought of the priest's "miracle," of the branded Turner family, of the fear in his mother's eyes. He thought of the book hidden beneath his bed, of the prophecy it contained.
*When the chains are broken and the old names remembered, the world will be made whole again.*
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe there was more to the world than fear and obedience.
A movement caught his eye. Across the square, two temple guards stood in the shadows, watching him. He met their gaze, refusing to look away.
Let them watch, he thought. Let them wonder.
He slipped the token into his pocket and stood, feeling the weight of destiny settle on his shoulders.
Tomorrow, he would seek answers. Tomorrow, he would begin to unravel the secrets of the gods.
For tonight, he would dream of fire and stars.
---
*End of Chapter 2*