Year 400,
Duskrend Wildlands,
Duskrend
The road twisted between gnarled trees, each step crunching over fallen leaves that had long forgotten summer. Takaya's boots kicked up a faint dust, and the wind carried nothing but the scent of damp earth and old stone. Ahead, the village emerged from the gray haze—a collection of timber and clay buildings, tight-roofed and huddled together, as if they were afraid to be seen.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
No children's laughter. No chatter from the marketplace. Even the animals were absent—no dogs barking, no chickens clucking, only the occasional creak of a shutter in the wind. Takaya slowed, every instinct on edge, his hand brushing the hilt of his spare dagger. He noted the locked doors, windows shuttered tight, and smokeless chimneys. The village wasn't dead—it was holding its breath.
He picked a spot just outside the cluster of buildings, where a small clearing gave him a view of the village entrance and the main path. Settling on the ground, he lowered his pack and began unpacking a small fire, careful not to draw attention. From this distance, the villagers were shadows behind curtains, flitting from doorway to doorway, never meeting his gaze.
Takaya ate a quiet meal from his pack, the steam from the food mingling with the evening mist. The silence pressed in on him like a weight. Every snap of a twig, every whisper of wind across the roofs, made him flinch. He could feel it—the wary watch of eyes hidden in the dark, measuring, judging, waiting.
Night fell, and the village seemed to grow colder. Even the stars above seemed to bend closer, peering down at the tense stillness below. Takaya adjusted his cloak and leaned back against a tree, listening. The world felt paused, suspended in breathless caution, and Takaya knew this was only the beginning.
A single thought ran through his mind, quiet but firm: I need to know what they're hiding.
A faint crunch of leaves announced her before he saw her. Takaya's hand twitched toward his dagger, but the figure that stepped into the firelight was small and unthreatening—a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, with a basket in her arms. Her dark hair was tied back in a rough braid, and her eyes, wide and alert, darted between him and the village behind her.
Without a word, she set the basket on the ground and tilted it slightly. Inside were a few pieces of bread, a chunk of cheese, and some dried fruit. Takaya's gaze flicked to her, but she didn't speak, didn't hesitate, only nodded once and stepped back.
"You shouldn't stay here," she said finally, her voice soft but steady, carrying across the mist. "It's… dangerous. People don't like strangers. Not anymore."
Takaya didn't ask why. The tension in her posture, the careful way she avoided the village buildings, told him everything he needed to know. He accepted the basket with a curt nod, keeping his voice low.
"Who are you?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head. "Aelna. Just… Aelna." She glanced over her shoulder at the village, a shadow passing over her face. "I bring food. That's all. Leave before night falls."
Takaya watched her retreat to the village edge, moving as if the ground itself might swallow her if she lingered. He didn't call her back. The warning hung between them, heavier than the basket of food she had left behind.
As he ate, the firelight flickering across his face, Takaya's mind spun with questions. Why was the village so silent? Why was this girl risking herself to feed him yet so adamant that he leave?
And above all, a single thought pressed against his chest: Something is very wrong here.
By morning, the fog had thinned, revealing the village more clearly. From his camp just beyond the wooden fence, Takaya watched in silence. The houses were neat, their thatched roofs mended, their gardens tended—but something about them felt wrong. Too neat. Too careful.
Doors opened only halfway before shutting again. Curtains fluttered, then stilled when his gaze passed. No one lingered outside for long; they moved quickly, eyes on the ground, hands clutching tools or baskets as if afraid to be caught empty-handed. Even the sound of life—dogs barking, merchants calling—was missing. Only the faint creak of shutters and the whisper of wind filled the air.
Once, Takaya spotted a child peering through a cracked door. The boy's wide eyes met his for an instant before a woman's hand yanked him back into darkness. Somewhere down the main road, an old man hurried past, muttering a prayer under his breath.
Takaya's attention drifted to the largest building at the village's center—a chapel of pale stone, its spire leaning slightly, as though time itself had grown weary of holding it upright. The villagers' paths curved around it, avoiding the front steps like it carried a disease. Yet every few hours, someone went inside. Always alone. Never smiling.
A feeling settled over him, one he recognized from battlefields and burned towns—the sense of control, heavy and unseen, pressing down on the people until they bent under it.
He didn't know who ruled here, or what had broken them this way. But as the chapel bell rang once, sharp and metallic through the still air, Takaya's hand found Solthar's hilt almost unconsciously.
Whatever had its grip on this place, it wasn't mercy.
The second morning came gray and heavy, the clouds low enough to graze the rooftops. Takaya had just finished sharpening Solthar by the fire when he heard footsteps again—soft, deliberate. He turned, expecting the wind or a stray villager, but it was her.
Aelna.
She carried a small basket, but this time she wasn't alone. A boy trailed behind her—barely ten, barefoot, hair messy like he'd just woken from a nightmare. He clutched her hand tightly, eyes darting toward Takaya with a fear that felt older than he was.
"I told you not to stay," Aelna said quietly. There was no accusation in her tone, only fatigue. "But you didn't listen."
Takaya didn't rise, just met her gaze. "You came back anyway."
She hesitated, then sat across from him, setting down the basket. Bread. Dried fruit. A small flask of water. The boy stayed half-hidden behind her shoulder.
"This is my brother, Leor," she said after a moment. "He… doesn't talk much anymore."
Leor's eyes flicked up briefly, meeting Takaya's before dropping again.
Takaya studied them both. The girl's clothes were worn but clean; her hands, calloused from work. She didn't look frightened to be near him, only cautious—like someone used to surviving by being careful with her words.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was low. "You've seen the people here. You know something's wrong."
Takaya nodded once.
"The priest," she said, the word like a curse. "He says our god demands offerings. Children. Says it's the only way to keep the land safe. To keep the sickness from returning."
Takaya's jaw tightened. "And they believe him?"
"They're afraid," Aelna whispered. "The ones who refuse disappear. Sometimes we find what's left of them in the river. Sometimes we don't."
Leor shivered and pressed closer to her. Aelna's hand went to his hair, steadying him.
"No one speaks against him anymore," she continued. "Not after what happened to the blacksmith's son. Or my father."
The silence that followed was absolute. Only the faint hiss of the fire and the rustle of leaves filled it.
Takaya didn't ask what happened to her father. He didn't need to. The look in her eyes said enough.
When she finally stood, gathering her basket again, she looked at him with a strange mix of hope and fear. "Don't go near the chapel. If you value your life… leave before nightfall."
She turned, leading her brother back toward the fog-drenched path.
Takaya watched them disappear into the mist, the crackle of his dying fire the only sound left behind.
The village of Thalen slept with one eye open.
Takaya spent the day walking its narrow, crooked streets—if they could even be called streets. The paths wound between sagging homes and shuttered stalls, mud swallowing his boots with every step. From every doorway, eyes peeked through cracks, vanished the moment his gaze lifted. It wasn't shyness. It was fear.
He passed a small square at the village's heart, where a wooden post stood blackened with old soot. Rope still hung from it, frayed and knotted. The stench of burnt oil clung to the air even after the wind shifted. No one came near it. A child tried to cross the square, but her mother yanked her back so hard she fell, whispering something Takaya couldn't catch.
He didn't need to. The message was everywhere.
By noon, the bells from the chapel tolled—slow, hollow sounds that carried through the mist. Every villager stopped. Tools lowered, heads bowed. Even the dogs went silent.
Takaya followed the sound to the chapel's shadow: a white stone building streaked with moss and soot, its windows shuttered tight. In front of it, a man in dark robes moved like a ghost among the villagers. The priest.
His face was calm—too calm. Thin lips curved into what might have been a smile, though it never reached his eyes. He laid a hand on each bowed head that came near him, murmuring blessings in a tongue Takaya didn't recognize. Every touch made the people flinch, as if expecting pain.
When his gaze swept the crowd, Takaya turned away before it could find him.
That night, Aelna came again. No food this time—only urgency. "Come with me," she whispered.
She led him through narrow back paths, between huts and fences, until they reached a half-collapsed barn on the village's edge. Inside, candlelight flickered weakly against the wood.
Children. Six of them. Thin, silent, their eyes too old for their faces. One girl had bandages around her arm; another hid behind a sack of grain, clutching a cracked doll. They didn't speak. Didn't move. Only watched.
"These are the ones I could save," Aelna said softly. Her voice trembled only once. "He was going to take them next. I told everyone they ran away. If the priest finds out…"
She trailed off, glancing at the door as if expecting someone to burst in.
Takaya's gaze moved from the children to her, to the exhaustion that clung to her like dust. "You're risking everything," he said quietly.
"I already lost everything," she replied. "This is all I have left."
Outside, the chapel bells rang again—three slow tolls that rolled through the mist like a heartbeat.
Every child flinched. Aelna's hand went to her brother's shoulder, steadying him.
Takaya looked at them all, then at the distant glow of the chapel through the cracks in the boards. The fear in Thalen wasn't superstition—it was obedience, carved into bone.
And in that moment, he understood: whatever ruled this place wasn't just a priest. It was something far older.
The next morning, Takaya kept to the outskirts. The fog never lifted in Thalen—it rolled between homes like a living thing, swallowing light and sound until the world felt muted, unreal.
From a ridge overlooking the village, he watched. There was rhythm to the way people moved: always in pairs, never alone, always glancing toward the chapel before crossing the square. The bells tolled thrice every few hours, and each time, life paused. It wasn't just obedience—it was conditioning.
Men in tattered brown cloaks walked the streets with wooden staves, not quite soldiers but something close. Their routes overlapped perfectly, as if they'd memorized an invisible grid. Patrols. Takaya noticed how they lingered near certain homes—those with no smoke rising from chimneys, no laughter inside. Those were the houses where people had disappeared.
He began to map It in his mind: entry points, shadows deep enough to hide in, the routes that led to the chapel's side doors. Old instincts stirred—measured, patient, predatory. He didn't want to fight again. But something in him had long stopped believing he had a choice.
Closer to noon, Takaya moved through the alleys under the guise of wandering. The villagers avoided him at first, but not all of them. He caught glimpses—a woman who pressed a loaf of bread into a child's hands and whispered something before sending him running; a man who dropped a token carved with strange symbols into the mud when the patrol passed. Small gestures, quiet defiance.
Under one sagging archway, Takaya found markings etched into the wood: a circle with two intersecting lines, faint but deliberate. Someone had tried to scrub it off, but the grooves remained. When his fingers brushed over it, he felt a trace of warmth—like the residue of prayer.
He turned the image over in his mind. It wasn't worship; it was warning.
By the time the fog thickened again, he had learned more than he expected. There was resistance here—small, fractured, hidden in the folds of fear. But they were leaderless, terrified, waiting for someone else to act.
Back at his camp, Takaya sat beside the fading embers of his fire, eyes fixed on the outline of the chapel at the village's center.
The Veyl's voice slithered into the quiet. "You're planning again," it said, half amusement, half disdain. "Haven't you learned what happens when you play hero, boy?"
Takaya didn't answer. His hand closed around the ring on his finger, the faint warmth of Solthar's seal pulsing beneath his skin.
He wasn't planning to play hero. He was planning to stop something—before it swallowed another Eri, another Lira, another peace he didn't deserve.
As dusk bled into night, Thalen transformed. What had looked merely broken by day now seemed haunted. The fog thickened, turning every lantern into a dull orange halo. Shadows stretched long and thin, twitching at the edge of sight.
Takaya moved his camp closer to the village's edge—close enough to hear, not close enough to be seen. The earth here was cold, damp, as if it remembered the blood that had soaked it once. He built no fire. The dark was safer than the light.
From his vantage point near the treeline, he could see the chapel. Its spire loomed over everything, cutting through the fog like a blade. A faint chanting carried on the wind, low and rhythmic, and Takaya knew the priest was inside. Even from here, he could feel it—an unease that coiled beneath the skin, something wrong pulsing from that building like a second heartbeat.
Then the night began to whisper its secrets.
A scream—muffled, cut short—echoed from one of the narrow streets. No one came to look. A door opened, then shut quietly, as if the sound had been expected.
Moments later, smoke began to rise near the square. The acrid scent of burning wood and ash drifted through the fog. Takaya crept closer and saw them—effigies, human-shaped and bound with twine, burning in a circle around the chapel steps. A ritual of purification, perhaps… or intimidation. The villagers stood at a distance, heads bowed, lips unmoving. Fear hung over them thicker than the smoke.
A child broke from his mother's grasp, crying, trying to run toward the flames. The mother pulled him back, covering his mouth, trembling. The patrolmen didn't even glance their way—they just continued their circuit, hollow-eyed and silent.
Takaya's jaw tightened. In his 3 months in Duskrend he had witnessed villages consumed by war, famine, monsters—but never this quiet obedience. It was as if the entire town had learned how to die without making a sound.
He shifted his gaze to the chapel again. Behind one of the stained-glass windows, he caught a flicker of movement—a figure in robes, raising a hand toward the effigies. The priest. The light behind him flared red for an instant, too bright to be candlelight.
The Veyl stirred within him, its voice a breath against his mind.
"Something feeds there. You feel it too, don't you?"
Takaya didn't reply. His hand brushed the hilt of his blade, and his other reached for the talisman at his neck. The night pressed closer, alive and watching.
He knew he couldn't wait much longer. Something was building inside that chapel—and when it broke loose, the village would fall completely.
For now, he would watch. Listen. Wait for the moment when the dark blinked first.
Aelna came again before dawn, her cloak damp with mist, eyes sharp despite the sleepless night. She didn't speak at first—just looked over her shoulder, making sure no one had followed. Then, from the folds of her cloak, she pulled out a small bundle of bread and dried meat. But beneath it, Takaya saw something else—a charm of woven reeds, painted faintly with symbols of protection.
"For them," she whispered, glancing toward the treeline. "For Leor. For the others I've hidden."
Takaya took it, fingers brushing the rough fibers. The charm felt warm, almost trembling, as though it carried not faith—but fear. He didn't ask how many "others" there were. Her silence told him enough.
When she left, he began to move through the village with greater purpose. Not openly, but as a shadow among shadows—helping when he could, speaking little. He'd mend a broken fence, leave food where it might be found, whisper warnings when patrols drew near. Small things, invisible to most—but to those who noticed, it meant hope still had a pulse.
In the market lane, he watched an old man drop his bucket near the well. Two guards stopped, demanding a tithe to "God's work." The man hesitated—too long. A slap followed. The crowd froze. Takaya's hand twitched toward his blade… but before he could move, a woman stepped from her stall, offering her day's grain to distract them. The guards sneered and left. The old man said nothing, but their eyes met briefly—and Takaya saw it: the faintest ember of defiance.
That night, as he returned to the edge of the woods, Aelna was waiting. Her voice was low, fierce.
"They think he speaks for the gods," she said, meaning the priest. "But even the gods grow silent when blood fills their altars."
Takaya looked toward the chapel again. The chanting was louder now, carried farther by the night wind. But between those heavy, echoing words, he thought he heard something else—soft, human, fragile.
The sound of people starting to remember they were not powerless.
The priest's reach was vast, his influence absolute—but now, Takaya could see the cracks forming. Small rebellions, quiet as breath… but alive.
The nights grew colder, quieter. Even the insects had gone still, as if afraid to draw notice. Takaya moved through the dark like smoke, every step measured, every breath controlled. He traced the edges of the village—the patrol routes, the watchtowers, the traps buried near the chapel. Nothing here was random. Every path, every turn, was meant to contain, not protect.
Torches flickered in predictable cycles. Guards muttered prayers under their breath, their eyes hollow, their movements mechanical. It wasn't loyalty that kept them awake—it was fear.
Takaya crouched behind a barn, studying the chapel on the hill. The building pulsed faintly with something unnatural. A haze of mana drifted from its steeple, thin and oily, seeping into the soil. He could feel it, the way one might feel thunder before it strikes—pressure building, invisible but certain.
He pressed a hand to his chest. The mana within him stirred in response, wild and unwilling. It recognized something kindred inside that building—something wrong.
In the distance, a door creaked. A child's sob cut through the night, followed by a woman's muffled plea. Then silence again, smothering and absolute.
Takaya forced himself to stay still. He had to understand, not rush. He had to think.
Aelna and Leor were sleeping in a hollow near the woods, hidden beneath woven branches. He'd checked on them before leaving—Leor curled against his sister's arm, Aelna keeping a knife close to her chest. They