"Not all threads of fate are spun in silence—some begin with laughter beside a river's bend."
The morning after Mareth's rescue dawned bright and windless. Yldrahollow stirred in gentle waves—children rushing down dirt paths, elders sweeping porches, and the faint clang of a blacksmith's hammer keeping time with the birds. All seemed unchanged, but for those with quiet hearts and listening souls, something had shifted. The Skyling was the first to feel it.
Eliakim awoke to the soft rustle of wings.
Perched upon the sill, the Skyling stared at him with unblinking celestial eyes, its feathers glimmering faintly in the morning light. It made no sound, but its presence was weighty, like a whisper waiting to become a scream. Eliakim blinked sleepily, then grinned.
"Good morning," he said.
The bird tilted its head but said nothing.
Unbothered, Eliakim washed, dressed, and bounded outside into the light.
The village of Yldrahollow was more alive than usual that morning. The wheat bowed lazily under a warm breeze, and Eliakim strolled the path toward the brook, waving to each villager with cheerful ease.
He greeted Mara, the midwife, who nodded with pursed lips but said nothing. Old Bram, the beekeeper, tossed him a small honey cake, chuckling, "For the hero of hide-and-seek."
Eliakim laughed. "Only did what I had to!"
At the edge of the village, under a bend of willow trees near the slow-moving creek, his friends waited—Lanrick, red-faced and always hungry, and little Jora, whose braids danced like twin pendulums when she laughed.
"Think it's still in the deep pool?" Lanrick asked, peering into the shadowy waters.
"Only one way to know," Eliakim grinned.
They were fishing not for sport, but for Mareth. She'd caught a fever from her fall, and though the healer said rest would heal her, Eliakim had decided that a "Champion's Fish" might help more than medicine.
They'd tried twice before that morning, but now the line trembled, taut with promise.
"It's got the bait!" Jora cried.
Eliakim grabbed the rod—little more than a sturdy stick with twine—and dug his heels in. The fish below surged.
"It's too big!" Lanrick gasped. "Let go, or it'll pull you in!"
"No," Eliakim growled, eyes locked on the line. "Help me find a branch. Big one—quick!"
They scrambled to retrieve a thick tree limb, twisted and gnarled. Eliakim tied the line and braced the branch between two boulders, creating a crude pulley. As they heaved, Eliakim's hand slipped on the wet bark. A sharp edge scraped his palm, and a single drop of blood pattered into the stream below.
The moment it touched the water, the river stilled—just for a heartbeat. Beneath the ripples, faint lines of glowing script shimmered and then vanished as though swallowed by the earth. A deep vibration stirred far beneath the surface, unnoticed.
The Skyling, watching from a nearby tree, cocked its head, its wings fluttering briefly.
Eliakim didn't pause. His eyes were on the battle, not the omen. Together, they pulled, grunting with effort, until the fish burst from the surface—a riverbeast, slick and silver, its flanks flashing like a blade in sunlight.
It flopped and thrashed but was soon secured. The children fell back, panting, laughing, covered in flecks of water and moss.
Eliakim stood, arms wide.
"Mareth's Champion Fish," he declared. "Caught by teamwork—and genius!"
Instead of heading straight back, they decided to cook the fish by the brook's edge.
They built a small fire ring with stones, stoked it with dry pine and twigs. Jora danced around while Lanrick took on the role of 'chief chef'—though he mainly sampled every piece. Eliakim cleaned the fish carefully, wiping the cut on his hand with a leaf, then filleted it with his father's old bone-handled knife.
They skewered the pieces with branches, roasting them slowly over the flame.
The scent filled the glade—smoky, rich, and mouthwatering.
"I bet Mareth will feel better just smelling this," Jora said, licking her fingers.
Eliakim smiled, watching the Skyling hop closer, tilting its head as if curious. It didn't eat but lingered near him, feathers faintly humming with light.
As they ate, laughter broke the still air. They spoke of everything—jokes, Mareth's bravery, the fish's struggle, and who had truly done the most.
"It was the branch," Lanrick insisted. "No branch, no beast!"
"No Eliakim, no beast!" Jora argued.
"No teamwork, no feast," Eliakim said with a grin.
They fell into a comfortable silence, chewing, watching the fire crackle.
For a moment, the world felt untouched. Safe.
But downstream, where Eliakim's blood had mingled with the water, the light beneath the stones pulsed faintly once more—waiting.
At Mareth's cottage, Seraphine opened the door before Eliakim could knock.
"She's resting," she said gently, "but she'll want to see you."
Inside, Mareth lay beneath a blanket, pale but smiling. Her eyes lit up when she saw them.
"We brought you a riverbeast," Eliakim said, setting the fish down. "Bigger than my dreams."
Mareth giggled softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "Only you could catch a fish with a tree."
They sat for a while, telling her the story in exaggerated detail. Mareth laughed, color returning to her cheeks. The Skyling rested on the windowsill, feathers faintly glowing.
Seraphine watched them, her heart full and heavy all at once.
That night, the dreams returned.
Eliakim stood in the field beneath a sky split by stars. In the distance, a great wheel turned—vast and ancient, carved with symbols older than breath. This time, it spun faster.
Around it flickered runes—sigils like living ink. They pulsed as if drawing from something deep inside him.
A voice echoed, dry as bone and deep as earth:
"Seven gates. Seven keys. Blood calls to stone. The seal shall break when truth is known."
The wheel flared—and he awoke.
Seraphine sat upright in bed, heart racing. The shard beneath her bed pulsed rapidly.
She touched the wooden box gently. It was warm. Vibrating.
"Aurelian," she whispered into the dark. "He's starting to see."
The Skyling blinked from the window.
And outside, in the still of the valley, the earth shifted.