The sun had come up above the tops of the quiet village's rooftops before dawn, casting its rays slowly across cobbled streets and leaning wooden houses. The air was heavy with the smell of flour and yeast from the Vale bakery, a hearty, comforting smell that had filled the heart of the village for nearly two decades.
Inside, the ovens crackled with flame. The air was thick with the divine aroma of freshly baked bread, mingling with the soft hum of a woman's voice.
"Lucien," his mother cried out, brushing a strand of pink hair from her flour dusted cheek, "don't leave behind the final basket. The family on the hill has been inquiring about their rye loaves since yesterday."
Lucien Vale wiped perspiration from his forehead, his pale blue eyes reflecting morning sun with an otherworldly glow. He was only sixteen, yet already taller than most grown men, and his wide shoulders, weathered by years of kneading dough, chopping wood, and hauling deliveries over fields and forests, radiated unobtrusive power. His pale white hair, silky and tousled, refused to stay hidden behind his ears, forever falling forward even as he pushed it back.
"Yes, Mother," he said, smiling. "I'll venture out before the sun becomes too bold."
His father entered the back room, a weathered man with his hands hardened from work and kindly eyes, bearing a sack of flour.
"Be careful on the road, boy," he growled. "The woods've been acting restless of late. They say animals are breaking through nearer to the villages than they ever should."
Lucien tightened the straps of his leather satchel, the wicker basket of bread held firmly under the crook of one arm. "It's just a delivery, Father. Nothing will happen."
But his father did not laugh, he only nodded, his eyes staying on Lucien a fraction of a moment longer than usual.
The earth road continued past the village gate, bending slowly along in tall grass and dense clumps of woods. Lucien walked easily with a relaxed stride, whistling softly, the basket of bread slung across his hip. The road was known to him. He'd walked it many times. Birds sang out calls in the trees, their voices as consistent and soothing as the breeze.
Yet today, something was. off.
He didn't know what it was called, but a wretched energy writhed under his skin, edgy and hot—like flames ready to burst. It wasn't fear, or discomfort. It was more. Something he couldn't define.
The villagers had always said he was different. Not because of his beautiful eyes and hair—although the girls who came to the well had seen those—but for something more. Something unspoken. The way the air shifted as he walked by. How the animals paused and watched him with unnerving calm.
Lucien had learned to ignore it. But it was always there. Whispering.
The arrival was as scheduled. The old man and wife greeted him at the hillcrest, smiling and warm thanks. But when he had delivered the basket, the fire in his heart thrummed—a wordless message.
He left in haste.
Returning to the forest, the sky had turned gray to a sickly pale. Clouds gathered above, shadows thickening below the canopy. The forest he knew was not so—tense, watchful.
Then he heard it.
A muffled scream.
Lucien did not move, didn't breathe. The scream sounded again—thin and pitiful, carried away on the wind.
He placed the basket on the ground. Tension pulled at every strand of muscle.
And he ran.
The trees converged quickly. Thorns swept against his arms, roots pulled at his ankles. But the screams increased in volume, taking him deeper. Until, at last, he saw them.
A clearing. Five men in worn cloaks stood loosely in a circle, armor dented and filthy, blades extended. In the middle of the circle, a figure writhed on the ground, gagged and bound, shackles catching the dying light.
Slave traders.
Lucien's stomach turned over. He had heard of them—vultures that preyed on the weak, selling souls for coin.
One of them laughed roughly. "Bind her tighter. Elves fetch a good price these days."
Elf? Lucien's breath was stuck in his throat. His mother had spoken of elves—shadowy creatures, strong and noble, unaging.
What was one doing here?
Before he could catch himself, his voice boomed out, hard and unshakeable. "Let her go."
The men snapped to attention. The largest spun around, sneering. "And what's this? A village kid with a death wish?"
Lucien's fists balled. His heart thudded, but he didn't retreat. "I won't ask again."
They laughed. Swords clashed loose—cunning blades, wicked and sharp.
Then it happened.
Something inside Lucien burst open.
The fire in his chest blazed out, sprinting down his limbs. The air puffed around him—soft at first, then thickening, like a storm's breath blowing in. The ground trembled slightly beneath his feet.
The slavers staggered.
But Lucien didn't know.
He charged, unarmed and untrained. The fight was crazed. Panicked. Wild. He fought on animal instinct alone—ducking, flailing, keeping alive—but he wasn't fast enough. A dagger ripped along his ribs. Another hit his arm. He grabbed the branch on the ground and swung wildly, knocking one of the attackers down—but the others closed in.
The fire in his heart burned.
And then it was gone.
Fire erupted from his palm, consuming the branch in boiling orange and gold. Heat poured outward. The slavers stumbled backward in shock, eyes wide with fear but unable to let him escape.
"Get Him!" someone shouted.
they moved forward.
Lucien tried to learn it. He couldn't. The flames raged out of control—savage and hungry. A man shoved him aside. Another struck the back of his head with the butt of a spear. His vision went dark.
He fell.
The fire died.
He woke with his wrists bound, blood crusted on his cheek. The branch was burnt at his hip. A slaver sat next to him, staring at him like a cherished gem.
"Did you see his eyes? Stormfire," the man complained. "Frost-colored hair. This one's worth more than the elf."
Lucien blinked stupidly toward her. The elf was still bound, her eyes on him a mix of sadness and wrath.
He mouthed, I'm sorry.
She couldn't answer.
Another man laughed coldly. "We'll make a fortune from these two."
As they hauled him to his feet, Lucien saw one last flash of the forest beyond—the freedom he'd tried to pursue. The fire remained in him, quieter now but present.
They pushed him forward.
He was no longer a baker's boy.
Not the way he'd hoped.