The first rays of dawn spilled across Duskmere, painting the river with streaks of molten gold. Mist curled above the water, ghostly and delicate, dissolving as the sun climbed higher. Birds stirred in the reeds, their songs weaving into the rhythm of the waking village.
Kael sat by the threshold of his home, watching the light creep across the dirt path that wound between the huts. The world seemed ordinary, peaceful—yet in his chest, the storm of last night still raged.
Sleep had not returned to him. Each time he closed his eyes, visions surged: flashes of fire, screams, the iron scent of blood. His own voice—older, deeper—crying commands that went unanswered. He had lived four lifetimes, and now their memories clawed at his mind like caged beasts.
But outside, life moved on.
Across the way, old Marlen hobbled from her hut with her cane, muttering about the chill as she went to fetch water from the well. A few children scampered barefoot through the mud, chasing a stray dog that had stolen someone's breakfast loaf. Fishermen readied their nets by the river, their boats rocking gently against the docks. Smoke rose from hearths, carrying the smell of porridge and charred wood.
Kael breathed deeply, grounding himself in the ordinary. This is now, he reminded himself. Not the past. Not the battles. Not the failures.
Yet he knew the ordinary would not last.
"Kael!"
He turned at the familiar voice. His father, Horan, strode from the shed behind their home, broad-shouldered and weathered by years of labor. His tunic was already stained with fish scales, his hands rough from nets and oars. Despite his weary frame, his presence filled the yard with quiet strength.
"Come help me with the traps," Horan called, carrying a bundle of woven reed baskets. "The river won't wait for dreamers."
Kael rose silently and obeyed. He had done this countless times before—wading into the shallows, setting the traps where fish swam thickest, hauling the catch back by noon. A fisherman's son's duty. Simple. Predictable.
But as he walked beside his father, every step felt strange. He remembered other mornings—not in Duskmere, not in this body. Mornings when he had risen not to cast nets but to don armor, or to argue with scholars, or to kneel before a throne heavy with chains of gold. The contrast was almost unbearable.
Horan noticed his silence. "You look pale, boy. Did you not sleep?"
Kael hesitated. How could he explain? That he had not only lived this life's fourteen years, but centuries across four other lives? That he had died beneath a sky of fire, only to wake again in his mother's arms, carrying every scar within?
He forced a small smile. "Just dreams."
Horan grunted. "Dreams don't catch fish."
And with that, the matter was closed.
---
They reached the riverbank where the mist still clung thick, curling around their legs like living things. The black water lapped quietly against the shore, reflecting fragments of the shattered moons that still lingered faintly in the sky. Kael knelt to place the baskets, his fingers steady from long practice.
Yet even as he worked, his mind wandered. He remembered another river—wider, bloodier. Bodies floating downstream while banners burned on the banks. He remembered trying to hold back the tide, his voice raw from shouting, his sword arm numb with exhaustion. He remembered failing.
Not again. The vow burned within him. Never again.
"Careful with that," Horan's voice snapped him back. "You're tying the knot too loose."
Kael blinked, realizing his hands had faltered. He tightened the rope quickly, nodding.
His father studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing. "You've been different lately. Quieter. As if your head is somewhere else."
Kael's throat tightened. Could he tell him? Would Horan even believe him if he spoke of past lives, of ancient evils whispering through the cracks of the world? His father was a practical man, grounded in nets and rivers. To him, Kael's words would sound like madness.
So he only bowed his head. "Sorry, Father. I'll do better."
Horan grunted again, though softer this time. "See that you do."
---
By noon, the traps were filled, the baskets heavy with silver-scaled fish that wriggled and slapped against one another. Kael hauled them to the docks, his muscles straining under the load. Sweat dampened his hair, clinging to his brow.
Other villagers worked nearby, greeting them with nods and brief words. Life in Duskmere was simple—catch, sell, mend, repeat. To most, that was enough. But Kael felt the walls of this simplicity closing around him like a cage.
At the market, Mira darted between stalls, clutching a sweetcake she had begged from one of the vendors. She spotted Kael and ran to him, crumbs scattering down her chin.
"Brother!" she called, her smile bright. "Look what I got!"
Kael crouched, wiping the crumbs from her face with the corner of his sleeve. Her laughter rang like bells, pure and unburdened. For a moment, his heart eased.
But then he remembered—children like her had screamed once, long ago, when the darkness had come. He had heard their cries. He had seen their small hands reaching out from rubble. And he had failed them.
His grip on Mira's shoulder tightened unconsciously. She frowned up at him. "Kael? Are you okay?"
He forced himself to loosen. "I'm fine."
She studied him with curious eyes, but soon her attention wandered back to her sweetcake. Children were blessed with forgetfulness. Kael envied her for it.
---
That night, the village gathered in the square for the monthly fire-feast—a tradition as old as anyone remembered. Torches burned high, casting golden light across faces flushed with warmth and drink. Musicians plucked at strings, children danced, and the smell of roasted fish filled the air.
Kael sat near the edge of the crowd, his bowl untouched. Laughter rose around him, yet he felt like a shadow among them, half-present, half-absent.
His eyes drifted to the flames. They crackled and leapt into the air, twisting like living things. And in their dance, he saw faces—old comrades, lost friends, lovers whose names still ached in his chest. They stared at him through the fire, eyes hollow, mouths whispering accusations only he could hear.
"You failed us," they said.
"You left us."
"You let the world burn."
Kael's breath caught. He gripped the edge of his seat, willing the visions to fade.
But then, among the whispers, came another. Deeper. Colder.
You cannot escape me.
The voice slithered into his mind, familiar and eternal. The same voice from last night. The same voice from every life before.
No matter how many times you are reborn, you belong to me.
Kael's vision swam. The fire blurred, the laughter of villagers dimming into distant echoes. He was somewhere else now—standing on a battlefield, sky torn open, shadows pouring like a tide. The voice thundered from all directions, a storm of malice.
You will fail again.
"Kael!"
A hand shook him. His vision snapped back. He blinked, finding himself in the square once more, Mira tugging at his sleeve with worry in her eyes.
"You were staring," she said softly. "Like you weren't here."
Kael swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs. "I… I'm fine."
But inside, he knew the truth. The darkness was stirring again. He could feel it. The whisper was stronger tonight, its presence pressing against the edges of his soul.
It would come. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow—but soon.
And when it did, Duskmere would burn like all the others.
Unless he stopped it.
Unless this time, he did not fail.
Kael rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the fractured sky above the square. The three broken moons glowed faintly, their light jagged, unnatural. They were not just remnants of an ancient cataclysm. They were signs. Warnings.
His path would not be that of a fisherman.
His fifth life had been given for a reason.
And he swore, as the fire crackled and the villagers laughed unaware, that he would uncover that reason—before the darkness came again.
The world might break. The heavens might shatter. But Kael would not.
Not this time.