"Since the curse fell upon this island—a vast dome that buried even the sky—the land has been condemned to eternal darkness. The people have endured thousands of sunless days and starless nights; yet to them, it was all the same: night. The dome, they say, allowed nothing to pass within—not even the warmth of sunlight, letting the climate be forever altered. Thus the night became not only dark, but cold. And nothing passed out—not even the souls of the dead. Thus the night became not only dark, but terrifying.
Yet this night was unlike any other. It was not mere darkness, but a night that held the faint memory of stars—just enough light to glimpse the ghost of one's own hand.
But what of the great, glowing crystals that shone in defiance of the dark?"
///FLICK..FLICK.. a light bulb blinks as the world shifts.
Clouds gathered above, though no wind stirred.
Darkness, coldness and stillness–such was the nature of the land.
The silence was unbroken, save for the murmur of the river and, now and then, the faint stir of an animal or a grasshopper.
By the river—its waters black as liquid coal beneath the sky—Anthrion and his father, Evander, stood motionless, almost holding their breath. Anthrion's face betrayed fear, while Evander's hand rested warily on the hilt of the xiphos at his side.
Across the narrow river, among the trees of the forest, something watched them.
It peered from behind a trunk—a black figure with long arms and a swollen belly, white streaks spreading across its body like veins. Its head alone was veiled, shrouded by a delicate white silk that clung weightlessly, as though to something that wasn't flesh, like a shadow wrapped in secrecy.
A soul.
"I am sorry, Father, if I disturbed you," Anthrion whispered, his eyes fixed on the figure with a mixture of awe and dread.
The soul started wiggling its belly
"But it has been there for a while. I feared it might grow curious… and come closer."
Evander said nothing. He just kept holding the hilt of his sword.
Air grew suffocating and time stopped for few moments.
Yet eventually the soul turned, drifting back into the trees. Its gait was slow, almost lazy, yet its veiled head remained fixed upon them until the darkness swallowed it whole.
Anthrion's wide eyes followed it until it vanished. A single drop of sweat streamed over his face.
// HAAH... A deep sigh was released into the darkness that overlapped once more.
A while later, in a pine forest that was not overly dense, the leaves still bore a faint trace of greenish-blue. Moss clung to every possible corner of the stones. The silence was unbroken save for the faint clicking of fireflies, the tread of two pairs of feet, and—perhaps—a rabbit with heavy fur leaping into a bush, or an owl with wide eyes sweeping through the trees. The air smelled turbid. It was not cold, in the way they percieved coldness, though a fine breeze had begun to stir.
The two—Anthrion and his father, Evander—were on their way home after fetching water. Though the forest made the path even darker, they carried no torch; they had no need of one, for they knew every branch and every stone, every rise and hollow in the ground, on this path they walked so often.
"What should be done if a Watcher Soul comes too close to a direct encounter?" Evander asked, in that calm, interrogating tone he always used when teaching his son.
"I would stand motionless, look the Watcher in the face, and wait until it grew bored and left," Anthrion replied, his eyes lowered toward the ground, as though ashamed.
"If you had a weapon and Holy water," Evander continued, "would you choose to attack the Watcher first, as one might when confronted with a Keres?"
"No," Anthrion said quickly. "Because if I struck and failed, the Watcher would unleash a Soul's Cry—a scream that would render me dead, with my soul trapped in my body."
"And if you escaped or did anything strange the same would be the result. Then why were you afraid?" Evander asked.
"U-uh... I've never learned how to hold a weapon. And the veins... the veil over the Watcher's head—I've never seen it that close before. And I didn't know what had struck you. It was... frightening."
"You fear something only because you do not yet understand it," Evander said in an encouraging voice. "Once you do, the fear fades—or at least lessens."
Anthrion lifted his gaze toward his father. "Thank you, Father."
Suddenly, a sharp squeal rang out. Anthrion turned to see the owl swooping down on the rabbit, its prey's cries stirring every rabbit in the bushes. The forest rustled with sudden commotion, then settled again.
"Father," Anthrion said, his eyes fixed on the scarce gathering of animals and insects around them, "the animals speak to one another with their sounds. Do you think souls speak too?"
Before Evander could answer, Anthrion grew more animated. He turned quickly to his father, his pupils wide. "U-uh... do you think the souls of the soul-less hear us when we speak to their bodies?"
Evander stopped for a heartbeat. His eyes widened—only for a blink—then he walked on.
"...Perhaps, Anthrion," he said at last, uncertain.
Anthrion gazed at his father sensing that his words moved something in his father's soul.
"Oh, we're home already!" Anthrion exclaimed as he turned front.
"I want to speak to her—see if something changes." He said taking a deep breath as if he was getting ready for something important. Excitement filled his eyes..
They arrived at their house, set apart at the margin of a small, secluded village of mudbrick dwellings. Hearths glowed the inside of the clustered homes that seemed alive with people, though only a few wandered outside, clad in rough, dusty garments of muted colors.
Their own house faced the path that led to the river rather than the village. As soon as they entered, Anthrion slipped away, leaving his father in the main room. Evander, watching him with a touch of wonder, gathered some vegetables and sat at the trapeza. Smiling faintly as he chopped, he thought of his wife—for the levity and purity of Anthrion's soul reminded him of her.
Anthrion stepped into the side room.
There, a woman sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her back resting against the wall. A thin blanket slid from her shoulders, so he gently laid it over her again.
Her skin was pale, her wide grey eyes blank, their pupils drowned in emptiness. Golden hair, once radiant, trembled faintly as her body shook with a ceaseless shiver. She did not speak.
It was his soul-less mother, Zoe.
"I'm sorry, Mother, for leaving you cold." Anthrion's voice wavered. He hesitated, then a thought hit him, "Isn't there truly no way to bring back the soul of the dead?"
He sat beside her, speaking with a child's fragile earnestness.
"Mother, I don't know where your soul is… but I wish I did. Father takes care of me—he teaches me the ancient epics, philosophy, and how to read and write." His eyes shone with a mix of tears and excitement.
"And rhetoric… and even how to fight. Not with weapons yet, but soon."
From the doorway, Evander listened, still smiling, though the smile wavered.
Anthrion leaned closer, his voice tender.
"He cares for me, Mother—and we both care for you."
Zoe's chest stilled for a moment, her breath caught, then resumed.
"So if you can hear me," Anthrion pleaded, "come back to us. Come be with us here, in our village near Triakamai. Don't be afraid—we are far from the light of the Aletheira Stone, so your soul won't vanish. And I won't be afraid of how you look, no matter what form your soul has."
Evander's smile broke. A single tear traced his cheek.
"And we will hide you from the neighbors," Anthrion cried, his voice rising with desperate fervor. "We miss you—please, come back to us as fast as you can!"
Zoe's breath continued, steady but unchanging. She did not answer.
Anthrion waited, his tears falling freely. Then, with sudden calm, he whispered, "Mother, I will find your soul. And I will find a way to return it to you."
He kissed her gently on the head, then rose, still staring at her as he walked back to the main room.
Anthrion entered the main room to find his father at the trapeza, back hunched, chopping vegetables.
Noticing the hearth fire waning, Anthrion muttered, as he turned. "I'll get more wood for the hearth." his voice seems disappointed now.
Evander replied without looking up. "Hurry—we've much to do tonight."
Anthrion started toward the storage room, but froze. Faint laughter drifted through the window. Setting aside the waterskin and his father's xiphos scabbard, he climbed onto a stool and peered out.
Children ran about in the village square. His father watched him, then lowered his eyes with quiet sadness.
Anthrion's gaze lingered on a soul-less boy standing apart, unmoving.
"Antagoras… out again," he murmured in a depressed tone. "Why does his mother leave him like that? He'll wander off again." His eyes shifted to the woman outside, sprinkling water along the thin mudbrick walls of her house, her face hollow with grief.
A sudden gust stirred the trees. A white feather drifted down, turning in the air just in front of Anthrion's face.
"It's colder now," Anthrion whispered.
Then he looked up. His eyes widened.
Above, something drifted across the sky—glowing, swaying, its movements too strange for him to understand. Though the island was full of wonders, he had never seen anything like it.
"…Beautiful…" Anthrion whispered.
"Anthrion, where's the wood?" Evander called.
But the boy did not answer. His eyes were locked on the light.
His father sighed and moved toward the storage.
"Father," Anthrion said at last, still gazing upward. "What is that?"
Evander's steps faltered. "Anthrion—we don't have time."
"…Illuminating…" Anthrion breathed, entranced.
"Listen to me," his father urged. "We must recall our last lesson—"
"Ah… it's dancing," Anthrion interrupted, his voice soft with awe, his eyes wide with chill.
Evander spun toward the window. "What?!"
Side by side they stared—father frozen in shock, son's wide eyes reflecting the light.
And then, in a blinding instant, Anthrion's eyes flared with brilliance.
A massive thunderbolt tore the sky and struck their house exactly where they were standing.