The rooster's call broke against my skull like a hammer. I rolled onto my side, face pressed into the thin pillow, wishing for silence. But the dream clung to me—the fire, the chanting, the shadowed commander's voice. Not yet, boy. But soon.
My body felt like I'd fought through the night instead of slept. My arms ached, and when I flexed my hand, I swore my knuckles were bruised though I couldn't remember striking anything.
Mother's voice floated from the hearth. "Ren, fetch water before the line at the well grows long."
I forced myself up, splashed my face with yesterday's washwater, and trudged outside. The air was cool, dew still clinging to the grass, but even that freshness couldn't shake the heaviness inside my chest.
The well was already crowded. Villagers murmured in clusters, their buckets clanking softly against stone. Usually, mornings brought cheerful chatter, but today's voices were hushed, clipped, like everyone feared the sky might hear their words.
That's when Eldon spotted me.
"Ren! Over here!"
He waved with both hands, nearly spilling his half-full bucket. Eldon, son of the cooper, had always been excitable, his wiry frame barely able to keep up with his own energy. His hair stuck out in tufts as if he'd wrestled with sleep and lost.
I joined him, gripping my own bucket. "You're up early."
"Father says customers complain if their ale leaks," Eldon replied quickly, as if the thought had been bouncing inside him since dawn. "We've got three barrels to patch before midday. But that's not the point." He leaned close, lowering his voice dramatically. "They say livestock are still going missing. Two goats from the west pens—gone, without a trace. Not even prints in the mud."
I frowned. "Maybe wolves."
"Wolves don't burn the grass," Eldon shot back, eyes wide. "Garrel said he found scorched patches again, bigger this time. And—" He broke off as an older woman shot him a sharp look. He hunched his shoulders, whispering lower. "And they say strangers were seen near the ridge. Cloaked, like… like riders."
The word sent a shiver down my spine, though I tried not to show it.
Before I could answer, Mira appeared at the edge of the crowd, her basket hooked over one arm. Her gaze found me instantly. She moved through the villagers with purpose, her dark braid swinging like a pendulum behind her.
"Ren," she said firmly, ignoring Eldon's eager expression. "We need to talk."
Eldon looked between us, grinning nervously. "Oh, I can—"
"You can finish your water," Mira cut in. Her tone made Eldon wilt like a scorched flower.
I followed her a few steps away, bucket still empty. "What is it?"
She searched my face, eyes narrowing. "You've been seeing it too, haven't you? The scorch marks, the strangers. You've noticed."
I swallowed. "I've… heard things."
Her lips pressed thin. "Uncle says the signs aren't random. He thinks the stories are waking again."
The stories. Old tales whispered around fires, about riders in black and dragons that followed their call. I wanted to laugh them off. But last night's dream echoed too loudly in my skull.
"I can't explain it," I said quietly. "But… it doesn't feel right."
Mira studied me, as if weighing whether I was hiding something more. Before she could speak, Eldon stumbled over, cheeks flushed. "My turn's up," he panted, sloshing water from his bucket. "But—Ren—if you hear anything else, you'll tell me, right?"
I nodded just to silence him. He grinned and hurried off, water slopping down his trousers.
---
By midday, the whispers had reached my own household. Father sat sharpening his sickle, each scrape of the whetstone sharp in the air. "They say scouts passed the north road. Didn't stop to trade."
Mother's hands stilled on the bread dough. "Scouts of what?"
Father's brow furrowed. "That's the worry."
Sera, oblivious, hummed as she braided grass into tiny circles. I envied her ignorance.
I forced bread into my mouth though it turned to ash on my tongue. Every word seemed to tighten the coil in my stomach.
---
That evening, when chores were done, I returned to my usual spot beyond the fence. The stick-sword lay across my lap. I swung it again and again until my shoulders burned, until my palms blistered. Sweat plastered my shirt to my back.
I tried to remember how the militia men moved during drills at festivals—feet steady, blade strong. But every swing felt clumsy, like the stick was mocking me.
Frustration boiled over. I clenched my jaw and tried again, this time focusing, willing something more to happen. The way the dreams had shown me—the way the air seemed to hum when the commander raised his hand.
My chest tightened. Heat flared faintly at my fingertips, a flicker of light darting across the stick. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving my skin tingling.
I dropped to one knee, gasping. My pulse thundered in my ears. The night pressed heavy around me, and for a heartbeat, I thought I heard wings above the trees.
But when I looked, the sky was empty.
Sleep dragged me under like a tide.
This time the dream was sharper, colors too bright, sounds too loud. The ridge split again, flames searing upward. Shadows twisted into armored forms, their chanting louder, shaking the ground.
The commander stepped forward. Closer than ever. His eyes glowed behind the helm, red as banked coals. He raised a hand, and the air bent around it, heat washing over me like a furnace.
"Soon," he said, voice booming inside my skull. "Soon you will stand before us."
The dragons shifted, wings scraping the sky. One roared, the sound tearing through me, rattling bone and breath alike.
I stumbled back—except there was no ground. The earth cracked beneath me, dropping into fire. The commander reached out, gauntlet glowing, shadows stretching from his arm like chains. They lashed toward me, coiling around my wrists.
Pain lanced through me—real pain, not dream-pain. My skin seared where the shadows touched. I screamed—
And woke on the grass, moonlight spilling over me. My wrists burned.
I pulled my sleeves up with trembling fingers. Red marks etched across my skin, raw and stinging as though I'd pressed them to hot iron.
The stick lay beside me, splintered where I must have crushed it in my grip.
I clutched my arms to my chest, rocking slightly, breath ragged. The dream wasn't just a dream anymore.
It was reaching through.
And it had left its mark.