Three days had passed since Kaden woke in the infirmary, and still the whispers hadn't stopped.
He heard them when he stepped into the lanes, when he lingered near the well, when he walked to the woodpile. They were never spoken to his face, never loud enough to challenge him, but the words drifted like smoke. Unnatural. Cursed. Dark Magic.
Kaden pretended not to notice. He stacked wood, hauled water, and cracked jokes at his mother's scolding the way he always had. But the weight of their eyes stayed with him
Astrid was relentless about chores. She claimed it was to "build his strength back," but Kaden knew it was her way of watching him without saying so. She sent him to the stream with buckets, to the woodpile with the axe, to the smokehouse with cuts of venison.
He did it all, even when the axe bit deeper than he meant or when his arms didn't tire as quickly as they should have. He laughed when she frowned, winked when she scolded. But each task left him wondering whether he was proving he was still her son or proving he was something else entirely.
Erik said little, as always. But his father's eyes followed him—sharp, measuring. When Kaden hefted two buckets of water where before he would've struggled with one, Erik grunted softly and turned away without comment.
That grunt haunted Kaden worse than whispers.
The necklace never left his chest. It had become part of him, a weight as familiar as his knife at his belt. But in the quiet moments—splitting wood, carrying water, mending a fence—he felt it stir.
The first time it happened, he'd nearly dropped the logs. Heat pulsed from the pendant, faint but undeniable, seeping into his skin. He'd yanked it out of his tunic, heart pounding.
For the barest moment, it glowed. A soft, bluish light, no brighter than frost in moonlight. Then it dimmed, leaving only cold iron behind.
Kaden had shoved it back under his shirt quickly, glancing around. No one had seen. At least, he thought not.
Since then, it had happened twice more. Always when he was alone. Always when his mind wandered toward the memory of the glowing eyes.
It wasn't just the necklace. It was him.
His hearing had sharpened. He caught the sound of a hammer striking iron at the forge from across the green, each note distinct, sharp enough to sting. He heard goats bleating on the far side of the village, children whispering secrets behind a wall. He couldn't stop hearing them.
Smells crowded him too: smoke thick in his nose, pine resin sharp as knives, stew simmering inside the longhouse so rich it made his stomach growl even when he'd just eaten.
Kaden rubbed his eyes. But no—he wasn't imagining it. He could count frost crystals on the fence rail across the yard. Hear the clink of Dorin's hammer even through the forge wall.
His stomach tightened. Too much. Too sharp.
And he couldn't tell anyone.
By the fourth day, Mira found him splitting kindling outside his family's longhouse. She leaned on the fence, arms crossed, her bow slung across her back.
"You look healthy enough," she said.
"Healthy enough to win our next match?" Kaden asked, hefting the axe.
"Healthy enough to embarrass yourself properly," she shot back.
He grinned, grateful for her steadiness. They walked to the range, her stride even, his shoulders looser with her beside him. The target stump was frosted white, but Mira's arrows struck true as always.
Kaden nocked one of his own. As Mira drew, he caught the twitch of her fingers, the shift of her shoulders, the way her breath slowed. He knew exactly when she would loose—before she did.
The arrow left her bow with a hiss, struck dead center. Kaden flinched. Not at the sound, but at knowing it was coming, as if her movement echoed inside him.
"You're distracted," Mira said, watching him.
"Admiring your talent," he lied.
"Don't flatter me. It won't help your aim."
He laughed, too loud, and loosed his arrow. It hit the outer ring. She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
For an hour they practiced. Mira never faltered. Kaden hit more than he missed, but each shot felt wrong—too sharp, too aware, too much. He prayed she didn't notice. If Mira, of all people, thought he was strange…
But she only slung her bow when the light dimmed. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," he said, forcing a smile.
That evening, Kaden drifted toward the forge. The hammering hit him before he reached the door, each strike reverberating through his teeth. He clenched his jaw and stepped inside.
Dorin stood bare-armed, sweat steaming off his skin as he worked a glowing length of iron. His father, Hagan, pumped the bellows, nodding approval at every strike.
Kaden leaned on the doorway. "I came to remind you both that some of us do honest work. Like splitting kindling."
Dorin snorted without looking up. "You call that work?"
"It's hard labor. Nearly killed me."
"You've gone soft. Three days in bed, and now you think swinging an axe is war." Dorin set the iron aside, wiped his brow, and grabbed a practice shaft from the corner. "Want to prove otherwise?"
Kaden hesitated. His body felt stronger, sharper, but he didn't know how much. Would Dorin notice? Would he see the difference?
Still, he grinned. "Fine. But when I win, you're making me a new knife."
They stepped out into the cold. The sparring was light, more laughter than blows. Dorin's strikes were steady, his reach long. Kaden matched him with quick footwork, dodging, striking when he saw openings.
For a moment, he forgot the whispers. Forgot the glow of the necklace. Forgot the beast attack and his own questions about how the hell he was alive. It was just them again—two boys who had been sparring since they were old enough to hold sticks, brothers in everything but blood.
When they finally stopped, breathless and grinning, Dorin clapped him on the shoulder. "Not bad, goat-boy. Maybe you're still you after all."
The words hit harder than any strike.
"Always me," Kaden said softly, though doubt gnawed his insides.
On the way home, the whispers returned. He didn't have to strain to hear them now.
"He should be dead."
"The gods spared him… or cursed him."
"Keep your children close."
The voices clung to him like frost. He quickened his steps, heart pounding. He wanted to shout at them, to demand answers—but what would he say? That they were wrong? That nothing had changed?
It would be a lie.
Sleep claimed him soon after hitting the pillow.
He dreamed of the forest, darker than night, glowing eyes watching from every shadow.
The beasts were there — dozens, maybe hundreds. Their eyes shone bright, piercing through the gloom like frozen fire. Each glow cut through the trees, cold and merciless, surrounding him in a ring of impossible light.
And then they came.
Cloaked in gray, silent as snowfall, they moved among the shadows with spears in hand. Their eyes burned too — not all the same, but each one glowing with a different color. Crimson, emerald, gold, violet, white — a spectrum of light pushing back against the beasts'.
The clash was silent and blinding. Both moving at speeds to fast to follow. Blows causing ripples in the air and dents in the earth.
One of the cloaked figures turned toward him. The hood hid the face, but the eyes glowed a fierce amber, steady and sharp. A hand lifted, beckoning him forward.
Kaden tried to move, but his feet were rooted. The forest roared with an array of dazzling light, swallowing the beast, swallowing the cloaked figures and swallowing him.
He woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, the pendant hot against his chest.
He ripped it free from his tunic. It shimmered faintly, that same cold blue glow of the beast's eyes — then faded to plain metal.
In the dark of the longhouse, Kaden whispered, "What's happening to me?"
The necklace gave no answer. Only warmth.
And the silence pressed close, heavy as the mountains.