he sun was sinking behind the distant ridge, staining the clouds with crimson, as if the sky itself had been wounded. From the fields of Mirhal village, smoke rose from cookfires, carrying the smell of hot rice and spiced broth. For most, it was the scent of comfort.
For Althar Cross, it was a torment.
His stomach clenched like a fist, begging for food he didn't have. He tightened his belt to trick his body into silence. Hunger was not new to him; it was his most loyal companion.
The boy was eighteen but looked younger. His body was thin, his shoulders sharp as bone under his ragged tunic. A life of labor had carved lines of exhaustion into his face, and yet, his eyes still carried a stubborn fire.
He had spent the entire day carrying stones for a mason—back bent, palms blistered, breath ragged—yet when payment time came, the foreman only waved him off.
"Tomorrow," the man muttered, tossing coins into his own pouch. "Work today pays tomorrow."
Althar knew the lie. Tomorrow, there would be another excuse.
He lowered his head, too weary to argue. The villagers often said he had his father's eyes. If that was true, then those eyes only cursed him, for his father had long ago abandoned the family, leaving nothing behind but debts and shame.
When Althar reached his home—a crumbling hut at the edge of the village—the air was heavy with silence. His little sister, Elira, only twelve, sat outside with her knees pulled up, humming faintly to distract herself from hunger.
Inside, their mother lay on a straw mat, her dark hair tangled, her eyes distant. Some days she remembered her children. Some days she did not. Tonight, when Althar knelt beside her, she blinked and whispered a name that wasn't his.
"Reth…? Is that you?"
"No, Mother," Althar said softly, hiding his ache. "It's me."
Her hand trembled as she reached out, then fell limp.
Elira crawled in, her small frame too thin for her age. "Brother… did you bring food?" Her voice was hopeful, fragile as spun glass.
Althar forced a smile. "Tomorrow. I promise."
It was a lie he had spoken many times. He hated how easily it left his lips now.
The world outside their hut moved on without them. The richer farmers cooked feasts, merchants argued prices in the square, and children mocked Althar when he passed. The boy with nothing, they called him.
But none of them dared step near the path that cut close to the Seven Hills.
Althar often overheard the whispers:That the hills were cursed.That spirits walked there, too ancient and terrible for priests to name.That Kathanar himself—the legendary priest-warrior—once battled something in those heights and failed to destroy it.
The villagers made long detours to avoid the hills, walking days instead of hours. To them, fear was safer than speed.
But to Althar, who watched his sister grow paler with each passing day and his mother slip further into her sickness, shortcuts through cursed lands began to sound like hope.
He had heard one more rumor—half-muttered by traveling merchants—that in the deep ravines of the Seven Hills, a medicinal spring flowed. Its waters could heal afflictions untouched by ordinary herbs.
If such a spring existed, it might save his mother.
Or kill him.
That night, as the village feasted under oil lamps, Althar sat outside under the pale moon. The hunger gnawed, but the fear gnawed harder. He could not stay like this—watching his family wither while he labored for scraps.
Elira curled against him, already asleep, her breath soft. Their mother mumbled in dreams, lost in a world Althar couldn't reach.
The boy looked at the horizon, where the jagged silhouettes of the Seven Hills clawed at the stars.
For a moment, he thought he saw a faint glow—like a lantern flickering in the mist of the distant peaks. It was gone in a blink, leaving only darkness.
Perhaps his mind was playing tricks. Or perhaps the hills were watching.
Althar clenched his fists. His father had left them to die. The villagers had abandoned them. If the gods would not give him mercy, then he would steal it from spirits themselves.
Even if it cost him his soul.
The next morning, before dawn, he rose. The air was cool and damp, carrying the smell of wet soil. He packed what little he owned: a flask of stale water, a piece of dry cloth, and a rusted knife. Nothing more.
Elira stirred. "Where are you going?" she asked sleepily.
Althar stroked her hair. "To bring back medicine."
Her eyes widened, hope sparking. "You'll come back… right?"
He hesitated only a breath. "I'll come back."
He couldn't tell her the truth—that he might never return.
As he stepped out, the village was still asleep. Only the path to the hills stretched before him, winding into shadow. The ground itself seemed to shiver as he placed his foot upon it.
And from the mist that clung to the ridges, something unseen stirred.
The stories were true. The Seven Hills were not silent.
They were waiting.
hat night, as the village feasted under oil lamps, Althar sat outside under the pale moon. The hunger gnawed, but the fear gnawed harder. He could not stay like this—watching his family wither while he labored for scraps.
Elira curled against him, already asleep, her breath soft. Their mother mumbled in dreams, lost in a world Althar couldn't reach.
The boy looked at the horizon, where the jagged silhouettes of the Seven Hills clawed at the stars.
For a moment, he thought he saw a faint glow—like a lantern flickering in the mist of the distant peaks. It was gone in a blink, leaving only darkness.
Perhaps his mind was playing tricks. Or perhaps the hills were watching.
Althar clenched his fists. His father had left them to die. The villagers had abandoned them. If the gods would not give him mercy, then he would steal it from spirits themselves.
Even if it cost him his soul.
The next morning, before dawn, he rose. The air was cool and damp, carrying the smell of wet soil. He packed what little he owned: a flask of stale water, a piece of dry cloth, and a rusted knife. Nothing more.
Elira stirred. "Where are you going?" she asked sleepily.
Althar stroked her hair. "To bring back medicine."
Her eyes widened, hope sparking. "You'll come back… right?"
He hesitated only a breath. "I'll come back."
He couldn't tell her the truth—that he might never return.
As he stepped out, the village was still asleep. Only the path to the hills stretched before him, winding into shadow. The ground itself seemed to shiver as he placed his foot upon it.
And from the mist that clung to the ridges, something unseen stirred.
The stories were true. The Seven Hills were not silent.
They were waiting.