Eryndral was a village painted in soft colors, a place so small that travelers often passed it without giving it more than a glance, yet to those who lived there, it was the center of the world. Built where the emerald fields met the whispering pines, with the Shadelight River cutting a silver ribbon through its heart, Eryndral breathed with a quiet life of its own.
The scent of tilled soil in spring, the laughter of children darting through rows of apple blossoms, the gentle toll of the bell above the small stone chapel — these were the sounds and smells that defined the village. For all its simplicity, Eryndral had a rhythm, a balance as steady as the turning of the seasons.
And in the midst of it all was Selene Ardyn, a girl of fifteen summers, whose eyes were the pale blue of morning frost, and whose dark auburn hair caught the sunlight like copper when she laughed. She was tall for her age, her limbs still coltish with youth, though the faint outlines of grace and strength could already be seen in her movements. She had a way of smiling — too wide, too earnest — as though she hadn't yet learned the art of suspicion or caution.
Selene lived in a modest timber home near the edge of the village, where the fields gave way to wild thickets. Her father, Caelen, was a hunter and leatherworker, broad of shoulder and weathered from years under the sun. Her mother, Maeryn, wove cloth dyed with the herbs and berries of the wood, known in the village for her kindness as much as her skill. Together, they were simple people, and Selene was their only child — a daughter whose innocence seemed to keep their little household alight.
On the morning of the Harvest Festival, Selene stood barefoot in the cool grass behind her home, staring at the rising sun with a grin spreading across her face. She stretched her arms toward the horizon as though she could embrace it.
"Selene!" her mother's voice called from the doorway. "Come back inside before you catch a chill."
Selene turned, brushing the dew from her toes before dashing inside. "I wasn't cold," she protested, cheeks flushed. "The morning felt alive today. Like it was speaking."
Her father chuckled as he adjusted the straps on a bundle of pelts near the hearth. "The day speaks to those who have ears to hear. But you, girl, hear too much in the wind. Don't let it distract you from your chores."
Selene wrinkled her nose but didn't argue. She had a habit of listening — to the rustle of trees, to the murmur of rivers, to the silence between words. The villagers often teased her gently for it, calling her "dream-walker" or "sky-gazer," yet none could deny there was something luminous in her presence, something untouched.
That day, she helped her mother dye cloth in shades of russet and gold, her hands stained by berries as she hummed softly. Later she carried baskets of apples to the square, where preparations for the festival had already begun. The air was thick with roasting meat and the earthy tang of spiced cider. Children ran about with streamers in their hands, and old men whittled sticks into flutes.
"Selene!" a boy's voice rang out. She turned to see Tomas Lethar, a lanky youth with a mop of sandy hair and a grin that revealed his chipped tooth. He had been her friend since they were small, though in recent months, Selene had noticed how his eyes lingered on her longer than before, as though seeing her anew.
"You're late!" Tomas teased, tossing her an apple. She caught it with both hands, laughing.
"I was working, unlike you," Selene retorted, shoving the apple back at him. "Or did you spend the morning napping by the river again?"
"Someone has to test if the fish are still biting," he said solemnly, puffing out his chest, though his eyes sparkled.
She rolled her eyes but smiled. Around them, the village bustled with warmth, laughter, and music. For Selene, life felt full, safe, and unshakable.
But above the laughter, unnoticed by all, a crow wheeled silently over the rooftops before vanishing toward the dark line of forest beyond the fields.
That evening, the festival began. Lanterns were strung between houses, and the scent of roasted boar filled the square. Selene danced with the other youths, her auburn hair flying as she spun. Tomas played his flute badly, earning playful jeers, while elders clapped in rhythm.
At the height of the celebration, Selene's father lifted her hand, guiding her into a slower dance. "Your mother and I watched you today," he said softly. "You've grown. Too quickly, perhaps." His voice held pride, but also a shadow of something else.
Selene frowned. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Everyone goes somewhere, in time," he murmured, gazing at the firelight flickering in her eyes.
Before she could answer, the village bell tolled midnight, and laughter rose once more. Yet Selene could not shake her father's words.
The days after the festival returned to their usual rhythm. Selene rose with the dawn, fetched water, helped mend nets, and sometimes snuck away with Tomas to skip stones by the river. Her world was small, but it was whole.
Still, whispers lingered. She overheard her parents speaking in hushed tones one night, words like "unrest," "raiders," and "far-off smoke." Selene pressed her ear against the wall, heart thudding, but her mother soon noticed her shadow and sent her back to bed with a forced smile.
Selene wanted to believe it was nothing. That Eryndral, with its festivals and orchards, would remain untouched forever. She believed that the world's cruelties were far away, stories told by passing merchants who wished to frighten children.
But innocence is a fragile glass, and the cracks had begun to form, even if she could not yet see them.
One afternoon, as Selene walked the forest's edge gathering herbs, she paused to rest by a fallen log. She lay back against the moss, staring up at the patchwork sky through swaying branches. Her thoughts drifted lazily, until a sound drew her upright — a low, distant rumble, like thunder, though the sky was clear.
She peered through the trees, but saw only shadows. The sound faded as quickly as it came, leaving only silence. She told herself it was nothing, yet her heart pounded.
That night she dreamed of fire.
The weeks passed, but something restless stirred within Selene. She laughed, she danced, she played, yet beneath it all a seed of unease had been planted. When she looked at the fields, she sometimes imagined them scorched. When she gazed at the river, she saw it running red. She told no one — not Tomas, not her parents.
On the eve of her sixteenth year, her mother braided ribbons into her hair and kissed her brow. "May your heart always remain bright," Maeryn whispered.
Selene smiled, though part of her wanted to ask: What if it doesn't?
Though unnoticed a certain crow continued to circle beyond the horizon, with living shadows still watching.