Lucia woke before the town bell had a chance to strike the first hour. Not because she was dutiful; she'd slept shallow as water in a washtub, every footstep on the stairs creaking into her dreams, the wind nosing the crooked window frame. Mostly, though, because one obstinate sentence had been thudding in her chest all night: today.
She slid from her pallet and faced the cloudy mirror: a porcelain-skinned girl with a narrow chin and green eyes the color of bottle glass. Her hair fell long and fair to her waist, tangled from sleep. She smiled at herself as if at an old friend.
"At last," she whispered. "Lucia, you're grown now. Time to go out into the world."
She snorted at her own grand tone, but she didn't take the words back. Sixteen today; old enough for the town ledger to stop calling her "child of the Randorn Home" and start calling her "Lucia, unblooded, free." Freedom sounded like a two-chord song — a bit off-key, but stubborn.
She traded her washed-out nightshirt for a proper orphanage dress: thick wool, the color of watered ink, simple bodice, a tie at the throat. The skirt fell just past her knees — good for mud and market — with bleached stockings underneath and scuffed boots polished last night to pass for almost new. A short patched jacket went over her shoulders. The home didn't dress you up; it dressed you for long wear.
She ran downstairs, waving to the children tumbling past. Someone lugged a bucket. Someone dragged someone else by the collar. The place smelled of oats and ash.
At the foot of the stairs waited Mistress Randorn — "mistress" to some, "mother" to others, "sergeant" on darker days. Round as a loaf, short brown curls, a face that could be stern, today bright with pride.
"Good morning, Mistress!" Lucia almost hopped. "Did I miss breakfast duty?"
"Not at all, girl." The woman flapped a hand. "Happy birthday, and may the wide world treat you kindly."
She said it in the tone of one who knew the world was a market and kindness a thing to be bargained for. From behind her back she produced a large, worn leather bag with a frayed handle and the smell of old roads.
"My grandmother carried it. Sound as an oak. You can pack half a house in there, and even if the sky cracks open the inside stays dry. You'll need it, now that you're…" She waggled the bag.
Lucia lifted her brows. "And if I come back?"
"Then you return it," the woman laughed. "And I feed you again."
Two heads peeped from the kitchen: Merika — freckled nose, carrot hair, brown eyes too curious for peace — and Peggo, small, fair, with the tell-tale points to his ears and, stranger yet, greenish tips to his hair, as if dipped in leaf dye. A half-sprite, the gossip said; cleverer than he was tall.
"Merika! Peggo!" Lucia threw her arms wide. "You hear? My last day!"
They pulled the same face.
"That's bad," Peggo judged solemnly. "But good that you've got a bag. Bags are best for hiding rolls."
"And letters," Merika added gravely. "You'll write?"
"I will," Lucia promised.
They ate as always, except the porridge tasted different — perhaps from Merika's grain of salt, perhaps from Peggo's laughter about raisins drowning at the bottom of the bowl and needing rescue. Lucia thanked everyone. In her pocket the weight of coins — pennies and a bit of silver scraped together by two weeks of odd jobs — pressed warm. Enough for one boot, at least; the other she'd saved for over six months.
"After breakfast," she declared, "we go to market. Warm clothes. New boots. And… gingerbread, if there's enough."
"And a story," Merika insisted. "About the Five. You promised."
Mistress Randorn rolled her eyes. "Not that nonsense."
"It's not nonsense." Merika bristled. "Five generals of an old kingdom, the one that's gone. No one remembers its name or where it stood, but they walked the world, dousing fires and killing spiders the size of carts. They vanished eighteen years ago. Exactly eighteen."
"They vanished because they skipped breakfast," the woman said. "Move. The market sells only dust to the slow."
The town was fully awake now: hoof clatter, a barrel shoved along with a curse, smoke ribbons over rooftops. The market spread like a puddle — canvas awnings, baskets, crates. Voices overlapped into racket.
"Fresh apples!"
"Needles, pins, thread!"
"An artifact!" This last voice knifed through the noise. "An artifact from the days when the gods walked the earth!"
Lucia stopped. Merika tugged her sleeve. "It'll be foolishness," she muttered. "Artifacts — as if they were apples."
Still, a knot of people had gathered. The seller, narrow-eyed in a too-wide coat, held up a ring: unremarkable save for the red stone set in it, smooth as a drop of blood.
"The Ring of Kuldar," he proclaimed. "He who wears it commands flame. But mind you! It obeys only Kuldar's blood… and wizards."
"And fools," Merika hissed, lost in the murmur.
Then the crowd parted like water, and he appeared: young, tall, the sort who move springy even in mud. Not dressed like locals — his clothes were layered and light, from somewhere the sun burned differently. A sword hung at his hip, and a white scarf wrapped his head and throat, its golden, rune-stitched ends glimmering like the edge of a storm cloud before lightning.
"Let me try," he said calmly, hand out.
"By all means, warrior." The merchant smiled syrup. "Just don't drop the ruby. Dear. And delicate."
The young man slipped on the ring, lifted his hand toward the seller as if to singe his eyebrows — the crowd held its breath — and… nothing. Not a spark.
He smiled, removed the ring, and returned it. "Doesn't work."
"What do you mean, doesn't work?" the seller squawked. "Of course it doesn't — for you. You're a warrior, not a wizard! Where's your pointed hat, eh?"
A few laughed. Lucia watched, sharp. Trouble has a smell. She caught a whiff.
It came in a narrow alley: two men ahead, three behind. The seller among them, hat brim low, grin mean.
"Well then, miss," he growled. "Pretty silver you've got. Pretty sprite, too. We'll take both."
"Maybe you won't," Lucia said, stepping half a pace before Peggo.
"Maybe we will."
"Enough," another voice cut in, cool as well water. The ring-tester leaned on the wall as if bored. "Not only a swindler, but a thief. Heavy beard you wear."
"And you? A knight?" the crook spat.
"Danataniel Yarydarthia," the stranger said lightly. "Friends call me Dan."
They snorted. A knife flashed. Then everything went quick. Dan flicked his scarf back — a shock of white hair — and drew a curved blade. He didn't move more than he had to. He was a gust of wind: a step, a slip, and he was already past the first swing, batting it aside like a dead branch. Dust shivered in the draft of his passing; the scarf's rune-edges sparked, very faint.
Lucia didn't have time to admire it. Hands grabbed her, twisted her arm; another clamped Peggo. Merika screamed — the walls drank the sound.
"Leave him!" Lucia kicked blind and caught a shin. A fluent curse answered.
"Quiet," the seller hissed. "Silver, miss. Or the sprite as pledge."
"Neither."
Dan again — from above this time. He bounded off a barrel and came down like a cold bolt, the blade whispering. One man ran, one fell, one vanished between crates. The rest melted with curses.
"Careful with bandits," Dan advised, as if speaking of rain. "This town is full of pockets that won't fill themselves."
"Thank you," Lucia managed, Peggo bowing so low he nearly toppled. "I… we…"
"You owe me nothing." Dan shrugged and slipped back into the market like a swallow into sky.
They thought that was the end of trouble. It wasn't. With boots and a heavier jacket bought, Lucia turned into a side lane she knew — and walked into the same smell. Hands. Ropes. A gag that tasted of old cloth.
They were thrown into a wagon as if sacks of flour had sprouted hearts. The dark interior smelled of wood, stolen wool, vinegar, sweat. Wheels jolted.
"Lucia," Peggo managed when the gag slipped. "You moving?"
She was bound tight, wrists burning. The wagon bucked; something toppled from a shelf — a flat box struck her temple and burst. A stone rolled free: not coal-black but night-black.
She saw it. And heard it — not a voice, not a whisper: a weight.
Touch, said wind that wasn't wind. Touch me.
"Don't," Peggo mumbled. "Rule number—"
She didn't hear. The rope bit, she worried it; fingers slipped free. She touched the stone.
Darkness.
Not night; a thing with density and taste. She stood ankle-deep in nothing, felt it crawl up her calves, her thoughts. Far — or near — a tongue spoke she didn't know, and understood anyway, because it sounded like fear.
"Ḍar-nu thal, eṣ set u-nar… Īsh duri…"
Who are you? she thought. The thought struck something thick and quivered.
"I know who you are," the voice said, now in her own speech. "And I know you won't escape me. I am Durath."
The name hit like a palm on a table. Something in the dark opened an eye.
She fell. Or woke, half-way: the wagon was on its side, wood screaming; Peggo bloody but alive; a face above her, words spilling — Dan, white hair, runed scarf — two syllables and she slid under again. Human dark this time.
---
She woke again in her bed. The same bed where at dawn she'd sworn grand oaths and laughed at herself. The window burned red — sunset jammed itself between roofs like a coal in a brazier. The world smelled of straw and boiled carrots and yet felt other.
She sat up. Looked at the mirror. Froze. Her right hand was black. Not dirty; shadow made flesh. The skin had become darkness. Set into the back of her hand lay the stone — that stone — fused as if it had always been hers. Quiet, and yet within it something rustled: not one voice but many. Shrieks, prayers, whimpers, commands.
Lucia curled in on herself and covered her ears. The voices weren't using ears.
The door slammed. Mistress Randorn burst in, half the home flowing after her and pretending they just happened to pass. Merika's eyes were wet; Peggo wore a bandage and a hero's set jaw.
Dan stepped forward. The room went oddly still. He slipped the scarf from his mouth and murmured under his breath — that same un-tongue, thick like wool thrown on flame. The voices sank to a hiss.
"What… what happened?" Lucia asked, still staring at her hand.
"What I said," Dan answered, perching on the bed as if he'd always belonged. "Those little thieves weren't entirely lying. They had an artifact. A seal. With Durath in it."
"Who?"
"Durath," he repeated. "A spirit of darkness. Ruin. Before the Great Cleansing he walked the world and hunted the disobedient. The gods pinned him into a stone and left him to wait. That stone"—he nodded—"now sits in your hand."
Lucia stared. The stone didn't look dangerous. Yet when she gazed longer, something seemed to move within it, like a river running backward.
"What you hear," Dan went on, "are Durath's victims. He likes to listen. Likes being listened to. Cunning as crows."
"Why me?" The question leapt out. "Why didn't it kill me?"
"I don't know," he said simply. "All the others died on touch. He walked around in what was left of them. You live. Something holds you. Stubbornness, perhaps. A hand. Something worse."
Mistress Randorn sucked in air as if to say there was no room here for "something worse," but held her tongue.
"What do I do?"
"Three paths," Dan raised fingers, counting coppers. "First: simplest, not prettiest. We cut the hand."
"What?" Lucia jolted; the voices howled laughter, or pain.
"Fine." He soothed the air. "I said simple, not wise. Second: come with me. I know one, maybe two, who might try to lift the curse. I can only sing over your head and keep Durath on a leash at times. Third: I end your life here and now, painless. Also a solution. Not a good one."
She held his gaze. Fear in her eyes, yes — and a hard thread beneath it.
"So one option," she said.
"So it seems." He touched the runes on his scarf. "Unless you yearn for a one-handed legend."
"And Peggo? Merika? They're all right?"
"The sprite is scuffed but proud." He nodded at Peggo, who straightened. "Your… surge tore the wagon in half. Two ran. One has trouble breathing and with conscience, if he owned one. Merika screamed louder than any cat. In short: they live."
"I screamed cleverly," Merika sniffed.
"I believe it," Dan said, mouth twitching.
Lucia looked at the black hand. It didn't hurt. The voices did.
"All right," she said. "I'll go."
"Not before supper," Mistress Randorn muttered, finally rallying. "You'll not steal her away, boy, till she eats."
"This isn't a trip to the market," Lucia smiled through wetness.
"Every journey starts with a bowl," the woman insisted. "And a bag. And a letter. Children!" she barked at the cluster in the doorway, who instantly pretended to be elsewhere. "Out. Merika, ink. Peggo, stop looking like a hero and fetch bread."
"I always look like a hero," Peggo said, but ran.
Dan watched this ritual like a stranger at a village rite. The scarf shifted, golden edges catching a breeze that wasn't there.
"Why didn't I turn while I slept?" Lucia asked softly when they had a moment. "Why didn't he take me fully?"
"Because since I dragged you from the wagon I've been chanting—" he tapped his temple "—and I'll keep chanting until we find someone wiser. It doesn't chain him forever. It merely… tires him."
"Thank you," she said, meaning more than the word.
"Save that for when you have both hands and silence in your head."
"We'll see," she murmured. The stone stirred, as if it had heard.
Evening slid into the room like a sleepy cat. Bowls on the table, not a feast but warm. Lucia ate a few spoonfuls; wrote three lines of a letter that Mistress Randorn read and nodded at. Merika brought needles and thread — "heroes always mend something," she claimed — and Peggo tucked a small odd-shaped pebble into the bag.
"For luck," he muttered. "And memory."
"I'll come back," Lucia said, not sure if it was a promise or a charm.
"Come back," the woman answered, tying the strap. "Or send a letter. And don't bow to just anyone. Not even gods."
Dan looped the scarf; the runes glimmered.
"We go," he said.
They stepped into the red air of a dying day. Streets led to gates, gates to roads, and roads to the same place they always begin for those who say today. The waiting world.
Lucia glanced at her right hand — the black, the stone. The voices fluttered like birds before a storm.
"Hush," Dan muttered in that other tongue. "Ḍar-nu thal."
The voices fell to a murmur. For now.
And the true wind toyed with the golden ends of his scarf and pushed them toward the road.