A tangle of emotions washed through her as she read the note once, then again.
Relief that he'd left a word at all.
A sting that he'd gone without waking her.
And beneath it, a steady pulse of worry she couldn't quite name. Whatever had called him away before dawn, it had been urgent and he hadn't returned, as he said he would.
Nyla could still feel the way he had moved against her, could still feel that it meant something...but now, she wasn't sure how to feel about it.
There was a brisk icy chill in the air as she rose from the furs and straightened herself up before returning to the cottage.
The morning slipped by in thin, stretching hours. Nyla kept herself moving, sorting jars, fetching water, mending a tear in Alva's cloak, needing something to do before she thought herself into a coma. Stillness meant thinking, and thinking meant imagining what might have gone wrong.
Alva noticed, of course. She asked if Valtor was visiting today, her tone light but uncertain. Nyla smiled through it, practiced, saying he'd be back soon, but the words felt brittle, like glass in her mouth.
By the afternoon, Nyla had told herself she wasn't going to go. That she'd wait. That if Valtor said he'd return, he would. But the waiting sat wrong in her chest, like a clock that had lost its rhythm.
When the errands were done and Alva had gone to fetch kindling, Nyla found herself walking the road that curved down toward the forge. The path was muddy from the morning's drizzle, the air sharp with the scent of iron and rain.
She told herself she was only passing by. Just to see.
But the forge stood silent. The wide doors were drawn shut, the hearth inside cold. No hammer on anvil, no plume of smoke curling from the chimney. Only the echo of her own footsteps in the puddles.
Nyla hesitated, fingers brushing the latch. It was barred from within.
She lingered there longer than she meant to, long enough for the drizzle to bead on her sleeves and gather in her hair. Then she turned toward the cottages, jaw tight with determination she didn't quite feel.
Maris answered her knock after a pause, wiping her hands on a cloth, round belly protruding in front of her. "Healer Nyla," she said, surprised. "You're a rare visitor in daylight. All well?"
Nyla managed a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. I don't like to see you on your feet though..." she shook her head, "Have you seen Valtor? He was meant to stop by this morning."
Maris frowned, thinking. "Not since yesterday. He was headed out at dusk, said he had something to see to. Took his sword. I assumed he'd be back by now."
Nyla's stomach dipped. "He didn't say where?"
"Didn't to me. You know how he is, quiet as stone until he's ready to speak."
Nyla nodded, looking past her toward the forge's empty chimney. "Yes," she murmured. "I do."
Maris tilted her head. "You're worried."
"Just...making sure." Nyla pulled her shawl tighter. "If he comes by, will you tell him I stopped in?"
"Of course," Maris said softly. "You'll let me know if you hear anything?"
Nyla's answer was a small, distant smile. "I will."
She turned back toward the Hollow, her boots whispering through the wet grass. Behind her, the forge stood dark against the pale sky, and the unease she'd tried to quiet settled heavier with every step.
She barely took a few steps away from Maris' door when the tranquillity of the Hollow shattered like glass.
Jorin, the cattle farmers boy, breathless and pale, stumbled into the square sending chickens scattering. "The Princes are coming! The Princes are-" he faltered for a moment before falling forward into the mud and a dozen arrows protruded from his back.
Nyla staggered backwards, mind too slow to catch up with what her body. She pushed her way into Maris house.
Maris's eyes were wide, voice shaking. "The Princes? Here?"
"Don't ask, move." Nyla grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside, slamming the door as more shouts echoed down the lane. "You can't run in your condition. We need to get you below ground."
"Ewan-"
"He'll find us." Nyla's voice broke but she didn't slow. "You and the baby come first."
Maris hesitated for only a moment, then nodded, trusting her, as she always had.
The square outside was dissolving into chaos. Ewan's voice boomed from somewhere near the hall, ordering people inside. The alarm bell began to toll, a sound none of them had ever heard in their lifetime.
Nyla took Maris's hand. "We have to get to the hall."
"Alva-"
Nyla's heart lurched, panic flaring through her. "She's at home."
"Go," Maris said, gripping her hand hard. "I'll make it to the hall with Ewan. You get her."
Nyla squeezed back, "I'm not leaving without you, Maris. Take the back route. Quickly." Nyla ushered Maris out the back door. They shuffled along the border of the village, the cold wind feeling like a physical slap. The Hollow blurred around her, cobblestones slick with rain and panic. Smoke already rose from somewhere. A barn, perhaps, caught by torch or chaos. She could barely hear her own heartbeat over the hammering hooves on the distant ridge.
"There," Nyla said once Ewan was in sight, "Go. I'll meet you in there."
Maris gripped her shoulder. "Divines be with you, my friend."
Nyla breathed out a cold breath, "And you." she hesitated only for a moment before bolting. The path to home felt the longest it'd ever felt, every step weighted and heavy.
Her cottage came into view through the haze. "Alva!" she shouted, stumbling through the gate.
The door burst open. Alva was standing there, terrified, clutching her cloak like a shield.
"Come here," Nyla gasped, dragging her into a hug. "We're going to the hall. Now. No arguing."
Alva nodded, too breathless to speak.
The hall loomed ahead, heavy doors already open. Maris was there, Ewan beside her, ushering people down into the cellar. Relief flooded Nyla's chest so fast it hurt.
"Inside!" she shouted, pushing Alva ahead of her. "Go, go-"
She caught Maris's hand as she passed. "You're all right?"
Maris nodded, eyes glistening. "Thanks to you."
"Don't thank me yet." Nyla turned, scanning the square one last time, the empty forge, the messenger's body, the road beyond where the riders would soon appear.
"Divines protect us," she whispered as she pulled the door shut and barred it from within.
The Hollow fell quiet.
The cellar grew crowded, dimly lit by lanterns that cast long, trembling shadows over faces etched with worry. Voices were low but urgent. "Where's Jorin?" Jorin's mother whispered.
"And Valtor, has anyone seen him?"
"Jorin was hit." A gruff voice said.
The woman muffled a wracked sob into her sleeve and she buried her face into the fabric.
The first name sparked dismay. The second, unease. Valtor's absence had long been a quirk of his solitary nature.
"Maybe he's watching from the treeline."
"Maybe he's already been taken."
"Or maybe Valtor had something to do with this..."
"Enough," Nyla said sharply, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "We don't know anything. Stay silent."
Above them, the rhythmic thunder of hooves broke the silence. The villagers held their breath. Alva clung to Nyla tightly, as if she were afraid to float away.
Nyla rubbed her back reassuringly, swallowing hard past the knot of dread in her throat.
∞
The forest opened to the low valley where the Hollow slept beneath a skin of frost.
The riders came down through the mist like wraiths. Black horses, black armor and no banners raised.
Prince Barius led them at a measured pace, his armor rattling with every step, his gaze moving between the shuttered cottages and the narrow lanes that twisted away into shadow.
He didn't need to be told the villagers were hiding.
Fear hung thick in the air, sharper than the cold, and the residue of magic prickled faintly at the edges of his senses. It hummed in the marrow, a reminder that something unnatural had been here.
He reined in at the square and swung down from the saddle, boots grinding against the frozen earth. The sound was too loud. Even the wind had gone still.
Snow clung to the black steel of his gauntlets as he adjusted the strap of his sword. His men followed suit, spreading out in practiced formation, waiting for command.
"Search the buildings," Barius said quietly. "All of them."
They moved without question, slipping between houses and stalls, the faint ring of armor echoing between the walls. Somewhere a door splintered under the force of a boot. Somewhere else, a dog barked once and fell silent.
Barius walked the length of the square, eyes drawn to the small signs of life abruptly stilled: a half-cut loaf of bread, a child's cloak caught on a fencepost, smoke that had died mid-breath in the chimneys.
He crouched by a dropped basket, brushed his fingers against the handle. Warm. They had been here moments ago.
He could almost feel the heat of their fear, could almost hear the hurried whispers through the wooden walls.
He straightened and glanced toward the treeline. The tracks in the snow were erratic, boots, smaller prints, drag marks.
Hunting trails. That's where he'd be.
"Empty," said Orien, returning from the east row of cottages. Frost beaded his beard. "No sign of the fugitive. Only signs of flight."
Barius looked toward the forge, its doors barred from within, no smoke from the chimney. He exhaled slowly. "He's here."
The captain hesitated. "You believe he came through this place?"
Barius's gaze flicked to him. "I know it."
He turned, the faint glint of magic flickering behind his eyes as he scanned the village again. It thrummed under the surface, low and quiet, a pulse that answered his own.
Whatever name he was going by now, Callan Valtore's power was strong, unrefined. Stupid, Barius thought bitterly. So much wasted potential. He could taste it in the air, the way a wolf scents prey.
Bending to a knee, he pulled off his glove by his middle finger and pressed into the earth. Beneath the layers of organic matter and stone, sensations filled his mind: panic, muffled breathing, the whisper of hearts beating faster. Not Callan. Just villagers hiding somewhere below - perhaps tunnels? A secret passageway?
Barius' eyes flicked to the town hall suspiciously where his men were seemingly doing a thorough search. Rising upright, he withdrew before they could feel him in return. There was no need to terrify them further. Not yet. Not unless they refused to give him up.
His gaze drifted toward the hills again, where the pale line of trees waited, trying to feel where his intuition was nagging him to go. Somewhere beyond, something stirred, a shadow brushing against his awareness, sharp and familiar. The same magic he'd chased for months, the same signature that haunted his sleep.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, the sound of wind rising around him. When he spoke again, it was almost to himself. "You can't run forever..."
The horses shifted, snorting steam into the cold air. Somewhere distant, a crow broke the silence with a single harsh cry. The bad omen was not lost on Barius, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. "Be on guard." Barius said tautly, mounting his horse with a swift leg up. "He's close by."
Barius's hand fell to the hilt of his sword, not from fear, but habit. The valley had gone too still again. The kind of stillness that came before movement.
The forest closed in like a held breath. The deeper they rode, the quieter it became, no wind, no birds, only the soft grind of hooves against frozen soil. The canopy swallowed the light until even the air seemed to dim.
After a moment, he lifted a hand. The column halted. The horses shifted restlessly, their breath misting in the cold.
He felt it then, a pulse beneath the earth, deep and rhythmic, as though the forest itself had a heartbeat. His men sensed it too. Fingers tightened on spear shafts, armor whispered against armor.
A twig snapped.
The sound was deliberate. Close.
Before the order could leave his mouth, the first rider vanished.
No warning, just a blur of motion, a strangled cry, and the sound of something heavy striking snow.
"Formation!" Barius barked.
The formation tightened, but the trees erupted.
The Nightwalkers came in low and fast, long-limbed shadows with eyes like wet glass, shiny and reflective and made for the night. It was unnatural to see them in the day.
They were fiendish, their claws gleaming slick and black. One leapt for the nearest man, who met it mid-swing and sheared its arm off at the shoulder. Ichor hissed as it hit the snow and a screech shook the trees.
The soldier didn't even flinch.
"Hold the line!"
They did. The Androsi Guard were no common men. They moved like a single body, calculated and merciless. Every movement was honed by years of ruthless training, each strike clean and practiced.
Barius cut through one creature, then another, his blade an arc of silver light. He called on his magic enough to twist the air around him. The temperature dropped; frost climbed the trunks of trees. The beasts faltered as the cold clung to their limbs like concrete.
"Push them back!"
For a few breaths, it worked. The creatures broke, retreating deeper into the dark. Victory was close enough to taste.
Then the hum changed.
It wasn't the forest this time, it was human.
A figure stood at the edge of the clearing, cloak snapping in the wind, arm outstretched. Power rippled through the air, sharp and wrong.
Callan.
Barius's stomach dropped. He could feel it, that pull. A mind like his own, but wild, unbound, tearing at the seams.
The Nightwalkers stopped retreating. They turned in unison, eyes locking back on.
Barius barely had time to shout, "Fall back-" before they charged.
The first impact threw two men from their feet. The second tore through the flank. Swords met claws; screams mixed with the dull rhythm of breaking bone.
Barius raised his hands and the world shuddered. Force burst outward in a ring, forcing the nearest creatures back. He reached up into the air to grip Callan around the ribs with a force of telekinetic power but pain slammed into him before he could breathe.
A pressure unlike anything he'd ever felt drove straight through his skull. The world fractured sideways.
Get out of my head!
He staggered, clutching his temple. Callan's presence tore through his mind like a blade, raw and invasive. It wasn't control, it was an assault to his every sense, the psychic equivalent of fire.
His vision split. He saw two worlds, one his own, the other through Callan's eyes, a chaos of movement, of red, of teeth.
Panic flared through him as he began losing control. Get out. Get out--
Barius drove his will back with the fury of someone about to die, energy surging with a wave of psionic energy. The ground split open beneath them, frost spidering through the trees. The connection snapped, just for a second.
He saw Callan reel, blood running from his nose, and for that single heartbeat, thought they might both die.
The Nightwalkers faltered, wails of confusion leaving their bodies, caught between wills. For a heartbeat, both men held them, suspended between command and collapse.
Then Barius's focus shattered. The pain spiked white-hot, and blood poured from his nose.
Then the beasts went wild.
Without control, they turned on everything that moved. The guards, each other, the trees, snapping the world back into motion.
Barius turned, too slow. A claw caught him across the ribs, a long limb cracking his leg. He dropped to one knee, sword buried in the snow.
The guards rallied around him, shields locking, loyal to the last but one by one they were overtaken by the hoard.
He tried to rise, tried to push through the noise in his skull, but another wave of psionic force hit him, pressing him into the ground. He felt himself slipping.
Somewhere through the blur, he saw Callan stagger too, clutching his head, the connection burning them both.
The Nightwalkers broke rank, some turning feral, others fleeing into the trees. Callan's control faltered completely before disappearing behind the tree line, the connection severing and releasing his mind.
Barius dragged in one breath, another. He blinked up at the white sky, the black outlines of trees towering high above him, snow blood red all around.
And silence. So much silence.
The air stank of blood and frost and burnt magic.
Is this it?
The pain was fading, and so was the noise.
Good.
Finally quiet.
He'd been waiting for that longer than he realized.
He could still feel it, that pulse in the earth, that echo of magic not his own, fading into the distance.
∞
As the last streaks of dusk bled from the sky, the cellar door creaked open to the pale light of dawn. One by one, the villagers climbed out, blinking against the weak sun, their breaths rising in pale clouds. The air smelled of smoke and wet earth, the remnants of fear clinging to everything.
Nyla followed last, her hand on Alva's shoulder, eyes sweeping the square. The Hollow was quiet again. Too quiet. Shutters hung crooked, the market stalls overturned, footprints and drag marks already half-swallowed by snow.
Ewan was a few paces ahead, calling to check on families, his voice hoarse from shouting. Maris leaned against him, one hand braced on her swollen belly, her face pale but determined. "Everyone accounted for?"
"Near enough," Ewan said, though his eyes flicked nervously to the tree line then to Jorin who still lay in the street. "We'll give Jorin a proper funeral..."
Maris nodded, started to answer, then gasped, a sharp, low sound that cut through the murmuring crowd. Her hand flew to her stomach.
"Maris?" Nyla was at her side in an instant, catching her elbow before she could stumble. "What is it?"
"I'm fine," Maris said quickly, her voice tight but steady. "Just-" she sucked in a breath, grimacing, "-the baby. Moving again. Strong little thing."
Ewan's brow furrowed. "You're sure?"
Maris managed a weak laugh. "If it were labour, I'd be screaming, not talking, love."
Still, Nyla pressed her palm lightly to Maris's belly, feeling for rhythm. The heartbeat within was strong, steady a drum beneath her hand. Relief loosened her chest a little. "All right," she said softly.
Ewan helped her to a nearby bench. Around them, villagers began clearing the square, righting barrels, gathering scattered goods, sweeping away signs of panic. The fragile rhythm of life trying to return.
Nyla looked past them, toward the dark line of forest beyond the fields. The snow there was disturbed, faint drag marks, footprints and hooveprints that didn't belong to anyone from the Hollow. Something cold knotted in her stomach.
Whatever had happened in those woods last night...it didn't feel over.
"Listen close." Ewan said once he'd done a head count, "We don't know if they're gone for good. So until we do, no one goes wandering. Keep your doors barred, shutters closed. No lamps after dusk."
Murmurs broke out at once, fear dressed as disbelief. "No fires? It's freezing, Ewan."
He nodded once. "I know. But smoke draws eyes. And if those riders come back, I want them seeing an empty village, not a line of chimneys pointing the way."
Nyla stepped forward then, brushing snow from her sleeves. "He's right. The best thing we can do is stay unseen. Keep your little ones close, cover your windows at night. I'll make rounds tomorrow for anyone hurt and send for the guard in Eodwyn."
Maris, pale and unsteady, leaned into Ewan's side. "And if they do come back?"
Ewan looked toward the treeline again, expression carved from stone. "Then we'll hear them before we see them. And by the Divines, we'll be ready."
A ripple passed through the crowd, not comfort, but grim understanding. People began to move, shuffling back toward their cottages, heads bowed, clutching baskets and children alike. The square emptied the way the cellar had: slow, cautious, hearts still pounding.
Nyla lingered, watching Ewan help Maris down the lane, his large hand steadying her with surprising gentleness. Alva tugged at Nyla's sleeve.
"Are we safe now?"
Nyla didn't answer right away. She looked out over the hollowed village, the cold chimneys, the frozen well, the faint, distant smoke curling above the forest.
"Not yet," she said quietly. "But we will be."
She wasn't sure she believed it.