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Years earlier
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Tomas woke. It was 3 AM in the morning, still dark outside, and he could hear people screaming and crying out for help and struggling for peace.
Tomas hastily went to the window and peered out. His face contorted in shock as he witnessed what was going on — bodies shed on the ground, others being pulled away by the void, and others being slain by the undead people, infecting others. Their eyes were pitch black, surrounded by dark veins. There were people resisting with bows, swords, and anything they could use.
In the distance, the village houses in the village of Brindlemark, located near in the Acinar kingdom (the old kingdom that is already been destroyed by the disaster years before), were suddenly blowing up one by one, spreading everything in flames. Families escaped the village while the rest of the village guards defended themselves as long as they could.
But the undead and abyssals just kept coming and coming, unforgiving in their quantity. Some were already infested, and terror hung in the air as people killed one after another.
Tomas now 12, also rushed downstairs and came across his sister, Lira, she's now 18, because two years had gone by since.
"Sister… what is going on?" Tomas asked, his voice trembling with fear and curiosity.
Lira picked up a metal pipe from the kitchen. "Quick… we must hide," she said gripping the pipe hard, prepared to defend herself.
Suddenly, a corpse collided with their door, screaming horribly as it saw the two. It charged directly for Lira — but in a heartbeat, their father Robert pushed the corpse into the ground, plunging his own metal pipe down into its skull. Blood exploded from the corpse's head as it fell to the floor, dead. Robert, his hands bloody, still clutched the pipe firmly.
"Let's move, kids. No time for words. Something awful is going on tonight," Robert said, alarmed but decisive.
"But Dad." Tomas attempted to say.
"There's no time!" Robert interrupted him, swiftly grabbing his backpack and loading what he could — medical supplies, bottles of water, and other basics, making it light enough to carry.
Lira, standing next to Tomas, quickly loaded her own bag with necessary items.
Tomas stood there, frozen in shock, looking out the window where the world appeared to be shattering into anarchy — fire, running people seeking safety, and in the distance, someone yelling.
Robert went to the window, and so did Lira.
"EVERYONE! GO TO THE EVACUATION CENTER, DOWN THE HILL!" a man cried out, pointing in the direction they could see from their home.
"That's a way further than I thought…" Robert grumbled under his breath. "But we don't have time to stop here. Come along, kids, stay close."
"Sure, Father," Lira nodded, her face fearless and resolute.
"Come along, little brother. Stay close to us, all right? Don't you even think about going off on your own. Understood?" Lira stooped down, grasping Tomas's shoulders, instilling him with courage by her firm stare.
"Understood, Sister," Tomas nodded.
Both of them followed behind their father to the back door. But as they emerged outside, a group of undead approached them, their ghastly cries filling the air.
"They're coming! Run kids!" Robert yelled, whacking at the first undead with his pipe as he ran after them.
"Downhill! Come on!" Robert shouted, gesturing them forward frantically.
"Got it!" Lira replied as they ran downhill, Tomas following close behind.
As they were running, one hand suddenly emerged out of the ground, snatching at Tomas's ankle and yanking him down. Lira, never one to back down, reached behind her backpack and retrieved her metal pipe, smashing it forcibly against the getting-up undead's head, snuffing its life out in an instant.
"Fool monster," she spat, reaching down to pull Tomas to his feet.
"Come on, don't be a wimp," she chided, although her tone was stern, not hot.
"Yeah, I know, Sis… I'm trying," Tomas groaned as he stood up.
They kept running, Robert protecting them from behind.
Around them, others ran frantically towards the evacuation center, screaming and crying for rescue.
"JUST A FEW METERS LEFT!" a man yelled ahead, guiding them.
Out of the side bushes along the route, undead popped out of nowhere, screaming horribly as they spotted the people. The village soldiers resisted, bellowing orders.
"Go ahead, everyone!"
"HURRY! We'll hold them off!"
While the soldiers fought on the flanks to defend the fleeing crowd, others ran straight down the path.
The evacuation center was now visible in the distance — just meters away — but the surroundings were filled with terror and despair. Every breath, every step, was a fight for survival.
People kept running, closing in on the center's borders.
Tomas, although exhausted, had an inexplicable resolve amidst the turmoil. His breathing was tired, but he wasn't going to let it stop now.
"Please, come on… I don't want this to be happening," he muttered to himself, forcing his legs to carry him on.
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The air was thick with smoke, screams, and the stench of blood. Tomas gritted his teeth, forcing his legs to keep moving even as his body begged him to stop.
"Almost there… just a little more…" Lira said, clutching the strap of her bag.
Robert kept looking back, swinging his pipe at any undead that got too close, his face hardened by years of protecting his family. Lira stayed at Tomas's side, her eyes sharp and fierce as she gripped her bloodied metal pipe.
From the distance, the evacuation center's gates were now clearer — a makeshift barrier of wooden fences reinforced with logs, guarded by soldiers armed with swords, spears, and a few old muskets.
"OPEN THE GATES! THEY'RE COMING!" a soldier shouted from the top of the watch post.
The gates creaked open, and the panicked crowd surged forward like a wave. Tomas felt a surge of hope, they were close. So close.
"Father, the gate!" Lira called.
"I see it! Stick together!" Robert shouted back, swiping at another undead that lunged toward them.
A loud explosion echoed behind them — one of the village houses fully collapsed in flames, sending sparks and ash into the sky. More undead poured out of the shadows, drawn by the noise.
"Faster, faster, move it!" a man ahead shouted as the people stampeded toward the open gate.
Tomas tripped slightly on a rock, but Lira caught him by the arm and pulled him up without slowing down.
"Don't fall now, kid," she warned, though a hint of relief flickered in her voice.
They finally reached the clearing before the gate when an abyssal creature — larger than any undead they'd seen — came from the trees. Its form, pitch-black body was twisted and veined with glowing crimson lines. It let out a deafening shriek, causing the earth beneath them to tremble.
"RUN! GET INSIDE!" Robert bellowed.
The soldiers at the gate fired their muskets, but the creature barely flinched. It charged toward the crowd.
"Get Tomas in first!" Robert commanded.
"No way, we're going in together!" Lira shouted back, tightening her grip on Tomas's arm.
Tomas felt his chest tighten as the beast's roar grew louder, but his sister's unwavering grip gave him strength. They dashed through the gate just as the soldiers pushed the tall and thick metal gate closed behind them, locking it tight with heavy beams.
The beast slammed into the gate, causing the entire barrier to shake.
"Is everyone in?!" a captain called out.
Robert stumbled in a second later, bruised and bloodied, but alive.
"We're here," he panted, leaning on his pipe.
"We got most of the survivors," another soldier reported. "Some didn't make it."
Tomas slumped to his knees, chest heaving. He looked around — people were huddled together, some crying, others wounded, all exhausted. The sky was still dark, but the fires in the distance lit up the horizon in shades of orange and red.
Lira sat down beside Tomas, ruffling his hair. "Tough night, huh?"
Tomas didn't speak. He just nodded, eyes wide, still trying to process everything.
Robert knelt in front of them both. "Listen to me… it's not over yet. But you two did good. You're safe for now."
A bell rang from the watch post.
"INCOMING ON THE WESTERN BARRICADE!" a guard shouted.
The soldiers scrambled, raising weapons and taking positions.
Robert clenched his jaw. "Stay here. Protect each other. I'll be back."
"Dad, wait....."
"No arguing, Tomas," Robert cut him off, his voice firm but kind. He gave them both one last glance before sprinting toward the western wall, pipe in hand.
Lira leaned closer to her brother, watching their father disappear into the torch-lit defenses.
"Stick with me, little brother. No matter what happens, we survive together. Got it?"
Tomas finally found his voice. "Got it."
And somewhere deep down, though terrified, Tomas promised himself, he would get stronger. Strong enough to fight back. Strong enough to protect his sister, his father, and everyone.
Even if the world had turned to ruin.
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As the undead continued to swarm the western barricade, their overwhelming numbers pressed them together, forcing some to climb over one another onto the metal walls. The soldiers on the high walls fought back with everything they had, arrows and musket fire lighting up the darkness, but the horde showed no signs of slowing down.
Robert sprinted toward the high wall, snatching up a bow that lay nearby along with a handful of explosive-dynamite arrows.
"Hey, over here!" a soldier shouted, waving him over.
"Right!" Robert called back, quickly pulling out his flint and steel, striking it to ignite the dynamite's fuse on the side of the arrow.
He dashed up the stairway on the side of the high walls. As he reached the top, he paused for a moment, his eyes watching the chaos unfolding beyond the walls. The village was flamed in the distant hill. Thick smoke billowed into the night sky, and the streets below were strewn with broken bodies, both living and undead. The horrifying wails of the infected mixed with the desperate cries of the survivors, creating a chilling symphony of despair.
But there's no time to hesitate.
Robert nocked the explosive arrow, drew the string back, and aimed at a gather of undead trying to scale the barricade.
"Light them up!" a soldier shouted.
Releasing the string, the arrow whistled through the air before striking its target. A brilliant burst of fire and shrapnel scattered the attackers, sending bodies flying and slowing their advance.
"Good shot, man!" another soldier grinned.
Robert gritted his teeth, already preparing the next arrow. "Keep firing! Don't let them climb this wall!"
The undead shrieked, their blackened, veined faces illuminated by the flickering flames. Some of them, pushed by those behind, managed to scramble halfway up the high walls.
Another soldier yelled, "They're breaking through! Bring more arrows! Push them back!"
Robert let loose another shot, this one crashing into a group piling at the base of the barricade. The explosion lit up the night sky, but it was only a temporary reprieve.
"Damn it, they just keep coming," he muttered, sweat trickling down his forehead.
He stole a quick glance at the evacuation center behind them, where Tomas and Lira were anxiously waiting among the frightened survivors. His jaw clenched. 'I have to hold this wall… for them.'
Without wasting another moment, Robert grabbed his last explosive arrow and continued firing into the relentless night.
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But then — the same monstrous creature that had crashed through the tall gates earlier came charging back, this time heading straight for the eastern barricade. Its massive, hulking body pushed aside both the undead and debris as it let out a terrifying roar, its claws shimmering in the flickering firelight.
For a brief moment, everyone stood frozen in place. The ground shook with every thunderous step it took.
From the watch post, a soldier's voice pierced the air, panic evident in his tone.
"THE BEAST, IT'S COMING FOR THE EASTERN WALLS!"
Robert's expression hardened, a blend of frustration and grim determination washing over him.
"Not again," he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenched tight.
"MOVE, NOW!" the Captain bellowed, rallying the men into action.
"GET THOSE DYNAMITE ARROWS!" another soldier shouted urgently. "It's our only choice to take this big bastard down!"
Soldiers rushed down, sprinting toward the supply boxes stacked in the barracks. The men below grabbed the crates, bringing them up the stairways as quickly as their legs would allow. The sound of boots thundering against the wooden floors mixed with the deafening roars of the approaching beast.
"Here, take them!" a soldier gasped, urgently passing a bundle of arrows to Robert.
He grabbed them without a word, his hands trembling not from fear, but from the weight of what lay ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see the evacuation center in the distance, where Tomas and Lira were huddled with the others. His heart raced, their faces fueling his determination to act.
'I won't let this thing get through… not while they're still alive.'
"Light them up!" the Captain commanded.
Soldiers struck flint against steel, igniting the fuse of the dynamite arrows. The flames swayed wildly in the cool night air.
"Hold… hold…" someone urged softly.
The beast unleashed a terrifying roar, lowering its head like a battering ram.
"FIRE!!"
A barrage of blazing arrows soared through the sky, aiming for the massive creature's head. The night erupted in light as the first few hit, explosions of flame and force crashing against the beast's skull. It howled in rage, stumbling back a step but still advancing.
"DAMN IT, IT'S STILL MOVING!" a soldier yelled, panic creeping into his voice.
Robert clenched his jaw, reaching for his last dynamite arrow. His gaze locked onto the beast's exposed, bloodied eye, its vulnerable spot.
"Come on… come on…" he whispered to himself, steadying his breath.
He pulled back the bowstring, his heart beating in his ears.
Robert clenched his teeth and reached for his final dynamite arrow. His gaze fell on the exposed, blood-red eye of the creature, its one weak point. The roars, screams, and terrifying howls, all fading into a faint pulse in his ears, the world around him appeared to drench into silence.
'For everyone.'
Pulling the bowstring back, he felt the strain in his arms and the flaming heat of the dynamite arrow mirrored in his eyes.
'This is it…'
"NOW.... TAKE THE SHOT!" the Captain yelled.
Robert gasped, heart pounding, and silence occured.
Then....
A burst of wind.
Everything went white.
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Miles distant at the evacuation center, Tomas abruptly stumbled, clutching his chest (His age was now current, older). A strong, empty feeling at his heart; the place appeared wrong for a brief moment, and the cries of the survivors seemed change in silence. Under his feet, the floor looked to be dragging him under.
Lira's voice was faraway, "Tomas?..... Tomas?"
He turned his head, but his sister's face softened into darkness.
The world twisted.
He was devoured by the darkness.
Ahead him lay a void of infinite blackness, a quiet so deep it reached his eardrums. He was standing alone in a weary wasteland, where the ground was broken and dead and the skies above swirled with an eerie gray mist.
Weak murmurs filled the place, echoing.
"You can't save them....."
"You're weak...."
Heart pounding, Tomas surveyed his surroundings and yelled out, "Lira? Dad?", but only his own trembling voice responded him.
From a distance, shadowy figures started to emerge. Twisted versions of people he knew, their eyes empty, cracks spreading across their faces. Over and over, their mouths hung open murmuring the same words.
"It's your fault....."
"You're nothing.... You're useless..."
He started to run, but the earth broke beneath his feet, and a skeletal hand shot up from below, grabbing his ankle, yanking him down. He yelled, scratching at the earth, but more hands appeared—pale, chilly, and cruel—dragging him into darkness.
"NO..... LIRA! DAD!" he shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the chasm.
Then, standing before him, a large form came from the mist, the same abyssal monster, only now its face twisted into a terrible, human-like smirk. Its one bloodshot eye stared down at him.
You will pass away by itself.
The beast raised a clawed hand and... Just as it came smashing down toward Tomas.
a brilliant white light.
a sharp gasp.
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The blinding white light dissipated — but instead of waking up, Tomas was somewhere else.
He was in the center of a dead forest.
Trees stood there as only black, lifeless husks. No leaves. No wind. The air was heavy, cold, thick. A faint sound — like a child crying — trailed through the trees.
"Lira?" Tomas tried to call out, his voice faint, cracking.
No response.
Only the sound of footsteps… soft… uneven… going around him.
He turned around, eyes scanning. The fog around him grew dense, forms emerging in the mist.
"Father?!"
Still nothing.
And then — a whisper, just next to his ear.
"You left us…"
Tomas flinched, twisting, but nobody there.
The trees began bleeding suddenly — thick, dark liquid dripping down on the woods. The earth sounded terribly with each step he made, eyes staring up at him from under the dirt.
He attempted to run, but the air itself shoved him back, like a weight as heavy as stone. His lungs breathed. His heart pounded.
Then up ahead — a figure.
It was Lira.
She stood barefoot in a white dress, dripping with blood at the hem. Face pale, lips quivering, eyes brimming with tears.
"Why didn't you save me, Tomas?" she breathed.
"No… no, I tried.. I swear I tried!"
"You lied already, why?" her voice broke, and as she moved forward, her flesh began to discolor, crack, her face contorting.
"I waited for you. Then why did you do this to me? ANSWER ME!"
Behind her, more of them emerged — his father, old friends, soldiers, villagers — all dead, rotten, their faces shattered, eyes gone, mouths repeating the same phrase and others are serious.
"It's your fault."
"Useless being."
"It's your fault."
"You shouldn't lived here."
"It's your fault."
Tomas fell to his knees, holding his head, his own voice cracking. "Stop… STOP!"
Then — a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up.
It was himself.
But phantom, worn, face empty, eyes lifeless.
"You'll always be too late."
And with a violent roar — the abyssal beast burst through the trees behind them, its massive jaws open wide, black mist pouring out like a storm. It lunged for Tomas.
He screamed.
Everything shattered into a million shards of light.
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His eyes snapped open.
Tomas woke with a gasping breath, sweat dripped down his face, and his chest heaving up and down as if he had run an entire mile.
He was back.
The knights' quarters.
Tomas sat up, his hands shaking.
But for a moment, he didn't say anything.
Then, in a cracked, hoarse voice, not quite a prayer, but almost.
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to leave you behind…"
He wiped his face, but the tears continued falling.
The outside world may have been quiet, but within Tomas, the memory hadn't stopped.
Not yet.
The room itself was still silent, only the quiet rhythm of breathing from the other knights present filling the air. The nightmare still lingered on him, a heavy, stifling weight in his chest.
He rubbed his face, sat on the edge of his bed. The hard stone floor was cold and made his feet hurt, but he didn't care.
He slowly stood up.
The others remained out cold, Eren slobbering on his pillow, Kellin snoring so loudly that he could rouse the sleep of the others.
Tomas took his cloak hanging on the edge of the bed and stepped outside, moving through the room full of weapons, past rows of spears and swords that received scraps of early light.
He went up the steep wooden steps, creaking one step at a time. His hand brushed against the rough wall as he walking up, his mind still lingered.
When he finally came to the wooden door at the top, he caught his breath and pushed it open.
The early dawn rose in, warm golden light filling the stone corridor and spreading across his skin. The air was crisp and clean, with the refined hint of earth and morning cool breeze.
Tomas blinked at the unwelcome warmth, emerging outside.
The castle grounds were deserted this time of the morning. Just a handful of stable boys grooming the horses and a few guards making their rounds with little enthusiasm.
His belly rumbled, but he pushed the feeling aside.
He walked out across the cobblestone path towards the great dining balcony which overlooked the valley.
There, a man eating alone at one of the long wooden tables, it was Fred.
The old man was already half finished with his breakfast — a plate of fried eggs and bread and a mug of tea beside him. The sun shone soft upon his weathered face, bringing a pale glow to the gray in his beard.
Fred glanced up as Tomas came over and gave a weak, lopsided smile.
"It's about time you walked out in that room," Fred bellowed, his gruffness tempered by a warmth in his voice.
Tomas managed a weak smile and sat down facing him.
Fred pushed a plate of fried egg and bread in front of him. "Eat there lad. You look like a death warmed over."
Tomas ate the bread in silence, chewing slowly.
They sat there for a bit — no long words, no speeches. Just the wind, birds waking up, and knights' murmurs in the distance.
After a few mouthfuls, Tomas finally broke his silence, voice low. "It was just a.... bad night."
Fred nodded knowingly. "I figured it."
Tomas looked out over the valley, the sun rising above the hills, covering everything in gold. "It… lt felt too real."
"Of course, It always does," Fred said, taking a sip of his tea. "It doesn't mean it'll break you."
Tomas didn't say anything, just kept eating.
Fred sat in silence with him for a moment, then reclined in his chair. "You're carrying a lot, kid. But you don't have to carry it by yourself."
Tomas blinked at him. The old man shrugged, unexpectantly small for someone as large as he was.
"Come find me after you're done here," Fred added. "Sun's up now. Good time for training."
Tomas gave a short nod, finishing the last bite of bread.
For the first time since waking, the world didn't feel as heavy.
And he was glad Fred was still there.
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The sun's heat continued to rise higher, dusting over the stone walls and illuminating the castle with gentle morning light. The silence between Tomas and Fred hung, each man in his own thoughts.
Then, the sharp, distant voice pierced the silence.
"Alright, you lazy bastards, get up!"
It was Commander Galen's booming tone, echoing off the walls from the training yard below.
Fred gave a dry laugh. "And there's your morning bell."
Tomas smiled sardonically, getting up and shaking tiny crumbs from his pants. From the balcony, he could see Sir Varun walking across the yard, rapping his shoes against the ground as he shouted to the half-asleep knights stumbling out of the barracks and the basement chamber.
"Get movin'! You soldiers snore louder than a mountain beast. Commander wants you to form a line in ten seconds!" Sir Varun shouted, banging on a helmet which one soldier was still attempting to carry under the arm.
The leathered boots shuffled through the air, accompanied by sleepy grumblings and clanging weapons being hastily grabbed.
Tomas groaned. "I guess... I better go down there before Galen yells my name next."
Fred grinned. "Don't make them wait for you, lad. And listen..... Don't let your nightmare haunt you today. The dead memory don't need you to drag behind."
Tomas nodded slightly. "Yeah… I hear you."
He turned and headed towards the stairway, his rush confident again. The morning felt less oppressive, the sun warmer on his shoulders.
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Down in the court, the men scrambled. Some still rubbing their eyes, some yanking at loose tunics and half-buckled belts. A couple cursed under their breath as Sir Varun walk the stone path before them.
"Ten seconds! I said TEN SECONDS, all of you!" Varun shouted, tapping the bottom of his spear on the ground. The metallic ring boomed out across the basement.
The men stood up in their disheveled line, some still without shoes, one boy holding on to his trousers with one hand and attempting to stand at attention.
"Commander Galen requires you all here sharp this morning, word from the Lord himself. No excuses. No delays." Varun's eyes ran down the line, checking if someone is missing.
Then his brow narrowed.
"Someone's missing…" he said, his eyes narrowing and looking every lane. "Where's Tomas?"
Mutual silence. Nervous glances exchanged.
And then, the side wooden door creaked opened.
Tomas ran out from the down stairwell to the basement, hair still slightly damp from washing up, shirt half-tucked, boots but loosely laced. He slowed as he saw the line, each soldier standing firm and Varun's eyes fixed on him.
"Morning," Tomas muttered with a stiff nod, hurrying to stand into line at the end farthest from where he had emerged.
Varun walked over, stopping inches from Tomas. The keen eyes of the older knight pass into him.
"Enjoyed a little extra rest, didn't you?" Varun said with a steady but firm tone.
"No, sir," replied Tomas, keeping his head held high.
A strained silence.
Then, much to everyone's surprise, Varun grinned faintly. "Hm. Try not to make a late entry next time."
"Yes, sir," Tomas said.
"Alright — you're lucky the Commander isn't here yet," Varun spoke loud enough for all to hear. "Form up properly! Stand straight! Commander Galen speaks in two!"
The soldiers quickly adjusted, feet shuffling on the stone, a few of them sneaking small grins Tomas's way. One of the younger men near him whispered, "Good timing, Tomas."
Tomas gave a faint, tired smirk.
The castle yard calmed again, the clatter and mutteres fading as all awaited the doors of the main hall — the Commander's coming.
Another day. Another day in service.
And this time Tomas was not going to miss a thing.
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The tall double doors to the castle hall groaned open, and all the soldiers came to firm attention. Even the sleepy ones stood like iron poles. Commander Galen emerged, his draping cloak heavy behind him, boots thudding against the stone with every step. His very presence was sufficient to tense the air, the courtyard dropping into absolute, heavy quiet.
Tomas stood his shoulders square, his heart still settling from the previous rush. He could sense the heat of the sun rising over the hills outside, light illuminating the top tower and bathing the yard in pale gold. But inside, no one was willing to move their gaze away from Galen.
The Commander stopped before them, his sharp gaze running over the rows of men like a seasoned warhound sizing up his pack.
"Men of Atlon," Galen began, his voice steady but strong, carrying over the courtyard. "Today isn't one for soft legs or late waking. We've word from the border — caravans robbed, strange tracks in the western woods, and an uneasy quiet in the east. The King demands readiness."
A faint hum went along the line. Tomas breathed in, clenching his jaw.
"We will be dividing squads after dawn, and placing those other traps that we didn't finish last night." Galen went on. "Sir Varun, lead your company to the southern post and secure the merchant routes. Captain Arlen's team to patrol the eastern hills. The rest of you — training drills in the training yard until you collapse. No excuses."
"Yes, Commander!" the troops snapped together.
Galen nodded, his intense eyes focusing for an instant on Tomas at the end of the row — not with annoyance, but with a perceptively piercing look. As if he could see straight through the youth's sleep-worn face to whatever tempest stirred inside his mind.
Tomas stood that much taller.
"Dismissed to your orders!" Galen shouted, whirling about and walking back into the castle corridor.
The soldiers let out a long breath, some grunting quietly, others complaining about the drill they were to face. Sir Varun clapped his hands sharply, returning them to attention.
"You heard the Commander!" Varun snapped. "Pick up your steel and you'll be working today, lads! And keep this in mind: I don't want anyone dragging behind like half-asleep morons."
The courtyard came alive as the soldiers dashed for their swords and formed up in their squads. Tomas fell in line with the rest, sensing the change in atmosphere, from strained immobility to somber alertness.
As they headed toward the training ground, Eren came running up alongside Tomas, clapping him lightly on the shoulder with a smile.
"Close call back there, mate," Eren chuckled. "I thought Varun was gonna eat your head for breakfast."
"Yeah," Tomas sighed a tired laugh. "Would've done me right."
"Next time, wake up with the rest of us," Kellin said from up ahead, looking back over his shoulder with a grin.
Tomas smiled, a bit of warmth seeping through the heaviness in his chest.
This wasn't much before, the morning had started with a shocking bang on the basement door.
"All of you, out! Outside, now!" Sir Varun had bellowed down the head of the stairs. "Better to stand formation in the morning air than stink up this place!"
Muttering words and shuffling footsteps had answered, soldiers scrambling from bunks, pulling tunics over arms, and belting on belts. Eren had muttered, "Could've let us sleep 'til sun was higher…"
Kellin had tossed him a boot. "Up before the sun's high and bad news, you'll see."
Tomas, already halfway dressed, had splashed cold water on his face and hurried after them.
The morning air had been crisp then, the eastern sky streaked with orange as the soldiers formed lines in the courtyard. Sir Varun had paced before them.
"Ten seconds to form up!" he'd snapped.
Men scrambled into position, some still readjusting tunics or tightening sword belts. Tomas had dashed out of the basement door as Varun's keen eyes hit.
"Where's...." Varun had begun, but Tomas had eased into the tail of the line before he could be missed.
"Made it," Tomas had breathed.
"About time," Varun had growled.
And now here they were — the drills starting, swords against wooden dummy posts clashing, sweat already beading on brows, promise of a day long to come.
As Tomas made-up his position for the morning's first exercise, he felt the familiar burden of responsibility rest on his shoulders. The ring of steel, the shout of commands, the steady beat of training and for a little while, it beat back the troubled nightmares of sleepless nights and heavy memories.
And for now… Tomas embraced it.
The ring of metal echoed through the courtyard as drills commenced. Duos of soldiers stood opposite each other, wooden blades clashing on shields, boots digging into the dirt ground. The sun rose steadily in the morning, light glinting on the blades and armor racks ranged against stone walls.
Sir Varun marched up and down between the ranks, his keen eyes never missing a thing.
"Beware, Jarek! If you let your shield drop once more and you'll be cleaning stables for the rest of your life!"
"Yes, Sir!" the young soldier muttered, quickly realigning his stance.
Tomas gripped his hand tighter around the practice sword, its heaviness familiar to his grip. Opposite him, Eren grinned and lifted his shield.
"Ah, latecomer," Eren teased. "Come on then. Let's see if you can hit straight after all that rushing about."
Tomas permitted a moment's smile. "Be careful what you wish for."
They struck with a harsh meeting of wood on wood, the thing thudding out into the morning.
In above, bracing himself against the stonework railing of the balcony overlooking the ground, an older man stood silently. Fred, long-time steward of the castle, was standing there sipping his teacup, his weathered face serene but reflective.
His gray hair was tied back, and although his hands carried the signs of decades of toil, his eyes were keen, watching every swing, every deviation in form, every indication of strain or determination in the young soldiers below.
He focused particularly on Tomas.
The form of the boy wasn't flawless, a practice slow from the hurried wake-up and the burden of something unspoken in his eyes, but there was a natural strength there. A remind that Fred knew, one inherited from bloodlines that carry both burden and valor.
A whispered, knowing smile drew at the old man's lips.
"Still carrying too much in that mind of yours, lad," Fred muttered to himself.
Varun's voice cut sharply through the yard again.
"Switch partners! Move!"
Eren gave Tomas a quick nudge with his elbow. "You're improving. Might even bruise me next time."
"I'll aim higher then," Tomas shot back, breath steadying as they moved apart.
Fred watched a moment longer before turning away from the balcony rail. Duty would call him elsewhere soon — preparations to be made, reports to review, messages to relay. But for now, he allowed himself a final glance down at the boy.
"Stay firm, Tomas," Fred murmured under his breath. "You'll need it before long."
Then, with the facility of a man who had lived too many times of war and peace both, Fred go back from the balcony, out of the scene of practice.
.
.
.
The day had brightened, and walking through the corridors, a reminder came to him, Nathan.
"Oh god," Fred muttered, looking the tall clock on the side of the window and quickening his pace. "I've gone for 2 hours and left the boy sleeping."
He turned down a corridor, past a row of tall windows spilling sunlight into the hall. Reaching Nathan's bedroom door, Fred knocked twice, then pushed it open.
Inside, the young lad was still beneath his blanket, breathing softly. The boy's brown hair was scattered over the pillow, untouched by the sun filtering through the curtains.
Fred moved in and gave the bedpost a hard tap.
"Up, lad," he bellowed in a gruff but gentle voice. "You've got lessons with Sir Vad this morning. Don't make me pull you out."
Nathan stirred, groaning, tucking the blanket tighter around himself.
Fred grinned, then swept up a corner of the blanket and pulled it right off.
"Now, boy!"
Nathan sat up, eyes half-open, hair disheveled. "Yeah, I'm awake, I'm awake!"
"Good," Fred growled with a weak smile. "Clean yourself up, and be ready. Sir Vad will not wait for sleepy princes."
And with that, the elderly steward go outside from the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
.
.
.
In the courtyard once more, the ring of swords went on.
Tomas stepped back, panting, wiping sweat from his forehead. Eren nodded briefly and moved to another sparring pole.
A tall, broad-shouldered warrior called Garran stepped forward, adjusting the hold on his practice sword. He had a hint of a smile.
"Looks like it's you and me, Tomas."
"Yeah," Tomas grunted, rolling his shoulders as they faced off.
They walked around each other for a moment before Garran went his first move, then a swift jab to test his guard. But Tomas parried it, moving instinctively.
The following exchange was more crisp. Garran pushed forward with a times of overhead and side slashes, but Tomas deflected cleanly, his feet stepping into practiced stances.
"Not bad," Garran laughed. "You're faster than I thought."
But Tomas hardly heard him.
With their practice blades in hit, a memory pushed in, unwanted to know.
But it was Lira.
His sister's face appeared in his mind. Pale. Glassy eyes with fever. She was in bed, breathing shallowly, and the rest of them — the healers, his father, relatives — taking care of medicines, land disputes, and small village squabbles. But no one had ever really seen her go away.
Except him.
He'd sat by her side when the others didn't, holding her weak hand. And on that last night… when the sickness worsened, a voice had whispered to him in the darkness of his room.
"You'll lose them all, Tomas… one by one… and you'll be left with nothing."
He never told anyone about that voice. He wasn't even sure it had been real.
But it never left him.
And now, here in the practice ground, standing opposite Garran, sword in hand and the world altered.
For an instant, it wasn't Garran facing him.
It was a shadowy figure, eyes blazing in red, with a jagged black sword.
Tomas's hold on his sword grew tighter.
The phantom raised its blade.
Garran attacked again, this time with a rising slash intended to pin Tomas back on his foot. But Tomas responded too fast — too hard — parrying the blow away with a aggressively slash of his blade, sending Garran stumbling backward.
"Whoa, easy, easy," Garran said, grinning crookedly. "I didn't mean to wake your power."
But Tomas's face did not move. His eyes had gone blank, unfocused and abstracted.
Garran saw it now. The dead-eyed stare of Tomas. His hand clenching. Shoulders braced.
"…Tomas?" Garran's voice changed, wary now. "You okay, mate?"
But Garran was gone from Tomas's mind now.
The training courtyard was darkened.
The sun retreated behind a thick dark clouds that did not exist.
And standing in front of him now was a shadow-shrouded figure, face a blur, eyes are black, blade jagged and black.
Then the phantom raised its weapon once more.
Tomas snarled to himself and charged.
His blow was quick — quicker than a simple sparring session should permit. The wooden blade slammed into Garran's shield with a resounding crack, almost knocking it from his grasp.
"Gods!" Garran groaned, backing away. "Tomas, what's gotten into you?!"
But Tomas didn't respond. Another blow. Then another.
Garran barely managed to block the hits, sweat breaking out across his brow as the strikes came harder, faster, fueled by something wild.
"Tomas! Stop!" Garran shouted, glancing toward Sir Varun and the other soldiers. "What the hell's gotten into you?!"
But Tomas wasn't there.
His world was blood and shadow, the phantom sneering at him.
"You'll lose them all…"
Another strike surely dislodging Garran's shield. Though cracked and jagged, then a sharp back kick sent Garran stumbling backward.
"Tomas!" Eren's shout pierced the air.
Tomas raised his weapon up once more, the thick blade intended to shatter the phantom to pieces.
But Tomas didn't get the chance. Before it fell, Garran got out one final yell. "Tomas, it's me!"
And for an instant, a heartbeat, the mist cleared.
Tomas stood in the courtyard. And the phantom was gone.
And there sat Garran, panting hard, his tunic ripped, sweat pouring down his face, terror in his eyes.
The sword trembling in Tomas's hands.
The entire yard had fallen into silence.
"Enough!" Sir Varun bellowed over, grabbing Tomas by the shoulder, his face a mix of anger and worry. "What in the gods' name is wrong with you, boy?!"
Tomas's throat was dried. His chest convulsed.
"I…" he started, but no words came. His mind reeled, like waking from a nightmare.
"I'm fine," he managed to croak.
Garran straightened, brushing dirt from his tunic, and a bruise already rising on his arm. He winced, but forced a crooked grin.
"You sure picked a hell of a something on your mind."
Eren came over, eyes narrowing at Tomas. "What just happened?"
"I said I'm fine," Tomas grumbled, head down, voice low and tense.
Sir Varun looked at him another moment before pushing him in the direction of the middle of the yard.
"Get yourself together. If you fight like this again, and you'll be cleaning the stables for a month."
Eren knelt beside Garran, assisting him to his feet. "You alright?"
Garran grimaced, touching his chest. "Yeah. It could've been worse."
Varun looked at Tomas once more, a flicker of concern behind the sternness.
"Break's over," Varun snapped. "Back to it. No one slacks because of this one moron's temper."
"Tch. You could've cost your brothers lives." Varun said seriously.
The drills continued again, though the soldiers cast a suspicious glances to Tomas's direction.
And Tomas, sword down, looked at the ground where the phantom had been.
His sister's face hide at the cornered of his mind. And the warning of the voice stuck in his chest like a reminder.
.
.
.
Back to Nathan
.
.
.
The dawn light fell gently through the castle's narrow window slits, illuminating dust motes in its light. Nathan had long since finished his breakfast, washed, and now tied up the simple laces of his tunic. His brown pantaloons were unadorned but clean, and he ruffled his still-damp hair as he looked toward the small table where his learning book were stacked.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," Nathan shouted.
The royal door creaked open and in came Fred, although this morning he appeared a little more harried than normally.
"Morning, lad," Fred said, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Um... I forgot to wake you up for your lessons this morning, but I suppose the years are getting to me. But clean forgot."
Nathan smiled minimally. "It's okay, Fred. I've time."
Fred laughed softly, edging a bit closer. "Before you leave, be careful in the courtyard. Sir Varun's in a bad mood, and there was… an incident during practice. And keep your head down going out."
Nathan's eyebrow was raised. "Wait... Is something wrong?"
"Let's just say one of the lads lost his mind for an instant. But If you meet into Tomas…" Fred shook his head. "Nevermind. It's not for you to know about. Just carry on, lad."
Nathan looked at the old man for a moment, feeling the threat in the words, but decided not to press. He nodded once. "O, kay.... I'll be careful."
Fred stepped forward, giving the back of Nathan's neck a firm, paternal squeeze. "Good lad. Off you go."
With that, Fred walked away down the corridor, leaving Nathan by himself.
Nathan drew in a breath, strapped his thin satchel over one shoulder, and moved out into the corridor. The air in the castle was chilly, the tile floors tapping underfoot as he headed towards the outer gate.
As he turned a corner by the stairway down to the basement corridors, a figure emerged from the other way, quickly and head down.
They bumped into each other by accident, shoulders jolting hard.
Nathan stepped back, regaining his balance. "Oh, sorry."
It was Tomas.
The older boy's face was white, hair stick to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes flicked like one half-trapped in another realm. His tunic stuck to him, and his fingers trembling at his side as if still holding a weapon.
"Tomas," Nathan said, startled. "You okay?"
For an instant, Tomas didn't react, his thoughts evidently elsewhere. Then his eyes clarified. "Oh, Nathan, your highness." He bowed nervously. "Yeah. Sorry, I wasn't paying attention."
"It's alright. You're going to the basement?" He smiled faintly.
"Yeah… yeah. Needed air." Tomas's tone was gruff, the words guilted.
Nathan frowned slightly but maintained his light tone. "Fred told me that there was something going on out in the yard."
"Nothing to worry yourself." Tomas pressed a thin, unfunny smile. "But, keep your head down out there."
Nathan nodded shortly. "Alright, then."
Without waiting a reply, Tomas turned and walked on down the stone staircase, vanishing into the lower halls of the castle.
Nathan followed him for an instant, unease curious in the back of his neck, then shrugged it off and continued on his way out.
He arrived at the main gates of the castle where two guards stood firmed, spears at the ready. Rurik, one of the older of the two, nodded a friendly recognition.
"Good mornin' there, young master."
"You too, I'm going out to have the lessons," Nathan said.
The other guard, Idran, gave a weak smile. "Be careful out there, lad. The world outside these walls ain't always friendly."
Nathan smiled softly. "I'll remember."
With a creaking slowness, the gate opened sufficiently for Nathan to slip through.
Outside was a crisp, clear world, with a soft wind rustling the tall grass along the downhill path to the village.
Nathan moved on, the tension of the morning's oddness hanging just beyond him, like a cloud about to descend.
.
.
.
The great gates of Atlon Castle creaked shut behind Nathan as he emerged into the open grounds. The two guards at the gate nodded to him, one of them telling a low, steady word.
"Watch yourself out there, boy."
Nathan nodded briefly in response, his face impassive, and continued down the path.
The gravel path ahead stretched wide, lined with trimmed hedges and patches of open field. Morning sun filtered through the trees, and the faint sounds of the village below mixed with the clatter of training further ahead.
After a minutes of walking, Nathan reached the training grounds the same wide, open field, and fenced in by simple wooden posts. The space was alive with movement.
Boys and girls around and slightly above his age were present in loose ranks. Some did footwork, some sat cross-legged on the ground, breathing steadily with their eyes closed. A few swung wooden practice weapons under the watchful gaze of seniors.
And there, standing in the middle with his arms crossed behind his back, was Sir Vad.
His sharp eyes swept over the group as Nathan approached and quietly slipped into place beside a girl with braided dark hair.
Vad's voice cut through the air.
"You're late, Nathan."
Nathan met his gaze but said nothing.
Vad gave a faint, almost knowing smirk.
"Fine. You're here. That's what matters."
He took a slow step forward, his voice rising so all could hear.
"Listen well, students. Today, no shields and no weapons. Today, you'll see what's deep down in your soul. Each of you, boy or girl, strong or weak, has something inside. A magical power or a physical power. Then call it what you will. Because, most people live their lives without ever laying hands on it.".
"But not you. Not if you want to survive beyond your first real challenge. Now… close your eyes."
The children complied, the quiet rush of foot and fabric occupying the air as the yard fell silent.
Vad's voice fell into a lower volume, even.
"Breathe. Reach for your own center. I don't care what you perceive. It could be good. It could be bad. It could be anything else at all. But you'll know it when it awakens."
The clearing was reduced to silence.
And there, among them, Nathan shut his eyes — the far-off burden of his father's name, the lack of his mother, and the quiet, unsaid thing inside him pushing forward with the passing of time.
Time passed by in that still, steady tempo of breath and gentle wind just passed by.
Some of the little ones stirred. A few of the older ones remained as stiff as statues. The sun crept higher, heat settling on the yard. Nathan's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady as Sir Vad spoke once more — this time slow, deliberate.
"You sense it yet? That spark down deep in your heart? The something inside you that no one taught, no book explains, no weapon can reach?"
Some of the students shifted, their eyes darting uncertainly.
Vad did not appear to be disappointed.
"It won't be easy. It shouldn't. Someone who discovers it too soon then it applies out well before she or he is old enough to use it."
He walked through the ranks, past a trembling boy, a girl with her brow creased in stubborn intent. When he reached Nathan, Vad slowed, observing.
A shimmering passed over Nathan's chest. A presence… a tugging, as if something unseen wrapping just beyond grasp. It wasn't warmth. Not chill. Something else.
His eyes flashed open, into Vad's.
The instructor nodded once.
"There. You felt it."
Nathan didn't reply, but his heartbeat pounded against his ears.
Vad moved away from him, addressing the group.
"Good. Good enough for this morning. It comes like a shadow at your back, when you're not reaching too hard."
A few of the children relaxed in relief. Others exchanged glances, not knowing who had felt something, and who hadn't.
Sir Vad crossed his arms.
"Later afternoon, we see if any of you can catch hold of it."
And with that, he turned away, his voice snapping again.
"Dismissed!"
The students started to disperse, some whispering among themselves, others strolling alone to the well or the shade beside the villages.
Nathan sat in the same bench yesterday for another instant, the residual mess up of that odd flash vibrating within him — something he couldn't define, but knew on a primal level he'd passed, like some intangible boundary the moment it began. It wasn't a heat of the sun on his skin or the warmth of battle, nor was it anything from the training.
It had… changed.
And he wished to know it once more.
He looked down, laying a hand over his chest where the ancient medallion rested under his tunic. Unknown to him, its face emitted the softest beat — a heavy, understated thrum, the way a heartbeat lingered within ancient rock. Nathan could not perceive it. He knew only that something had changed.
He shut his eyes, feeling the wind brush his face, his hair rustling with the faintest touch of air. For an instant, the world gentled around him. The distant sounds of fighting students, the leaves rustling, and the distant murmurs of village people.
And then — it happened again.
A light.
A crack in the blackness.
And in his head, something long-dead and forgotten stirred up like a memory coming out of the depths.
His eyes in his mind envisioned a shadowy, indistinct room. A woman, in a bed. Her face etched out by time, but he knew warmth — a familiarity in the shape of her smile, in the gentle line of her figure. She held her belly, inside was a child, her face drawn pale with effort but her face full of unspoken love.
To her side, a man knelt. Brown hair, lean figure, face creased by years of work. Nathan could not fully see his face, but the aura came across as force and grief equal. The man spoke — voice smothered by the vastness of memory, yet a few phrases broke through like pieces.
"…I have to finish it, Naomi… the bloodline must awaken… our child… Nathan…"
The woman — Naomi — smiled through tears. She reached out, gently touching his cheek, her lips moving in a whisper that Nathan could almost hear.
"…Please promise me… you'll come back… even if only to see him… once…"
"I promise." Nolan gently kiss her in the forehead.
Around them, shadowed figures lingered in the room's corners. Nathan could sense their presence — Nolan's relatives, Naomi's siblings, watching over her, faces half-hidden in the veil of memory. The air was thick with dread and silent prayers.
Then, the vision trembled, like mist scattering in a sudden wind.
Nathan's eyes snapped open.
His breath was caught in his throat, his heart racing unevenly as he gazed at nothing, the yard and the village set in silence before him. He hardly even saw the children training out beyond or the people working at their business.
A thousand half-thoughts ran through his mind but only one made its way out to his lips.
"Wait. What?"
"What… do I have… a real mother and father?"
The words hung him in a barely whisper, the burden of them more than he anticipated. He'd never challenged it before. Never wondered, not really. But now, something deep within was going its way upward, refusing to be silenced.
The medallion underneath his tunic vibrated once more, hidden, its light weak and lost to the passage of time.
"Come on, I want to see it again." He chided.
Nathan shut his eyes once more, unable to deny the attraction of that unfamiliar current within him. The vibrate from the medallion hidden under his tunic wasn't like it had been.
It wasn't strength, or some reservoir of power waiting to be summoned. No… it was something odder than that. It was like a piece reaching from the past, pulling him to a place he hadn't want to go.
And then his vision went blurred once more.
A darkened room formed in his head, the smell of smoldering oil lamps and desiccated herbs hanging in the air. A mournful cry echoed off the wooden walls. It was his own, although he didn't know why he knew. He saw him — a small, flushed infant, crying loudly as the healer's hands took him, swaddling him in cloth. The faces of those around him were reduced to a haze of shadow, with one figure standing close to the bed.
A woman again.
His real mother… Naomi.
He could still not make out her face, but he sensed her presence — tired, shaking with weariness and suffering. She rested against pillows, her hand weakly extending toward him as he wept. Her fingers could hardly brush against his small arm.
"There… there he is…" Naomi's voice was cracked but soft, words full of a mother's warmth. "Nathan… my dear…"
A faint, trembling smile crossed her face, though it was tinged with sorrow Nathan didn't yet understand.
Then time shifted in lighting again.
The same room, but the air heavier now. Naomi's skin had gone pale, sweat clinging to her brow. A woman — a healer in plain robes — knelt beside her, speaking in a hushed, steady tone.
"Easy now, Lady Naomi… you've lost much strength. Here, drink this."
The healer lifted a glass of water to Naomi's lips, her hands gentle. But Naomi's fingers trembled too hard to hold it. Her breathing came shallow, her eyes half-lidded with weariness.
From the corner of the room, another figure moved.
A figure in a black, thick coat, the village healer. But something was strange about him, even to Nathan's faraway, visioned eyes. He didn't move up to the bedside as the healer. Rather, he pulled a vial of reddened liquid, unmistakably blood, out of his own coat pocket and hid it under his tunic.
Nathan's vision contracted, gazing in on the vial, a dreadful shiver running down his spine.
"Why…?"
Then the scene began to blur once more in his mind.
Darkness had fallen. Smoke hung in the air, and the cries of shouts resounded along the village streets.
Hamilton Village was being invaded.
The ring of blades. The burn of flame. Villagers cried, darkness lit up with destruction as soldiers wielding the symbol of a foreign kingdom attacked the houses and streets in equal measure.
Nathan's newborn wails swirled among the chaos.
Within the same room, Naomi held her boy close, sweat and tears streaming down her face.
"Please… don't… don't take my boy," she pleaded between sobs to a soldier who stood in the doorway — blade in hand, face hidden behind a steel helm.
She held Nathan close to her body, protecting him with the remaining strength in her.
"He's… he's just a baby. Please have mercy, I beg you…"
The soldier offered no response.
Another figure, taller and cloaked, gestured sharply. The soldier raised his sword. "We need him." His tone was deep.
Nathan felt the moment before it happened.
His mother's last desperate whisper.
"Forgive me, my son…"
And then — the strike of the sword. Naomi's body fell limp, her blood staining the fabric. Nathan's cries rose sharply, tiny hands clenched, the terrible sound of death and fire surrounding him.
The vision broke into a thousand pieces.
Nathan's eyes snapped open.
His chest exhausted, sweat glistening on his brow. The training yard existed still, the faint sound of wooden swords clashing echoing in the air, but the world was cold and gray clouds above the sky.
He felt for the medallion under his tunic.
"Who. who am I?" he whispered, his voice heavy with terror.
He looked at his shaking hand and balled it into a fist.
"And. why was I left alive?"
A wind swept across the yard again, as if the past itself awakened from its hidden memory.
Then his mind snapped off, like somebody pulled him out of there.
Nathan gasped. A cold gust of wind swept past him again, ruffling through his hair and pulling on his tunic. It smelled of rain and stale ashes.
He gazed upwards.
Grey clouds had massed distant on the horizon, heavy and dense. There was a low rumble of thunder in the air, a storm slowly making its way towards them.
Nathan swallowed, his chest breathing like scared.
His fingers went to the medallion under his tunic. It wasn't warm anymore. No pulse, no odd beat. Just cold, dead metal against his skin.
But something within him felt different.
He did not know how to describe it. Not like power or strength he could utilize. It was a shadow that had touched his heart. A waking part of him.
He remained there for a time, looking at his hand.
"What was that…?" he thought, with his stomach contracted. "Those people… Naomi… Nolan… was that… my mother? My father?"
The memories remained hazy, as if seen through mist. But the voice, the emotions, those were real. Too real to be a dream.
Yet another gust of wind swept in, this one more forceful and causing the grass to billow. The clouds above shifted, and a lower rumble of thunder issued.
Nathan's eyes dropped, his hand clenching.
"Why, was I alived?"
The blow was harder than he anticipated. The image of his mother's face — even though he couldn't quite view it — lingered with him.
He remained silent, allowing the wind to blow past.
The world outside had not shifted, but in him… things had.
The storm wasn't yet here, but it was approaching.
And somehow Nathan knew that this wasn't the end, that the past would drag him back again.
As Nathan lingered there, deep in thought, a loud called voice interrupted the quiet.
"Attention! A storm's blowing in from the east!" a messenger cried out from atop the watch post tower. The man's voice rang across the training yard and over the village grounds. "All citizens are going to take shelter, immediately! It's a large storm incoming — heavier than any normal storms! Everyone, find a shelter!"
Nathan looked up at the sky once more. The gray clouds had grown thicker, darkening rapidly. Another clap of thunder strucking through, nearer now.
The yard around him began to empty. The younger students raced off toward the markets, small emergency shelter, or home. Guards rushed along the path, providing people with places to take cover as the initial drops of rain started falling — thick, heavy splashes upon the ground.
Nathan sighed and closing his tunic closer around himself. He was close enough to one of the local supply stores, a small store owned by an old merchant who had everything from vegetables and fruits to plain tools. Without much thought, Nathan headed towards it.
By the time he had arrived at the wooden door, it was raining harder, coming down thick enough to provide the trees and houses far away in a blur.
He opened the door.
Inside, a few of the villagers had already congregated — supported against the walls, shaking raindrops off their cloaks, and waiting for the storm to end. The air was thick with the smell of wood, stale cloth, and the faint aroma of dried fruits and vegetables piled high on one of the shelves.
The trader, a bearded man of middle age, nodded to Nathan as he came in. "Storm's arriving in rough shape, kid. Lucky you came here."
Nathan nodded silently and took a place by the window, looking out as the rain pounded against the windowpane.
The rhythm of it was constant, covering up the other noises for a time.
But his thoughts weren't on the storm.
It remained on the names he'd heard in that vision.
Naomi. Nolan.
His true parents.
He had no idea what it meant yet or why the medallion had revealed him those things. But something was shifting.
And deep inside, Nathan knew it, but not fully.
This storm raging outside was only the beginning.
The rain pounded harder, the constant beat of it on the roof filling the small shop. Nathan remained at the window, but he wasn't alone observing the storm.
A few more villagers forced their way in, dripping wet and complaining.
"Storm's worse than it appears," grumbled one man, squeezing water from his cloak. "Mark my words, it ain't natural."
Another old woman held a basket against her chest. "Last time clouds came in like this, half the animals were dead by dawn. And old Beran said he saw things movin' around by the treeline."
"That's a joke," a young man close to the door sneered. "Storms blow in and out. People love frightening themselves when thunder booms."
But those words didn't quiet anyone. The tension clung heavy, the way air clings before lightning.
"I heard from a trader," another villager talked, a woman with a scarf tied about her neck and shrewd eyes, "that two towns east of us were struck by a storm like this. Only… people said it wasn't just wind and rain. They said people disappeared. Children. Old people. Even animals. And nobody saw what took them."
The room was silent for a second.
"Bah, that's supernatural," the merchant growled, although he did not seem as certain as he was acting. "It's just a storm. Happens every year."
Another market man, identifiable by his apron, shook his head. "No… it ain't just that. One of the guards near the eastern watch said he saw a rider go by before the storm rolled in. Black cloak, no flag. Nobody knows who they were. Storm rolled in right afterwards."
"Curses follow riders like that," the old woman breathed.
Two boys sitting at the back and stared at each other, their eyes wide.
Nathan remained silent. A storm was one thing, but something in what they said chilled the air around him. It was as if each voice in the room was harboring fragments of something larger — something strange.
Another deafening crack of thunder rattled the glass windows, causing one of the younger girls to yelp.
Then the merchant moved forward. "Enough of curses and missing people, let's not speak unseemly and bring ill fortune with our words. Just wait until the storm is over. No one goes out until it's safe."
Nathan looked out the window once more. The streets outside was flooded now, stands vacant, canvas roofs flapping in the gusts. He watched a barrel spin through the street, pursued by leaves and rainwater.
But his heart wasn't in the storm.
It was still in that vision. In the title of a village reduced to ash.
Hamilton.
And in that instant, Nathan was certain this storm was no weather.
It was the wind bringing old ghosts nearer.
.
.
.
Nathan watched the storm outside, the way the rain made the world streak past in greys. Thunder boomed again, this one louder, shaking the wooden slats of the store.
And then. something shifted.
He thought it was an illusion of the rain at first. A shadow beside the old tree at the market square's edge, half-concealed by the rain.
But it did not move like a human. It stood too motionless.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, leaning a bit closer to the glass.
A figure. Pale and thin. And faceless.
No eyes. No mouth. No features whatsoever — only the outline of a head and body, smeared like a blot in the rain. It stood there beneath the big tree, utterly motionless as lightning flashed in the sky behind it.
Nathan felt his lungs, scared.
For an instant, it seemed like the thing had its eyes stared on him… even though it did not have a face to do it.
He gasped for air. He stepped back from the window, bumping into a crate.
"Oi, boy," a merchant yelled over. "What's your problem?"
Nathan's voice caught, but he could whisper, "There's. someone out there."
Several people looked towards the window, attempting to see through the sheets of rain.
"I don't see nothin'," muttered one man.
"It's likely a branch, boy," another dismissed it, though her voice wasn't as stable as she tried to make it sound.
Nathan didn't respond. His heart pounded against his chest.
Another flash of lightning cut across the sky — and this time, the figure had vanished.
Just open space under the tree.
Nathan's skin feel crawled. He didn't know what was worse… seeing it, or knowing that it wasn't there anymore.
He took a step back from the window, his hand reaching unconsciously for the medallion under his tunic. It was cold now. Not like it used to be, when it pulsed. Cold… like it had frozen against his skin.
And the wind whispered once more, carrying on its breath something that sounded almost like a voice.
A whisper.
"Nathan…"
His name, brought on the storm.
Nathan's eyes jumped to the others in the store. No one else was hearing it.
The trader cursed as another blast blew the door partway open, rain splattering in.
"Alright, everyone keep clear of the doors and windows," he snapped. "I don't like the storm."
The villagers moved closer, muttering nervously.
Nathan looked out at the window once more.
Whatever was out there… it hadn't been done yet.
Something terrible was on its way.
And this storm was only the start.
The store became denser with tension. People whispered in close, anxious tones, some looking at the windows while others held their cloaks tight against them. The rain pounded louder on the wooden sides, and thunder rumbled above like angered.
"I swear, storms such as this ain't right," an old man grumbled. "Bad things follow skies such as that."
"Aye," a woman said, her arms crossed firmly. "Last time we had a storm so heavy, half of the harvest was destroyed. Old Mareen disappeared too."
A grunt came from another man. "I heard it was bandits that evening. Or something worse."
Nathan remained silent by the window, his gaze sweeping the square outside, yet some part of him wanted to stop. Whenever the lightning illuminated, shadows leaped in the rain, and he could not help but anticipate seeing that faceless one again, this time closer.
The merchant rushed hastily, closing the door behind him and securing it with a heavy wooden bar.
"Listen up again," he called. "No one's leavin' till this storm over. Got some dry bread and water — make do. And stop fillin' the air with ghost stories. You're spookin' the little ones."
The room quieted a bit, but the heavy air remained, thick like a fog no one could shake off.
Nathan looked out the window once more as another bolt of lightning ripped across the sky — and this time, a shiver crawl down to his back.
There it was.
The faceless creature.
Seen at the distant big tree a moment before, now it was close to the door. Out by it.
No face. No features. Just a form in the storm.
Nathan fell backward, his heart thumping so hard that it covered up the thunder for an instant. Clumsily, in his fright, he collided with a woman standing next to him, almost hitting her with the little basket in her hands.
"Sorry!" Nathan panted, glancing up at her. "There's, there's something out there!"
The woman scowled, balancing her basket. "Mind yourself, child."
"No, I mean it — outside! By the door! It's… it's not a person!"
A couple of people exchanged swift glances with him, but the majority pretended he was not there. A young man standing close by snickered under his breath. "Kid's imagin' ghosts."
"I swear, I saw it!" Nathan repeated louder yet, a quiver in his little voice. "It had no face! It stood right there!"
But they didn't believe him.
"Sit down, lad," grumbled one of the older men. "Storm's got your head twisted."
Nathan's hands trembled as he held the medallion hidden under his tunic, the chill of the metal against his palm like ice. He stepped back from the window, but his gaze remained fixed on the door.
For deep down… he knew.
Whatever it was outside wasn't leaving.
.
.
.
The room remained tense, the atmosphere heavy with fear and rain. The storm outside was not stopping, and the tense silence dragged longer than it ought to have.
Nathan's heart was still pumping rapidly as he remained locked on the door. Nobody else appeared to notice, but his chest ached — as if something was weighing down on him, heavier than the storm.
Then, from the rear corner, the elderly merchant who had spoken before now cleared his throat.
"Wait," he said, his tone low but firm enough to pierce the room.
Everyone turned.
The old merchant, gray-bearded and weathered, was not smiling now. His eyes glinted as he gazed at the boy.
"I believe him," the old man muttered.
A few people frowned. One woman ridiculed. "What are you on about, old man?"
"I've seen storms like this before," the old man went on, ignoring her. "When the winds howl like that… when the air feels heavy… it ain't just weather." He pointed a finger at the bolted door. "Something's hauntin' us."
A shiver passed through the room.
Nathan swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the medallion. The merchant's words made his fear real — it wasn't just his mind playing tricks.
"I said it all to you lot before," the merchant guy stated. "These storms bring ill things. Things which don't belong." He glanced about. "Light a few more candles. Keep the darkness away from the walls. Whatever's out there… it's seeking someone."
The room fell silent. The previous arguing stopped, and instead there was merely the sound of the storm and wind beating against the structure.
A young woman at the fire rushed over to light another oil lamp, her hands trembling.
Nathan's eyes remained fixed on the door.
Because in his heart… he knew.
That scary creature was still out there.
And waiting.
The storm boomed more loudly now, thunder growling like an animal above the clouds.
The store was still tense inside, despite additional lamps flickering in the corners, the shadows still seemed animate, writhing with each blast of wind against the walls.
Then someone spoke.
"Hey… where's Darrek?" a man asked, surveying the area. "He was just here tellin' us to stop arguing. Anyone see where he went?"
They glanced around, some saying his name.
"I'm sorry? Who's Darrek?" A woman asked.
"The merchant guy, who just rushed here inside." The man answered her clearly.
"Perhaps he's in back," another grumbled. "Or… maybe outside."
"Idiot, how can he go out in this storm? He's the one who said us not to leave until the storm is over, right?" The man explained.
Murmurs arose once more.
Nathan was not paying attention, however.
He stood by the window, staring out of the fogged, rain-spotted glass.
And there — out by the bent fence on the perimeter of the square — he saw it.
Darrek.
Or what remained of him.
His body was rigid in the rain, limbs loose as a puppet, his chest ripped open. A long, white, pointed hand — not bone, not flesh — was stuck clean through his chest behind him.
The thing with him was the faceless figure.
It had no eyes. No mouth. Only a blank, smooth face, its flesh pale mist, merging with night and rain. It stood motionless as death, one hand within Darrek's chest, the other at its side.
Nathan's breath was stuck in his throat. His stomach turned.
Then — the old merchant crept behind him, his eyes squinting as he turned to watch with Nathan.
And he saw it too.
"Gods save us…" the old man panted.
The folks within had seen them gawking and ran to the window.
"What are lookin' at?"
They crowded up — and then the lightning flashed a second time, as bright as day for half a second.
Everyone saw it.
Saw the faceless creature.
Saw it pick up Darrek's dead body like a rag doll, then drop it onto the mud.
A scream ripped from one's throat. A woman sank to her knees. Another man stepped back from the window as if he'd gazed upon death itself.
"It's real," the old merchant mouthed, his voice broken and raw. "It's here…"
The storm roared louder. The wind shook the windows. And the faceless creature turned its head — though it had no eyes — and appeared to gaze directly at the store.
Directly at Nathan.
The air within the shop became ice-cold.
Customers stepped back from the window, some yelling, others open-mouthed with shock. The elderly merchant held on to the wall, his knuckles turning white, while one woman cried into her hands. No one was talking now — no one dared.
But Nathan… Nathan could not tear his eyes away.
His scared eyes remained fixed on that thing in the rain. The featureless shape remained still for another second, then gradually dissolved once again into the darkness, disappearing amongst the trees and destroyed houses like a veil of fog.
Nathan's heart thudded in his ears. His palms shook at his sides. He was ill, as if his stomach would curl up and flip itself inside out. He was a kid — but what he had seen wasn't for anyone, much less a boy of his age.
And then.
A pulse.
A soft, persistent thud against his chest.
The medallion underneath his tunic emitted a gentle heat — not a power to call upon, not battle strength to hold back, but something else. Like a shield. Like a presence was present… watching… guarding him all by himself.
It pulse once… then twice.
Nathan didn't notice.
He was too absorbed by the terror beyond, his thoughts attempting to rationalize the unexplainable. The face of the dead man suspended in the rain, the faceless creature's vacant gaze, the blood and the mud.
It was the most frightening thing he'd ever seen.
And somewhere inside, something was warning him this wasn't finished.
Not yet.