Averenth was restless that night.
The winds prowled through the bone-thin trees with voices like old women whispering secrets no one should hear. Leaves clung to branches brittle and gray, the soil below dry and cracked as if the land itself refused to drink. The stars above flickered weakly, pale eyes behind a veil of clouds, and the moon hung low and rotten-yellow — a sickly, watching thing.
In the tiny village of Drenhal, the night held its breath.
Within a modest hut of stacked stone and straw-thatch, the world was reduced to the gentle crackle of fire and the soft breathing of a child. The hearth's glow pushed back the dark just enough to reveal the rough-hewn walls and bundles of dried herbs hanging in crooked bunches overhead.
Vaelen Morghast, barely three years old, lay curled beneath a patchwork blanket of worn cloth and animal hide. He clutched a dull-carved wooden figure in one hand — a crude star-shaped effigy his mother had given him to ward off bad dreams.
The air in the hut was heavy, thick with the scent of old smoke and dried sage. Every so often, the wind rattled the small, frost-rimed window, setting the bundles above swaying like quiet watchers.
His mother, Mira, moved through the one-room space with deliberate care. A woman not yet thirty, her face already worn by grief and toil. Loose strands of raven-dark hair clung to her damp brow as she worked, silently tending to the hearth and mending a tear in the sole of her boot. She hummed a soft, broken melody beneath her breath — a song from a time before Averenth turned cruel.
The night outside pressed against the walls, a living thing. The wind carried more than cold; it carried weight. And as the fire dimmed, so too did Mira's tune falter.
A sharp crack echoed from beyond the treeline.
Mira's fingers stilled over the needle. Her eyes, sharp and dark as stormglass, flicked toward the window. Another sound followed — a distant, brittle snap like a branch breaking underfoot.
It was too late for hunters. Too cold for travelers. And no one, not even the desperate, roamed Averenth's wilds after nightfall.
The hut's shadows seemed to stretch, thickening around the corners of the room. Vaelen stirred in his sleep, a soft whimper catching in his throat.
Mira moved to him, kneeling by the makeshift cradle. Her hand, calloused but gentle, brushed a stray lock of inky hair from his brow. The boy's skin was unnaturally pale, his small features too still.
Then the wind shifted again, and with it came the scent.
Iron. Charred wood. Something sweeter, almost cloying.
Blood.
Mira stiffened, hand hovering above her son. She turned toward the door, listening.
Silence.
And then — a scream. Far off, high and sharp, cut short in an instant.
Mira's breath hitched. She snatched Vaelen into her arms, the child stirring with a soft, confused cry. The wooden effigy tumbled from his grip, landing on the floor with a hollow clatter.
The fire flickered violently as if reacting to some unseen force. Outside, hurried footfalls crunched over frost-hardened earth, accompanied by the ragged, cruel laughter of men.
Mira's heart hammered against her ribs. She knew that sound.
The Ashen Blades.
They had come.
Not a single word passed her lips. She moved fast but silent, crossing the room to the narrow storage alcove behind a hanging pelt. She pressed Vaelen into the shadows there, eyes brimming, and knelt before him.
"Listen, my little star," she whispered, voice shaking. "You mustn't make a sound. Do you hear me? No matter what happens."
The boy's pale, silver-flecked eyes stared back at her, too ancient for his years. He didn't cry.
She kissed his brow once — cold lips against warm skin.
The door creaked.
And as Mira rose, reaching for the rusted dagger beside the hearth, the night outside exhaled.
**...