They said Elias Varn was cursed before he took his first breath.
Born under a blood moon, seventh son of a seventh son, with hair dark as ravens' wings and eyes like stormglass—he was marked. People didn't say it aloud, but they watched him too closely. Too long. Mothers pulled their children from the road when he passed. Shopkeepers muttered blessings under their breath.
Elias noticed. Of course he did. But at thirteen, he had learned how to wear silence like armor.
He lived with his father, Ambrose Varn, a reclusive woodsman who spoke little and prayed less. Their cabin sat at the edge of Elderglen, where the forest crept close and the ground stayed cold no matter the season. The villagers whispered that the trees bent toward their home. That birds didn't sing there.
Elias never cast a shadow.
Not under sunlight. Not by firelight. Not even when the chapel bell rang and the whole village lined up to see if it would appear.
It never did.
One October morning, he woke to silence.
Not the usual hush of dawn, but something else—deeper, weightier. The kind that presses on your ribs and whispers through your teeth.
He opened the door.
And found a bundle on the porch.
Wrapped in black cloth, tied with hair instead of twine. Inside: a dead blackbird, a sprig of wolfsbane, and a note.
In red ink, it read:
*"Your time draws near, seventh."*
Elias didn't scream.
He only looked up…
And saw someone in the woods watching him.
Someone with *his face.*
—