The village of Mudbrook in the morning seemed foreign to Ren Eldrean. It wasn't the tattered tents, the paper lanterns, or the barrels of cheap beer that lined the lawn; he had seen the Harvest Festival all his life. What was different was that last night, he had watched a black mist creature possess Brutus Ironhand—and somehow, the blade of his father's old shovel had glowed with blood and sliced the darkness away. Brutus lay unconscious in the village hall, while the elders made up a story of a "fever attack" to appease the villagers.
Ren, standing at the edge of the crowd, felt the swelling in his wrist—where the shovel had collided with Brutus' steel arm. Every throb reminded him that the world around him didn't know the horrors of last night. And probably wouldn't believe it if it did.
The roar of flute and drum music, the smell of roasting spices, the cheers of laughter—all seemed to mock him. Ren pulled his tattered hood over his face. As far as his eyes could see was a sea of color—but as his gaze met the villagers', he caught hisses and whispers:
"Behold him, the heir to the grave." "I thought Brutus came to collect? Strange he's not dead yet."
"That shovel is cursed, Folk. Did you see Brutus' eyes? They were completely white!"
"Maybe this kid did it."
The whispers stuck to his skin sharper than thorns. Ren breathed slowly, resisting the urge to give a middle finger, because he knew—pride doesn't pay debts. He passed stall after stall, looking for a way to blend in, but there was always the shadow of a sneer following him.
Rough laughter sounded nearby. Gavin Holt, who had laughed at him at the well yesterday, was now carrying a keg of beer. Beside him stood Flinn and Hugo—his two loyal followers. They grinned as they took a sip. As Ren was about to step aside, Gavin called out, "Hey, gravedigger! Don't run, we're just about to treat you."
Laughter erupted. Several village girls turned their faces away, feigning disgust; several young men waited for the show. Ren straightened his back, staring at Gavin wordlessly.
Gavin raised his glass and splashed the beer on the ground in front of Ren. "The ground must be thirsty, right? You too. Just drink from it."
Flinn chuckled. "Oh, don't be like that, Gavin. The shovel can be used as a cup."
Ren tightened his jaw. He remembered his father's voice in his dream: Dig deeper, my son. For some reason, that advice kept his hand from breaking Gavin's nose with the shovel. He just shifted his feet, about to leave—
But Gavin grabbed the shovel's handle, holding him back. "Don't run away, we were just kidding."
The pull was strong enough to make Ren lose his balance. The shovel shifted into Gavin's hand, its blade crashing into the apple cart, scattering the fruit. The sound of metal creaking against wood caught the attention of the crowd.
And in that embarrassing moment, Marcus Stonefist appeared. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his blond hair neatly combed—wearing a green embroidered coat, a sign of the village chief's family pride. He walked as if he were inspecting his own field. The crowd automatically made way.
Marcus stopped when he saw Gavin holding Ren's shovel. He raised an eyebrow. "What's going on here?"
Gavin immediately turned innocent. "Oh, nothing, Mr. Marcus. Just borrowing this kid's toy."
Marcus stared at the shovel blade, then turned to Ren. In his brown eyes there was a look of contemptuous joy. "Toy? Shovel? Oh, this is your father's inheritance, isn't it? No wonder it's valuable."
Ren opened his mouth, but only cold air came out. Marcus spun the shovel, weighing it as if he were evaluating a skewer. The crowd began to whisper.
"Why don't I give it to you, Ren, to dig a hole for yourself?" Marcus swung the shovel low, stifling a laugh. Gavin chuckled loudly.
The wind changed—literally. The clear sky was covered in a thin cloud of ash. Someone in the bell tower blew a wooden trumpet, signaling the start of the traditional harvest wrestling competition. The crowd cheered, but the atmosphere around Ren was tense: they sensed a more interesting fight—the wrath of an outcast.
Ren took a step forward. His body was stiff, his hands clenched. He knew that fighting Marcus was like challenging a mountain. But there was a limit to the insults a human could take. "Give it back," he said quietly.
"Give it back?" Marcus raised the shovel higher, as if showing off a trophy deer in a nobleman's drawing room. "You ask politely, I might—"
Ren's left arm moved faster than his own thoughts. A bare fist slammed into Marcus's cheek. Not a technical blow—just a burst of instinct. Marcus jerked back, his ears ringing with the cheers of the crowd that had turned to shock. Gavin dropped his glass.
A second of silence turned into an explosion of movement: Marcus grinned, blood dripping from his lips. With one hand, he swung the shovel like a club. Ren jumped back, the shovel blade cutting through the air an inch from his nose.
The crowd formed a circle, the wind shaking the harvest flags. Ren parried Marcus's grab, but their strength was unequal. With one thrust, Marcus bent Ren's arm, forcing the boy to his knees.
"How dare you," Marcus whispered, his breath warm with the smell of drink. "I left you in the well the other day."
Ren struggled, shoulders screaming, but Marcus's grip was like an iron clamp. Gavin shouted, "Knock him out, Marcus!" The crowd was half excited, half terrified.
As the shovel rose again, someone grabbed Marcus' wrist. Elena Brightwater. Her white linen dress fluttered, her black hair tied with a purple ribbon. Her eyes were sharp as needlepoints. "Enough," she said in a volume that silenced argument.
Marcus hissed, "Elena, get out of my way!"
"No." Elena stood between them. "You want to hit Ren? Hit me first."
The crowd fell silent. Marcus considered, his hands shaking with anger and shame. Ren found himself looking at Elena—his cheeks flushed with gratitude mixed with embarrassment at being helped by a girl who didn't even need to care.
Finally Marcus snorted, throwing the shovel at Ren's feet. The blade hit the ground hard, sticking out at an angle. "Take your junk. See you in the wrestling ring later—let the people see who's worthy." He walked away, his shoulders greeted by Gavin's cheering applause.
The crowd dispersed slowly, disappointed that the duel had gone bloodless. Elena turned to Ren. "Are you okay?"
Ren grabbed the shovel, limping to his feet. "I… thank you." The word was small, but Elena smiled—for a moment, the gloomy festival world became a little warmer.
Then the barking of the guard dog broke the silence. Ren knew his debt wasn't gone, the threat of the mist hadn't disappeared, and Marcus now had a legitimate reason to tear his bones in the arena tonight. He returned Elena's half-hearted smile, then left before his heart demanded more.
It was late afternoon when Ren left the village, through a row of old cedars. The Cedar-Veil forest was silent, save for the song of crows and the rustle of mossy branches. He found the patch of bare earth where he had practiced digging last season. Here he untied the shovel from its rags, staring at it in the dim light.
The faint red runes carved from last night were still there, rising and falling like veins beneath the bark. Ren touched it; a soft warmth crept into his fingers. Not heat, but something—a thrum of demanding energy, as if the shovel were a living, breathing creature.
He remembered his father—Gareth, the gravedigger who had died protecting him from the cave-in—and his voice in his dream: Dig deeper, my son.
Ren dug the shovel into the ground. The earth here was hard, thick with roots, but the blade of the shovel cut through it like water. He dug—once, twice—a rhythmic motion channeling his anger and confusion. Each blow felt like his blood was pumping faster; each breath buried the shadow of Marcus's insult deep in the hole.
After sixty strokes, the hole was chest-deep. Ren paused, sweat mixing with dirt on his face. When he pulled the shovel out… the earth shook.
The vibrations spread from the shovel's handle to the bones of his arm. The ground around the hole rippled faintly like a giant's chest breathing beneath his skin. Ren swallowed. He thrust the shovel in again—the vibrations increased, sending a boom echoing deep in the earth, as if rocks were crashing into nothingness.
Suddenly the shovel stopped. The blade struck something hard. Ren knelt down, feeling—fingers touching a smooth, cold surface, not stone. He pushed aside the dirt with his bare hands, revealing a round black metal plate, the size of a warrior's shield. In the center of the circle, the same runes that glowed on the shovel's handle were carved.
Ren's heart pounded wildly. He tried to pull the plate away, but it was unnaturally heavy; as if embedded by a giant. The shovel glowed brighter, the runes glowing blood red highlighting the edges of the metal. In the light, the symbols on the plate responded—thin lines began to glow a brilliant green, forming a sinister spiral pattern. The air grew heavy; the smell of burning iron hit his nostrils.
Ren took a step back. The ground shook again—more forcefully this time. Crows flew frantically above the branches, screaming. The metal plate spun slowly, as if lifted by an invisible hand. Green light shot up into the forest sky, cutting through the shadows of the trees like a hellish lighthouse.
From the gap beneath the plate, a cold wind whistled upward, carrying a whisper—not one voice, but a thousand whispers, groaning the same word over and over again: dig… deeper…
Ren gripped the shovel, the pulse in his neck throbbing rapidly. He had to choose: run and let the mystery gape, or follow his father's voice—dig deeper, to find the truth that might consume his soul.
At the edge of his vision, green light twisted the shadows, forming a tall, faceless figure, its body composed of thick black mist—a creature similar to the one that had possessed Brutus, but twice its size, its eyes glowing red. It extended its arm, pointing at Ren… then at the glowing hole.
Ren raised the shovel, the muscles of his arm trembling—a mixture of fear and the call of destiny that poisoned his blood.
The wind stilled. The forest was silent, as if holding its breath.
The mist creature whispered—voiceless, but piercing Ren's head like an icy needle: "This hole is the key—and you hold the handle."
The voice shook Ren's spine. And before he could comprehend it, the earth beneath his feet cracked—a layer of roots parted, the earth collapsed, dragging him down with the shovel and the metal plate into the belly of the world, swallowing his screams in a flash of green lightning that burned like an open wound in the flesh of the earth.