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The sky was wrong.
It wasn't simply the red of a sunset, nor the crimson glow that sometimes followed storms when the light bent strangely across the clouds. No—this sky looked as though it had been wounded. Clouds were split open, smeared across the heavens like bruises on flesh, and through their cracks, strange hues of violet and burning gold bled together. The villagers of Deylara called it an omen. The elders told everyone to stay in their homes, to light no fires, to keep their children quiet. But Elian couldn't obey.
He stood on the hill alone, barefoot on damp grass, with his eyes lifted to the wound in the sky. He should have been afraid, but what pulsed through him was not fear. It was recognition, as if some hidden part of him had been waiting all his life for this moment, and the crimson horizon was finally answering.
The wind tugged at his clothes. It was colder than it should have been for early summer, carrying with it a scent of iron and ash. His hands curled into fists. He felt something stirring within him, warm and restless, as if fire lived beneath his skin. It was not the first time. For years he had woken in the night with his chest burning and his veins alight, but he had told no one—not his mother, not the elders, not even Mirra. He feared they would think him cursed.
"Elian!"
The voice broke his trance. He turned, and there she was, climbing the hill with her skirts bunched in one hand and a thin staff in the other. Mirra was not like the other village girls. While they busied themselves with weaving and gossip, she spent her days following the hunters into the forest, pestering them until they taught her to shoot a bow or track game. She was taller than Elian by a head, her movements quick and purposeful, her eyes sharp as flint.
"You shouldn't be up here," she said breathlessly when she reached him. "The elders—"
"Elves and their rules," Elian muttered. He didn't look at her; his eyes remained on the sky. "Do they not see it? Do they not feel it?"
Mirra followed his gaze. Her lips parted, but no words came. The sky trembled again—no, not the sky, but something behind it. A ripple spread across the horizon, faint and fleeting, like the surface of water disturbed by a stone.
"Elian," she whispered, her voice suddenly small. "What… what is that?"
He shook his head. "I don't know." But in truth, some buried part of him did know. It was a veil, a door, a wall between their world and something beyond. And that wall was thinning.
The bell tolled from the valley. Once, its deep notes had been cause for celebration, calling villagers to festivals or markets. Now, it was only ever used to warn of danger. The second toll followed quickly after, then a third. Urgent. Fearful.
Mirra's staff clattered against the grass as she seized Elian's arm. "They're here."
His breath caught. "Who?"
"Scouts from the north came an hour ago. They saw them—the faceless ones. They're moving through the forests, and the clans…" She swallowed, her voice trembling. "The clans are already burning villages."
Before Elian could answer, the wind shifted. Smoke curled above the valley, dark against the wounded sky. Screams carried faintly on the air, and with them the clash of steel.
The warmth inside him surged violently, so strong he doubled over. His vision blurred; his veins burned. He felt as though the sky itself was pouring into him, filling his lungs with fire.
Mirra's grip tightened. "Elian! What's happening to you?"
"I—" His words broke into a gasp. The heat tore through his chest, spilling into his arms, his legs. He staggered, pressing a hand against the earth as if to steady himself. But the ground shuddered beneath his touch, grass curling and blackening in a perfect circle around his fingers.
Mirra's eyes widened. "What… what did you just do?"
He jerked his hand back. The burned mark remained, a charred sigil seared into the soil. His breath came ragged, his pulse wild. "I don't know."
The bell tolled again, louder, frantic.
From below the hill, shadows moved. Dark figures spilled into the valley, dozens of them, their armor glistening as though wet. Even at this distance, Elian saw their faces—or rather, the absence of them. Smooth, pale skin stretched where mouths and eyes should have been.
The Faceless.
The stories had always spoken of them as myths—creatures born of shadow, servants of forgotten gods. But here they were, marching with blades that gleamed like frozen glass, moving in eerie silence except for the clatter of armor. Behind them, buildings crackled and burned, the villagers' cries rising into the wounded sky.
"Elian, we have to go," Mirra said, panic cutting through her voice. She tugged at his arm. "Your mother—your sister—we have to find them before—"
But Elian couldn't move. His gaze locked on the Faceless, and the fire inside him roared louder than ever. He could feel them, like icy claws scraping against his warmth, a force opposite and hateful to his own. Something deep within him screamed that he was meant to face them.
The hilltop shook. Wind lashed against them, whipping Mirra's hair across her face. She shouted something, but her words were lost in the storm rising from Elian himself. His body arched backward as light burst from his skin, searing bright, tearing a cry from his throat that was not entirely human.
Down in the valley, the Faceless froze. For the first time, they turned their blank faces upward. And though they had no eyes, Elian felt their gaze fix upon him.
The first battle of his life was about to begin.
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