The morning wind moved slowly through Gregor's yard. It rolled brittle, dried leaves across the ground, pushing them like small bones forgotten by burial. The leaves scraped against one another with a thin, unpleasant sound before finally catching on the wooden fence that had long since lost its balance.
The house stood still.
Too still.
Its windows were clouded by dust and age. No light reflected behind the glass. No shadows moved within. From a distance, the house looked like an abandoned skull, its eyes hollow, its mouth tightly shut.
The royal courier arrived with familiar steps. Measured. Consistent. He had repeated this ritual so many times that his body remembered it without thought. Knock on the door. Read the decree. Watch the reaction. Leave.
He did not come with curiosity. He came carrying an ending.
His rough-gloved hand knocked on the wooden door. The sound was hollow, like striking a coffin from the outside.
No answer.
He waited a moment, then knocked again. Harder.
Still nothing.
The courier frowned. There was always a reaction. Crying. Screaming. At the very least, frantic movement from inside the house. This time there was only a thick, ancient silence, like air that had been trapped for too long.
He tried the door handle.
Locked.
The faint smugness on his face faded, replaced by cold caution. He circled the house, his steps light but ready. He crouched and peered through a window crack.
The dining table was still in place. Wooden bowls neatly arranged, clean, as if freshly washed. The beds were empty, the blankets folded carefully. No oil lamps remained. No smell of morning food. No trace of life that had recently moved through the space.
Too neat.
His gaze dropped to the ground near the doorway.
Cart tracks.
Two deep lines split the mud that had not fully dried. They led from the storage shed whose door had been left open. From there, the tracks turned sharply toward the main road, merged with others, and vanished into dust.
The courier stood still for several seconds. His breath drifted thinly in the morning air.
He knew what it meant.
With an emotionless motion, he reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a lead seal. Heavy. Cold. Its surface bore the image of the Valcoria eagle clutching a sword in its open talons.
He struck a fire starter. Steel and flint collided. Small sparks leapt, lived, then died.
He heated the end of the seal until the metal glowed faint red.
Then he pressed it against the wooden door of Gregor's house.
Sssst.
The sound cut through the silence like a whispered sin.
Thin smoke rose, carrying the sharp scent of burned wood. When he pulled the seal back, a blackened mark remained on the door. Eagle. Sword. A scorched circle.
A message without words.
This family had evaded the king's call.
Fugitives.
The courier felt nothing. No anger. No satisfaction. No sorrow. This was simply another entry in a long report he would submit that night.
He mounted his horse and left.
The house remained, bearing the black seal still warm, like a burn that would heal far too slowly.
*******
Aboard the deck of the Southern Wind, the scent of the sea filled the air. Salty. Sharp. Clinging to skin and clothing.
Gregor stood at the railing, his fingers gripping the wood until they turned white. His eyes were fixed on the coastline slowly shrinking. Fields. Rooftops. Brown lines growing blurred. Then disappearing entirely.
Something inside him vanished with it.
He had sold everything.
The land passed down through generations. The wooden tools he had crafted with his own hands. The livestock he had raised since they were young. All of it exchanged for escape tickets and a narrow cabin that smelled of salt and dampness.
He felt no relief.
He felt empty.
Lena sat on a wooden bench on the deck, wrapping a thin shawl around her shoulders. The sea wind pierced straight through her. She did not cry. Her tears had run dry before the ship ever departed.
In her hands, she clutched two smooth stones. Gray and white. River stones she had picked up on the final morning at home.
For Clive. For Connor.
The stones now felt cold. Heavy. Like mistakes she could never undo.
A sailor passed by, glanced briefly, then moved on. To the world, they were merely passengers without destination, people who had chosen to disappear.
"They're strong," Gregor muttered at last, more to himself than to her. "Connor is smart. Clive never gives up."
Lena did not respond. She only loosened her grip slightly. The sea wind swept over her palm, carrying fine dust from the stones' surface. She quickly closed her hand again.
The ship kept moving.
Carrying them farther from their home. From their children. From the parts of themselves that would never return.
*******
The footsteps of the small group blended with the rhythm of a merchant caravan. Leather-covered carts and sacks of spices served as perfect camouflage. They moved along a narrow path at the edge of the forest, a route not marked on any official map.
Raimon walked at the front. Silent. His gaze constantly swept the trees, the sky, and the rear of the group. Not like a guide. More like a sentry.
Clive walked behind Connor.
He could still feel the rumbling anger in his chest, energy that once had been poured into fence posts and wooden beams, now trapped without an outlet. His worn wooden sword was tied at his waist, the only thing from home he had brought.
"They won't forgive us," Clive muttered.
Connor did not answer immediately. Only after several steps did he turn his head slightly. "They don't need to forgive us. They need to live. Just like we do."
"You make it sound easy."
"Because it's the only way we can keep fighting without worrying about their safety."
Clive stared at his brother's back. Connor walked straighter now. Colder. Like someone who had already buried the past.
The journey lasted three days.
They slept beneath wagons. Ate hard rations. Spoke only when necessary. Four other recruits traveled with them. A green-eyed girl who always stayed away from the fire. Two fisherman brothers who never separated. A boy with a burned face who never spoke.
This was not a band of heroes.
It was a collection of people with no road home.
On the third day, Raimon stopped before a stone cliff covered in moss and roots.
"We're here," he said.
There was no door.
No sign.
Raimon pushed a large rock aside. It shifted, opening a dark crevice that exhaled cold air from the depths of the earth.
"Welcome to the First Nest."
Darkness waited.
The air beyond the stone crevice felt different from the very first step.
Colder.Heavier.
As if the earth beneath their feet was exhaling a breath it had been holding for a very long time.
Raimon entered first without looking back. His back was straight, his steps steady, as though the dark corridor was not something to be feared, but a road leading home. One by one, they followed him. No one spoke.
When Clive stepped inside, the daylight was cut off by the body behind him. In an instant, the world shrank. No sky. No direction. Only rough, damp stone walls pressing in from all sides.
The smell of wet earth filled his nose. Old moss. Water that had long since settled. From the ceiling, droplets fell slowly and regularly, breaking the silence with clicking sounds that echoed for far too long.
Every sound felt doubled.Every footstep sounded like an extra step.
The tunnel sloped downward, turned, then sloped again. There were no torches. No lamps. Only faint light seeping through cracks in the stone above, enough to see the silhouettes ahead, not enough to feel safe.
Some of the recruits began to slow. Their breathing grew heavier.
"Is this a hideout?" one of the fisherman brothers whispered, his voice fractured by echoes.
"No," Raimon answered without turning.
His pace did not slow.
"This is a place of filtration."
The word fell like a stone into still water. No one asked further. No one dared.
At last, the tunnel opened into a large chamber.
Its ceiling rose high, forming a natural dome supported by rough stone pillars. A small campfire burned at the center of the room, enough to drive back the darkness from a single point while leaving the corners submerged in shadow.
They stopped as one.
There were people there.
Sitting atop wooden crates. Leaning against stone walls. Standing with arms crossed. Their number was unclear. Perhaps ten. Perhaps more. They blended into the darkness like shadows that had chosen to remain.
Their clothing was mismatched. Worn leather. Pieces of armor that did not fit together. No colors. No emblems. No signs of allegiance.
The eyes lifted together.
Judging.
Clive felt the back of his neck tighten. Those were not the eyes of soldiers. Not the eyes of guards. They were the eyes of merchants inspecting goods. Calculating value. Deciding what was worth keeping, and what should be discarded.
An old man stepped forward from near the fire.
His hair was gray, cut short. His body was thin, yet he stood straight. A long scar split the skin of his cheek, like a rough line on an old map. His eyes were sharp, calm, and unhurried.
"These them?" he asked.
"The ones with potential," Raimon replied.
The old man nodded slowly. He studied each face before him, one by one. Unhurried. Unemotional. His gaze lingered longer on the boy with half his face burned. On the small-framed girl with green eyes that never blinked. Then on Connor. And Clive.
"You," he said to Connor. "Ever killed?"
Connor answered without blinking. "Not yet."
"Good," the man said.
There was no praise in it. No mockery. Just a statement.
The man then turned to Clive. "You?"
Clive opened his mouth. The words did not come immediately. He swallowed. "No."
The man gave a small nod, then slowly shook his head. As if he had expected the answer and did not particularly care.
Raimon stepped aside, giving space. "This is the First Nest. The place where you are tested before deciding who is worthy to go deeper."
"Tested how?" the green-eyed girl asked.
The old man smiled faintly. The smile of someone who had seen the outcome too many times.
"By surviving."
They were driven deeper.
Past the main chamber, descending again through a narrow corridor that only allowed one person at a time. The walls were wet. The air grew colder. Below, the corridor opened into a smaller stone room.
At its center stood a rough wooden table.
On the table lay several objects.
Knives.
Spears.
Swords.
And an old leather map, spread open, marked with three small red circles encircling certain points.
Raimon pointed at the map. "The rules are simple."
He looked at them one by one, making sure every eye was on him.
"You will be divided into pairs. Sent out tonight. Your task is to bring back something that lies within those red circles."
"And if we fail?" one of the fishermen asked.
"If you don't return," Raimon replied flatly, "we won't search for you."
He paused.
"If you return without what we want, you will remain in the First Nest for a very long time."
Silence fell, heavy and crushing.
Raimon's gaze settled on Clive.
"You no longer have a family. No village. All you have is the person beside you."
Clive glanced at Connor.
For a moment, he saw something in his brother's eyes. Not fear. Not doubt.
Decision.
The pairing was done quickly. Without discussion. Without protest.
Clive was paired with the green-eyed girl.Connor with one of the fishermen.
Before they separated, Connor clapped a hand once on Clive's shoulder. Firm. Brief.
"Don't be stupid," he said.
"You neither," Clive replied.
They were led to different tunnels.
Clive and the girl emerged through a stone crevice that opened directly into the forest. Night had fully fallen. Cold air stabbed into their lungs. There was no moon. Only pale stars veiled by thin clouds.
They walked in silence.
After a while, the girl finally spoke. "Roxanne."
"Clive."
That was all.
They kept moving. Every snapping twig sounded too loud. Every shadow felt a fraction late in its movement.
Several hours later, Roxanne stopped abruptly.
She knelt. Touched the ground.
"Tracks," she whispered.
Clive moved closer.
In the damp earth, deep footprints were visible. Large. Heavy. Not human.
And among those tracks, something glimmered faintly.
Clive swallowed.
Because he realized, with cold and absolute certainty, that whatever had left those tracks was not hiding.
It was waiting.