The first report arrived just before dawn.
It was brief, written in careful script, and sealed twice—once by the patrol captain, and again by the regional clerk who clearly hadn't trusted himself to let it go.
Aldric Vaelor read it in the map room while the palace still slept.
No enemy banners sighted.
No signs of battle.
No survivors willing to explain what had happened.
Only absence.
He folded the parchment slowly and set it aside, then reached for the map without calling for anyone. The eastern border lay quiet beneath his fingers, familiar routes traced in ink, villages marked with names that usually meant nothing more than taxes and census tallies.
Halvern.
Too small to matter.
Too distant to threaten anything.
Which made the silence more uncomfortable.
Earlier than I planned, Aldric thought. But not unexpected.
By midmorning, three more reports arrived.
Different patrols. Different officers. The same conclusion.
Marrowfield. A stretch of caravan road. A watch post near the river bend.
All intact. All empty.
Captain Rovan Hale stood across the table, posture straight, his voice steady in the way of a man who had decided panic would be handled later.
"Scouts report no structural damage," he said. "No signs of forced entry. No tracks leaving the area."
"And the people?" Aldric asked.
Rovan paused, just long enough to confirm there was no better wording. "Gone."
Aldric nodded. His chest tightened, not with pain, but with a dull pressure that felt uncomfortably familiar.
Queen Lysenne entered without announcement. She took in the map, the reports, the silence, and understood immediately.
"This isn't political," she said.
"No," Aldric agreed. "It isn't."
She stepped closer, studying the affected areas. The pattern was subtle, loose enough to look accidental, precise enough not to be.
"This wasn't random," she said.
"No."
Rovan frowned. "Your Majesty… if this isn't an army—"
"—then it isn't meant to be confronted like one," Aldric finished.
That answer didn't comfort anyone.
They left before noon.
No banners marked their departure. No horns announced it. Just a small escort, chosen for discipline rather than numbers, and the quiet understanding that this was not a situation improved by spectacle.
The closer they came to Halvern, the quieter the land became.
Not unnaturally so—just enough that Aldric noticed it. Fewer birds. No distant voices. The kind of quiet that felt unfinished rather than peaceful.
The village stood exactly as it should have.
Doors shut.
Windows barred against weather that had never come.
Fires cold, but not disturbed.
A meal sat half-prepared on a wooden table. Bread sliced and forgotten. A cup tipped on its side, contents long spilled and dried.
A child's toy lay in the dirt, untouched.
No blood marked the stones.
No signs of struggle scarred the ground.
Aldric dismounted slowly.
"This wasn't force," he said.
Rovan crouched near the road. "No drag marks. No resistance of any kind can be seen."
Lysenne had stopped walking.
She stood still enough that Aldric noticed immediately.
"What do you feel?" he asked.
She didn't answer at first. When she did, her voice was quiet.
"The air feels wrong," she said. "Not dangerous. Just… incomplete."
Rovan looked up sharply. "Incomplete?"
"As if something passed through and took more than it should have," she replied.
Aldric exhaled.
So that's how you're announcing yourselves.
They reached the center of the village as the sun climbed over the rooftops.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Aldric felt it—a sudden resistance behind his eyes, brief but unmistakable, like pressing against something solid that refused to give.
Lysenne's hand closed around his arm.
"Stay behind me," she said.
Rovan drew his sword, though the movement felt instinctive rather than useful.
Something stood where nothing had been.
It looked like a man.
Tall. Still. Wrapped in plain gray cloth. Its features were indistinct, not blurred, but difficult to hold in the mind—as if attention slid off it without permission.
It tilted its head slightly.
"Too early," it said.
The voice was calm. Casual.
Rovan took a step back.
Lysenne stepped forward.
The stone beneath her boots cracked.
Aldric felt it then—not an outpouring of power, but restraint. Something vast, held tightly in place by deliberate choice.
The thing turned its attention to her.
"Bound," it observed. "That complicates things."
Lysenne's expression did not change.
"Leave," she said.
The word carried weight—not volume, but certainty.
The thing paused. Considered.
Then smiled.
"Next time," it said.
And it was gone.
Not moving. Not retreating.
Simply no longer present.
The pressure lifted.
Sound returned slowly—the wind, distant birds, the scrape of armor as Rovan steadied himself.
"What in the hells was that?" Rovan asked quietly.
Aldric took a breath before answering. "A test," he said. "Or a message."
Lysenne turned to him. "You knew this was coming."
"Yes."
"And you didn't say anything."
"No."
She studied him in silence.
"How bad does it get?" she asked.
"Bad enough that kingdoms stop mattering," Aldric replied. "For a while."
She nodded once. "Then we prepare."
Rovan looked between them. "Prepare for what?"
Aldric looked back at the empty space where the figure had stood.
"For a world where force isn't measured in armies," he said. "And where stability invites attention."
That night, Aldric stood alone at the edge of the silent village.
The ache in his chest had returned, sharper now, but he welcomed it. It reminded him that he was still human. Still present.
Still anchored.
So you've started early, he thought. That's fine.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Just means I get to plan ahead."
Far away, something old shifted its attention.
The board had cracked.
And the game had finally begun.