"Elias, as the sun sets upon this fleeting day, I find my heart entwined with the shadows of your presence. Should fate decree that you vanish from my sight, know that my soul shall forever echo your name. In the quiet whispers of the night, I shall cherish the moments we shared—like stars that linger long after the light has faded."
The Battlefield
The crows came first.
They circled overhead, black wings slicing through the sulfurous haze of the battlefield, their cries sharp as broken glass.
The field was a symphony of chaos—clashing steel, screams swallowed by mud, and the metallic tang of blood thick in the air. Aldric de Beaumont, Captain of the Royal Knights, lay sprawled in the mire, his armor split open like a cracked shell. Crimson seeped through the fissures, pooling beneath him as his breath grew shallow. Above, the sky wept ash-gray tears, mirroring the numbness spreading through his limbs.
How fitting, he thought bitterly. To die beneath a sunless sky, just as I lived.
But death, it seemed, was a luxury his blood would not permit.
A coldness crept into his veins, sharper than the blade that had felled him. As his vision dimmed, it wasn't the faces of his men—or the weight of his title—that filled his mind.
Shadows writhed at the edges of his sight—not the natural dimness of death's approach, but something else. Serpentine shapes, whispering things that tasted of rot and honey. They coiled around his wrists, around his throat.
Ah... the broken scarecrow, they crooned. You were born to this—for us to consume.
Then, beneath the stench of blood and smoke, another scent brushed against his senses: incense and dried herbs—fragile, familiar. The memory came unbidden, bright and painful as fire.
Ten Years Earlier
The Church of Saint Caelia towered over the slums of Valencrest, its marble spires stabbing through the fog as if to remind the poor of heaven's distance. Inside, the monks' chants swelled and broke against the stone.
A boy of twelve crouched near the rear pillars. His hair was a tangle, his green eyes sharp with hunger. The rags of his cloak hung loose around him, and he clung to a crust of stolen bread as though it might vanish if he breathed too hard.
Mother needs the medicine, he reminded himself, though the words tasted like ash. Shame burned up his neck and into his ears. Every step forward ground against his pride, but her fevered cough—hoarse and wet—still echoed in his mind.
"Next!" Sister Marguerite's voice cracked through the murmurs like a whip.
Aldric shuffled ahead, head bowed, cloak drawn tight around him. He could feel her eyes rake over him—assessing, dismissing. His throat constricted. He wanted to speak, to beg, but the words stuck fast.
He lowered his gaze further, his breath hitching. "My... my mother—she's burning up with fever. I can't... I can't lose her. Please, sister... please—help her—please."
The nun's silence stretched. Heat and humiliation pressed behind his eyes until he thought he might break.
The nun didn't look at him, only turned to the small table beside her where rows of tiny brown vials gleamed under weak light.
"What's her name?" she asked, her tone clipped, as if the question itself were a chore.
"Sophie," he lied, voice cracking. "Sophie Miren. Please sister, the fever keeps—"
"Enough." The word struck hard, final. The nun's hand darted out, thrusting a vial toward him without meeting his eyes.
Aldric reached for it, fingers brushing glass. The vial was warm from her hand, but she withdrew too quickly, as though his touch might stain her.
"Take it," she said. "And go."
He swallowed, the shame heavy as lead in his chest. "Thank you," he murmured, though gratitude scraped bitter in his throat.
She was already calling the next name.
Aldric stumbled away, clutching the vial to his chest as if warmth still lingered from her hands—and nearly collided with someone.
"You've got mud on your cheek," a voice said.
He looked up, startled. An androygnus figure stood before him, about his age, hair pale as frost and neatly braided over one shoulder. Their eyes shone like winter lakes, calm and unreadable.
"What?" Aldric muttered, rubbing at his face.
They tilted his head. "And leaves in your hair. Did you sleep in the hedges? Oh—my name's Elias. What's yours?"
"None of your business," he shot back, cheeks burning up as he quickly cleaned up himself with his torn shirt. How does he even notice these things? They looks so—so ditzy.
Elias only smiled brighter like a morning sun, a warmth that made Aldric squint.
"Your name?"
Aldric hesitated. Aldric Clairvaux. His mother had once whispered that name like a secret—a remnant of a life torn from her. Once the cherished daughter of a Marquis of Clairvaux, she had been cast aside when the duke took what he wanted and left her to bear the ruin alone.
The Royal court called it misfortune. The nobles called it scandal.
No one called it what it was.
The world shunned her for surviving what their duke had done to her. They dined beneath chandeliers while she hid in shadows—unseen, unforgiven.
The world called her shameful. He called her mother.
Once the belle of high society, now draped in disgrace—not by her sin, but by the violence forced upon her, and by a world too proud to see its own cruelty.
He could still hear her voice: "Remember, my boy," she said, voice thin with grief, "even the purest heart can be bought—and once sold, it never finds its way back."
"Tomas," he repeated instead.
"That's a lie," Elias said simply.
His heart skipped. "What?"
"Your eyes went shifty. Like a cat stealing fish." Elias leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't worry—I won't tell. Secrets make things more fun anyway."
Aldric turned away, his grip tightening around the stolen bread. "You're strange."
"Maybe," Elias said brightly. "But you're the one clutching moldy bread and a church vial. You're not sick—if you were, you wouldn't have the breath to argue with me. So... those aren't for you, are they?"
Aldric stammered. "I—I wasn't—"
"Oh, relax."
Elias rummaged through his basket and pulled out another vial, the liquid inside glowing faintly gold. "Here. This one's stronger—and cleaner than whatever the church hands out."
"I didn't ask for this."
"You didn't have to." Elias pressed the vial into his hand. "Take it before Sister Marguerite sees."
Aldric stiffened. "I'm not a charity case."
"Of course not! Charity cases actually smile sometimes." Elias grinned, cocking his head. "You don't. You're all prickly and grim—like a kicked cat. You should try smiling once in a while."
"Why are you talking to me?" Aldric muttered.
"Because you're interesting," Elias replied simply. "Most people don't glare at me like I've run over their dog."
Aldric stared at him, words catching behind his teeth. No one had ever called him "interesting" before—at least not without sneer or pity. He should've turned away, should've mumbled something cold and left.
But his fingers stayed wrapped around the vial, its warmth seeping faintly into his palm.
He hated that it made him feel seen.
Before he could even reply, a voice called from across the cloister.
"Elias! The incense burner's empty again!"
"Coming!" Elias answered, flashing Aldric a quick grin. "Here—raisins . In case the bread's as bad as it looks."
"I don't—"
But Elias was already gone, his humming fading down the stone hallway like sunlight filtering through dust.
For a long moment, Aldric just stood there. The vials pressed warm against his chest, the handful of raisins resting in his palm. They looked small, harmless—almost kind.
He closed his fist around them before that thought could take hold. People didn't give without wanting something back.
Still, as he turned away, he caught himself listening for the echo of Elias's humming.
Present
On the battlefield, Aldric's lips twitched faintly. Elias had never understood his shame, his fury—or the shadows that had followed him even then.
Pain surged again. Darkness crawled at the edges of his sight, whispering things he had fought for years to silence.
You carry a curse you never knew, Aldric.
Then, amid the cacophony, a voice—real or imagined—broke through. Elias's voice.
"Wait…" he rasped, blood bubbling on his lips. "Elias, I—"
But the world was already slipping away, and in that void, one truth remained:
This was not the end.
It could not be.
Not while the storm still brewed.
Not while Elias waited for him.