Chapter Text
Dreams of Ash
The sky was bleeding when the world began to burn. Smoke coiled like black ribbons through the air, and the wind tasted of iron and sorrow.
The village lay in ruin, roofs collapsing, embers spiralling into the crimson heavens like spirits set aflame.
Screams wove through the crackle of fire, thin and desperate, breaking against the shrieks of beasts that did not belong to daylight.
They came crawling from the fissures in the earth, skin slick as glass, mouths too wide, voices shrill as flutes played on broken reeds.
They hunted with joy.
They gathered the living in cages and dragged them toward the great pyres. A woman prayed until her throat split. A man tried to run, but was swallowed whole by the shadow. Through this storm of ruin, a girl fled.
Barefoot, wild-eyed, soot clinging to her skin, she stumbled through the burning streets, her heart drumming louder than the screams. The air was a wall of heat the ground blistered beneath her feet.
She saw her home, what was left of the crumble, behind her, swallowed by the dark. One of the creatures caught her before she reached the riverbank; it was tall as two men, its limbs stretched like molten wax, its breath sour with rot.
It hissed at her, a claw closing around her throat and then its head fell cleanly away, the body dropped without sound.
Flames licked the eaves, sparks spiralling upward, twisting in the wind like a dance of grief, while the cries of the living tangled with the keening of the unholy, a chorus of desperation that carried beyond the ruins.
Only the faint hiss of ash settling on armour through the smoke stood a figure wrought in brilliance, an armour of mirrored silver and pale gold, aglow with its own impossible light upon his breastplate, shone a crest, a golden sun, and within it, a darkened moon, forever locked in an eclipse.
The sigil pulsed faintly, as though alive. He looked upon her once, his helm reflecting the fire that devoured her world. His lips moved, he spoke, but the words were lost to her, smothered by the roar of the burning and the hammer of her heart.
In that instant, he seemed less a man than a vision carved from some ancient tale, a saviour stepping out of a dying god’s dream. She blinked, and the world split. The flames, the screams, the light all dissolved like breath upon glass. Now there was only dawn.
A man stirred beneath a tree, dark hair falling in thick, curling strands around his face, some brushing the shoulders of his worn cloak. His eyes, deep-set and sharp, darted constantly—observing, judging, sometimes cold, sometimes playful.
A scar traced lightly across his brow, a hint of past recklessness. He woke with a jolt, as if dragged from a deep, drowning sleep. An apple fell into his lap, and then another struck his brow, rolling gently against the first. He blinked, bewildered, watching the fruit rest together upon his knees before a soft snort broke the quiet.
A horse, its coat a patchwork of white, silver, and shadowed grey, as if the moon itself had spilt across its flanks, cratered and luminous, dark in some places, pale in others, like a living map of the night sky. Leaned forward and plucked one apple neatly from his lap. The boy huffed, half laughing, half exasperated. “Greedy thing,” he murmured, rubbing the animal’s neck. “You’ve dreamt better than I, Lazarus.” The horse flicked its ears as if in agreement.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and the faint tang of apple blossoms sunlight filtered through the boughs of the gnarled apple tree where he had slept, spilling in broken beams across the cobblestones he stirred beneath the branches, stretching slowly, letting his shoulders roll, arms cracking as if to wake not only muscle but memory beside him, Lazarus stirred as well, shifting his shadowed grey, lifting a hoof to nudge the fallen apple toward him.
He murmured, half to himself, half to the horse. His voice was low, steady, the kind that carried no tremor even when fear clung to the world. “Today’s road is long, and it leads to Thalvar,” letting the name linger in the crisp morning air, a quiet acknowledgement of the path ahead. Lazarus shifted, nuzzling his shoulder as if affirming the journey, and the boy’s eyes swept over the horizon, calculating, alert.
His cloak, worn and dusted from travel, hung unevenly over his shoulders, darkened in streaks where dew had soaked through the fabric. Leather gloves scuffed from months of travel covered his hands; boots, thick and well-worn, were caked with mud from the forest trails. The hilt of his sword jutted from beneath his belt, polished to a dull gleam that caught the morning light.
He moved to Lazarus, running hands along the horse’s patchwork coat, brushing away stray leaves, clinging twigs, and the last remnants of dew that weighed down his mane.
Fingers lingered over the worn leather of the tack, tightening straps and checking knots with careful precision, the motions practised and exact, a silent rhythm honed from necessity.
Lazarus shifted beneath him, tail flicking lazily, yet trusting in every motion.
Mounting with quiet, deliberate precision, he felt the familiar press of the saddle and the gentle shift of weight as the horse adjusted.
“Thalvar awaits,”
He murmured again, more to himself than to the horse, as he nudged Lazarus forward onto the narrow, winding road that led out of the village, the morning mist curling along the plains ahead.
The road to Thalvar stretched before him, bordered by misted plains and forests that whispered with wind and cawing crows mountains rose faint in the distance, grey against the pale light of morning, smoke curling in thin trails from distant chimneys water trickled in a nearby stream, and for a moment he let his eyes drift to the current, the reflection of the sky fractured like a promise half-kept thoughts of the burning village from his dream flitted through his mind, but he pushed them aside, detached, a pragmatic focus on the path ahead.
In his attempt to detach himself from that vision, he has a fleeting thought about his motives, which he's not even sure of.
“It was not courage that drove me forward, nor mercy, but necessity, a calculation as sharp as the edge of my blade. But why a question I ask myself and still ponder the answer”
Entering Thalvar, the streets seemed to tense beneath his passage. He did not ride like a lord, nor armoured like a knight; he was simply a man on a horse, and yet every head turned. Mothers clutched children closer, merchants froze mid-sale, and dogs barked low in warning before retreating to uncertain corners.
He guided Lazarus through the quiet streets, past shuttered windows and wary faces, to a stout pole in front of the tavern.
Every step carried the same tension he had felt along the streets. Heads turned, breath caught, and eyes followed him as if his mere presence might unsettle the air itself.
He produced the second apple, the one that had fallen atop his head that morning, and tossed it to Lazarus, who sniffed and took it without haste, chewing methodically. Then he tied the reins carefully, ensuring the horse could not wander, and pushed open the door of The Iron Hearth.
Inside, the tavern froze the low hum of conversation, the scrape of stools, the clinking of mugs all ceased at once patrons turned toward him, silent and still, as if even a whisper might provoke the same uneasy energy that followed him through the streets smoke from the hearth curled lazily above the low beams, the scent of grainy ale and fire-licked wood thick in the air, but it could not mask the tension that had fallen over the room.
He walked steadily to the bar, cloak brushing the worn floor, eyes calm and unreadable, sword hilt visible at his hip. Every head in the room followed him. The bartender, thick-handed and wary-eyed, paused in the act of pouring. The boy settled onto a stool, letting his cloak fall to the floor, and spoke.
“Stonewaller Draught,” he said, voice low and even.
The bartender inclined, pouring the rough, earthy brew into a chipped mug and sliding it across the bar. The man lifted it, tasting the bitter, grainy liquid, letting it slide down his throat in measured silence. The room held its collective breath around him, watching, waiting.
And then it began.
A scream tore across the street outside, followed by a deep, resonant voice that seemed larger than human.
“People! Come out of your respective places! Or be taken and punished!”
The tavern went silent, breath caught, mugs paused mid-lift again, names were called, and four of the townsfolk obeyed, kneeling outside with hands bound; some murmured in hushed terror.
“They don’t usually come in daylight…”
“Why do they keep coming?”
“The willing suffer more than the rest…”
The bartender turned toward him, eyes narrowing, hope and fear warring in the creased lines of his face.
“You’re… a knight, aren’t you?”
The man did not answer immediately. He drank from the earthy, rough Stonewater Ale, setting the mug down with deliberate calm. His gaze swept the room, measuring tension and reading the unspoken fears etched on faces.
“How much are you willing to pay?”
His words were soft but carried weight; they landed like stones in the thick, anxious air. The bartender swallowed, voice tight.
“Anything… anything for a minute of peace.”
Another patron leaned forward, muttering urgently.
“That’s a foolish choice. What happens when he’s gone? They will return. And next time… next time, they may not spare anyone.”
Outside, the humanoid figure loomed, a silhouette slightly wrong in proportion, limbs too long, shoulders unnaturally broad.
Its presence pressed against the windows, a shadow that seemed to move independently of the sun. The room held its collective breath as the boy weighed the moment, silent and inscrutable, his eyes calm, unreadable, calculating.
The humanoid outside loomed over Lazarus, its shadow stretching unnaturally across the cobblestones. Its deep, resonant voice cut through the morning air.
“Such a fine horse… unique… majestic… just like I am. I will be taking this horse, and one of you will be spared.”
The man inside the tavern heard the words, his heart hammering, and he froze, unsure, waiting, while around him the patrons shifted, unease prickling in every glance.
Then another voice — smaller, younger, defiant — rang out from the doorway.
“Unhand that horse, foul beast!”
The words struck like a bell. The tavern fell utterly silent. Mugs stopped mid-lift, conversations died on the tongue. Patrons whispered nervously, eyes wide.
“He’s going to get himself killed”
The man nearest the bar rose, a coil of tension in his shoulders. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, every instinct screaming at the danger of what stood outside the tavern, which held its collective breath as he prepared to act, every patron frozen between fear and awe.
Outside, the humanoid shifted, its elongated limbs moving with an otherworldly grace. The shadow of its body blocked the doorway, impossibly large, its head tilted as if processing the challenge it had just heard.
The young boy’s voice, calm and unyielding, echoed once more
“Unhand that horse.”
The words carried authority, an unmistakable command that sliced through the fear like steel. The humanoid moved toward the horse with predatory intent. Then, in an instant that left the tavern frozen in horror, the creature’s head rolled cleanly into the doorway. It struck the man’s leg with a sickening thud, eyes blank and unseeing, a grotesque herald of what had just occurred.
Outside, the body remained, suspended in the doorway, limbs grotesquely bent, blocking the entrance like a living barricade. The tavern’s doors could not close. The scene was trapped between disbelief and terror. Patrons reeled back, some pressed against walls, some pressed faces to windows, murmurs of shock rippling through the room.
The man on whose leg the head had struck stared down at the lifeless skull, mind struggling to comprehend the impossible.
The boy remained calm, sword in hand, eyes sweeping the tavern and the blocked doorway.
Lazarus, outside, flicked his ears, accepting the presence of the boy.