The air in the chamber was thick with incense and shadow. Black-draped tapestries shivered in the torchlight, and faint whispers echoed from the stone walls, as if the voices of the dead lingered, listening.
The messenger knelt, cloaked in travel grime and fear. His eyes, wide and sunken from lack of sleep, flicked upward as heavy boots echoed into the chamber.
Captain Veydran of the Shadowwood Guard towered over him. His armor was etched with runes and bone, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. His voice, when it came, was quiet—but sharp as a blade.
"Speak. And choose your words carefully."
The messenger swallowed hard. "Oakhaven… the branch has fallen. High Priestess Edith Loren is dead."
Silence followed. Then Veydran moved—so swiftly the messenger barely flinched before a gauntleted fist slammed into the stone beside his head, splintering it.
"Edith Loren?" Veydran's voice trembled with rage. "A direct heir of the old family. One of the last born with the true gift. And she is gone?"
"She—she was ambushed," the messenger stammered. "By villagers. A boy, a hunter's son. Markus. He burned her to ash during the raid."
"A boy?" Veydran spat. "And you let him live?"
"We—tried. But he's under the protection of the Keepers of the Flame."
That gave Veydran pause. His lips curled, but his fury simmered now, not boiled. "The Keepers…" he said with venom. "Still meddling."
"They moved swiftly, my captain. As soon as the branch fell, they arrived. Cleansed the remnants. Took the boy with them."
Veydran's eyes narrowed. "You fear them."
"I fear the Grand Master's wrath more," the messenger whispered. "But yes. We did not dare act. The Keepers burned our symbols. They shattered the altar."
Veydran paced like a caged beast. Then he stopped, turned, and seized the messenger by the collar. "You're coming with me. The Grand Master must hear this."
The inner sanctum of the Shadowwood stronghold lay deeper than any tree's roots, wrapped in darkness untouched by sun or moon. Veydran knelt before the dais, the messenger beside him, trembling.
On a throne carved of blackened bone and scorched stone sat the Grand Master of the Shadowwood, his eyes gleaming like coals. His voice rang with finality—neither loud nor soft.
"Tell it again."
The messenger recounted every detail, down to the boy's name—Markus.
When he finished, silence reigned. At length, the Grand Master stirred.
"Edith Loren," he murmured. "She bore the legacy of the Night Vein. Her loss is… costly."
Veydran bowed his head. "Permit me to strike, Grand Master. Let me raise the hounds. Let the Keepers burn—"
"No." The Grand Master's voice was calm, but iron. "You will stand down."
Veydran looked up, astonished. "But—"
"The Keepers of the Flame are not to be trifled with," said the Grand Master. "Their fire is not mere symbol. We crossed them once and paid in blood and shadow. We will not do so lightly again."
"But the boy—"
"Will be watched," the Grand Master said coldly. "Observed. If he brought down Edith, he is not just a village boy. And if the Keepers have taken him in…"
He leaned forward. Even Veydran felt the chill in his voice.
"…then perhaps he is more dangerous than we imagined."
Veydran clenched a fist to his chest. "As you command, Grand Master."
The Grand Master leaned back. "Let the Keepers think they've won. Let them feel safe. And let the boy believe his life is his own."
He smiled—slow, cruel.
"For now."
Elsewhere, from the shadowed mouth of a mountain path, a figure emerged. Cloaked in grey, hood drawn low, she bore no sigils, no markings—only silence and shadow.
Her name was Velnara.
She was no captain, no priestess, no brute. She was the eye in the dark, the whisper in the void. Where others conquered by ritual and might, she unraveled secrets with patience and poison.
She rode alone.
By nightfall, she reached the cliffs above the lowlands. In the distance, nestled like a sleeping creature amid trees and farmland, lay the road to Oakhaven—and beyond it, the lands watched over by the Keepers of the Flame.
She dismounted beneath a withered tree and knelt, drawing a rune into the dirt with a bone needle. The soil writhed as the glyph came alive, glowing faintly crimson.
A whisper rose from the earth.
"The boy's name is Markus, hunter's son. Last seen under Keeper protection. Suspected in Edith Loren's death."
The voice belonged to the Grand Master, carried on shadow and blood.
Velnara nodded. "I will find him."
"Do not engage. Not yet."
"I understand."
"Report everything. Observe those around him—especially the Keepers. Learn what they see in him."
The voice faded. The rune collapsed into ash.
Velnara stood. She pulled her hood tighter as wind howled down from the peaks, carrying the scent of pine, fire—and a faint, ghostly trace of blood.
Two nights later, near the Keeper sanctum, Velnara sat on a cliff's edge, watching a winding forest road below. Torchlight flickered in the gloom.
A patrol passed beneath her—hunters in worn cloaks, watchful and quiet. Among them rode a young man with a serious face and haunted eyes.
Velnara's gaze narrowed.
The trees rustled with an unease Markus couldn't explain.
He paused, hand on his bow, as late afternoon sun filtered through ancient boughs. The patrol ahead—two Hunters and a local scout—continued, unaware.
Markus turned slowly, scanning the woods.
Nothing. Just the wind.
And yet… something felt wrong.
It had started days after they left Oakhaven—an itch between his shoulders no cloak could soothe. He'd begun watching the ridgelines. The treetops. The road behind.
"Something's following us," he'd told Edi the night before. He laughed—until he saw his face. Then he didn't.
Now, in the forest, he felt it again. Not just being watched, but something deeper. A weight. A presence.
"Markus," came Adrin's voice ahead. "You falling behind?"
He forced his hand from his arrow and caught up. "Sorry. Thought I saw something."
Adrin squinted into the trees. "Only things out here are shadows and crows. Maybe a few that wish they were dead."
"Comforting," Markus muttered.
That night, they made camp near a ruined watchtower, its blackened stones jutting from the earth like broken teeth. As the Hunters prepared tea, Markus wandered to the edge of camp, bow in hand, pretending to check for game.
But he wasn't hunting.
He was listening.
And then—he heard it. Not a step. Not a twig snap.
Breathing. Faint. Distant. Then gone.
He raised his bow, aimed into the dark.
Nothing.
When he returned to the fire, Edi looked at him strangely. "You all right?"
"I will be."
He didn't press. But that night, while the others slept, Markus stayed awake, blade on his lap, eyes on the trees.
Something was out there.
Not a beast.
Not a man.
Something worse.
And Markus knew—with a certainty he couldn't explain—that whatever watched from the dark… knew his name.
The forest was too quiet.
Markus moved alone now, separated during a sweep of the ravine. He wasn't worried—until the mist rose.
Too fast. Rolling low over the ground like it had a will.
The trees faded into shadow. Birds fell silent.
Markus turned in a slow circle.
"Adrin?"
No answer.
Then—
A whisper: "Found you."
He spun, blade drawn.
A figure stepped from the mist—hooded, cloaked in ash-grey, her stillness unnatural. No weapon in hand, but power radiated from her like frost.
"Markus," she said, voice smooth as silk. "You killed one of ours."
He said nothing, eyes locked on hers.
"She was precious. Edith Loren. Do you know what you took?"
"She tried to sacrifice my people," Markus growled. "She got what she gave."
The woman's lips curled. "Do you think the Keepers can protect you forever?"
No answer.
"I came to observe," she said. "To measure. But now…" Her eyes flicked to his blade. "Now I want to see what makes you special."
She moved like a serpent. A needle flashed from her sleeve. Markus dodged—it nicked his cheek.
He raised his hand.
The fire didn't erupt—it awoke.
A gout of flame burst from his palm. Not just heat—the air bent. The ground hissed. Trees cracked as bark split.
Velnara staggered, eyes wide.
It wasn't a mere fire. It was something else. The pressure, she felt like a mouse in front of a cat. The inevitability feeling that she would perish if she kept fighting him.
She tried to vanish—but the flame followed. Not with heat, but presence. It knew her.
And it hated her.
For a breath too long, she saw something in Markus's eyes.
Not rage.
Not fear.
Judgment.
She broke.
With a cry, she vanished into mist, cloak whipping behind her.
Markus stood alone, fire flickering in his palm—softer now. Calmer.
He clenched his fist.
The fire vanished.
Voices called in the distance, but all he could think about was the look on her face.
She was afraid.
Not of him.
Of what's inside him.
The return through the mountain pass was a blur of shadow and breathless silence.
Velnara didn't rest—not once. Not even to tend the burn beneath her ribs.
It wasn't the wound that frightened her.
It was the memory of the flame.
It clung.
By the time she reached the gates of the Shadowwood stronghold, her cloak was torn, her hair wild, her lips pressed in a thin line of fear.
The guards stepped aside.
No one had ever seen Velnara shaken.
Until now.
The Grand Master waited in the sanctum, surrounded by low-burning braziers and whispering glyphs. Captain Veydran stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as Velnara stepped into the light.
"You return early," the Grand Master said. "I assume that means you saw him."
Velnara knelt. "Yes, Grand Master."
She raised her head. Her voice was hoarse—but steady.
"The boy—Markus—is not what we believed. I thought him a vessel. Dangerous, yes. But mortal."
"And?"
"He is a flame wearing skin."
Silence.
Veydran scoffed. "You fled from a boy?"
Velnara turned, eyes cold. "He didn't conjure fire. He became it. The forest bent. The pressure—like standing before a collapsing star."
She looked to the Grand Master.
"It wasn't magic. Not Keeper sorcery. This… thing in him… it's old. Deep. It looked through me."
The Grand Master tapped the armrest. Once. Twice.
Then leaned forward.
"You're certain?"
"I am." Her voice dropped. "He didn't try to kill me. He warned me. Without a word."
Veydran growled, but the Grand Master raised a hand.
"Then we were wrong to treat him as a threat to be removed." He stood. His robes dragged firelight across the floor. "He may be a sign. Or a weapon. One we do not yet understand."
"And the Keepers?" Veydran asked.
The Grand Master's eyes gleamed. "They've found something they fear to lose."
He turned to Velnara.
"Recover. Then prepare for a new task. We won't chase the boy."
"What will we do?" she asked quietly.
The Grand Master smiled—a slow, cold thing.
"We will study him. And when the time comes… we will unmake him."