Chapter One: Bad Dreams

  Hungry flames ate at the stones, the walls, and the wood, attempting to devour everything like a raging, hungry monster. The fire crackled with malevolent intent, sending sparks skyward like vengeful spirits escaping their torment. Heat rippled through the air, distorting the vision of anyone who dared look upon the inferno. The stones blackened and cracked, their ancient strength failing under the relentless assault of the unnatural blaze.

  "GIVE HIM TO ME, TAELIA!"

  A growling, booming voice like thunder and rock yelled over the flames, which flared up at the sound of the voice. The fire seemed to respond to the command, reaching higher as if eager to please its master. The voice held power in it, ancient and terrible, a voice accustomed to being obeyed without question.

  "He is not here! You are too late!" A woman's voice rang out, defiant and strong despite the peril surrounding her. Her words carried the weight of conviction and desperation intertwined, each syllable infused with determination. The voice belonged to a fighter, someone who would not yield even in the face of certain doom.

  "LIES! I SENSE HIM!" The thunderous voice reverberated through the burning structure, causing loose stones to tremble and fall. Rage and frustration colored the words, the fury of a predator denied its rightful prey.

  Putrid yellow and green orbs pierced through the flames. They were eyes, and their malice burned hotter than the fire surrounding them. Within those eyes swirled ancient hatred and cold calculation, a predator's gaze fixed upon its prey. Those eyes had watched civilizations rise and fall, had seen countless lives snuffed out without remorse. A beautiful blonde woman stood defiant against those eyes. Her ears were pointed, but her skin was silver and white scales that caught the firelight and reflected it back in dazzling patterns. She wore brilliant armor like a shining star within the darkness and flame, each piece intricately crafted with symbols that pulsed with inner light. The armor moved with her as if it were a second skin, not hindering her movements in the slightest.

  In her right hand was a blade of radiant light, a silver-tongued beacon of power that the woman raised up against the eyes. The weapon hummed with energy, its edge so sharp it seemed to cut the very air around it. The sword sang a silent song of defiance, of light against darkness, of protection against destruction. A chuckle that sent shivers down the spine emanated from the surrounding darkness around the eyes, a sound filled with cruel amusement and anticipation. It was the laugh of something that had seen countless defiances, and had crushed them all.

  A darkness that was not darkness but scales blacker than a starless, moonless night shifted in the shadows. Like a giant glacier, the darkness moved, and scarlet light built within the darkness before it rushed out like the tide. The creature's massive form became partially visible in the flare of its attack, revealing glimpses of a nightmare given flesh, of wings that could blot out the sun, of a body made for destruction. Blazing fire bathed the woman, engulfing her completely in a furnace hot enough to melt metal. But when the flame died away, the woman still stood, unburnt. Her armor gleamed even brighter, the scales of her skin reflecting the firelight with defiant radiance. Not even a hair on her head had been singed by the infernal assault.

  "YOUR POWER HAS GROWN, TAELIA. IT WILL NOT BE ENOUGH. GIVE ME THE BABE AND YOUR DEATH WILL BE QUICK." The voice carried both threat and offer, the promise of mercy a thin disguise for its underlying malice. There was a note of surprise in it too, grudging respect for her strength, but confidence that it would ultimately prove insufficient.

  In answer, the woman raised her silver sword higher, its light cutting through the shadows like dawn breaking through night. Her eyes, filled with determination and the fierce love of a protector, narrowed at the hidden enemy. The sword trembled slightly in her grasp, not from fear but from the sheer power it contained, barely restrained by her will.

  "Come, betrayer! We shall see who dies this day!" Her voice rang with conviction, each word a declaration of her willingness to sacrifice everything. She adjusted her stance, feet planted firmly, ready to face the coming assault. This would be her final stand, and she knew it, embraced it, was prepared to make it count.

  Away from the fire, the woman, and the malicious eyes, another woman was in a tunnel deep under the now-burning castle. She clutched a small form to her chest, wrapped in blankets that obscured all but the tiniest glimpse of a sleeping face, peaceful despite the chaos above. The child's skin seemed to glow faintly with an inner light, a stark contrast to the darkness of the tunnel. She sat astride a huge black horse, its coat gleaming with sweat in the dim light of the tunnel. The woman's violet eyes darted nervously behind them, listening for sounds of pursuit, her face etched with worry and determination in equal measure. She spurred the horse onward with gentle but urgent pressure, and it began to trot and then run before galloping as fast as it could through the narrow space.

  The woman held the bundle closer as the horse's pace increased, one hand steady on the reins while the other cradled the precious cargo. Her dark hair streamed behind her, occasionally revealing a glimpse of pointed ears similar to the warrior woman's. Unlike the fighter above, this woman wore no armor, only a traveling cloak that billowed behind her like wings of shadow. Her face, though beautiful, showed the strain of her flight, of decisions made in haste that would echo through years to come.

  It was some time before she emerged from the tunnel into a dark forest. The stars above were partially obscured by clouds, offering little light to guide her way. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches reaching like grasping hands toward the woman and her precious cargo. The horse's breathing came in heavy pants, but it continued its relentless pace as if understanding the importance of its burden. Its hooves thundered against the forest floor, the rhythm matching the racing heart of its rider.

  The great voice roared from behind her, the sound carrying impossibly far, but the woman paid no attention to it. She leaned forward in the saddle, urging the horse to greater speed, her eyes fixed on the path ahead, not on what pursued her. Instead, as if carried on the whispering wind, words stirred the form she clutched to her chest. The trees seemed to lean closer, as if listening to the words that came from nowhere and everywhere.

  "Ash Lorcan," the words that began as a whisper grew into a gale, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sleeping infant stirred, tiny fingers curling and uncurling against the blanket. A small face, perfect in its innocence, was briefly visible in the moonlight that filtered through the trees.

  "ASH LORCAN!" The name thundered through the forest, causing birds to take flight in panic and small creatures to burrow deeper into their homes. The sound was filled with rage and promise, a vow that this moment of escape was merely a postponement, not a true evasion.

  The woman clutched the child tighter, a single tear falling onto the blanket as she rode deeper into the darkness, away from the burning castle, away from the creature of shadow and flame, away from everything she had known before this moment of desperate flight. Her lips moved in silent prayer or promise to the child in her arms, words lost in the rush of wind and the thundering of hooves.

  ______

  Ash opened his eyes with a violent start, his hands snapping to his throat, certain his lungs were filled with smoke. The phantom sensation of choking caused him to gasp and cough, his body fighting against an enemy that existed only in his mind. For one terrifying moment, he was caught between dream and reality, the burning castle as real to him as the bed he lay in. His nightshirt clung to his skin, soaked through with sweat, and his heart pounded like a drum in his chest. His ashen-blond hair was plastered to his forehead, and his ice-blue eyes darted around the room, searching for dangers that weren't there.

  "Fore's teeth, boy, you're sweating like a pig. Calm yourself, and get ready. We have chores to get done." The gruff voice cut through the fog of his nightmare, pulling him back to reality with its familiar no-nonsense tone.

  His rapid heart slowed at his uncle's words, and he lowered his hands, forcing himself to take more measured breaths. The air was clean, crisp with the promise of morning, and there was no smoke at all, just the familiar scents of home – wood polish, the lavender sachets Aunt Dara placed in the dresser drawers, the faint smell of fresh bread already baking in the kitchen. He still felt hot all over, like a fire burned inside him, radiating outward from his core. His skin felt too tight, as if something within him was trying to break free. It's the same every time, he thought, running a hand through his damp hair. The dream never changed, always ending with that name, his name, screamed into the night. And always this burning sensation afterward, as if the fire in the dream had somehow followed him into the waking world.

  Chores? He blinked, the familiar word helping to ground him in reality. Nothing is burning. I'm still in Sarvhall, on the farm. The nightmare was just that, a nightmare, not reality. But why did it feel so real? Why could he still feel the heat of those flames on his skin? Why did the woman with the silver sword seem so familiar, though he'd never met anyone like her in his life? And why did the name "Taelia" echo in his mind even after waking, like a half-remembered song?

  He sat up, rubbing his arms; his skin was sweaty and nearly burned at the touch. The sensation lingered longer each time he had the dream, as if the fire in his mind was becoming more real with every visitation. He wondered briefly if he should mention it to his aunt and uncle, but quickly dismissed the idea. They'd think him childish, still troubled by nightmares at sixteen.

  Outside his window, it was still dark, the pre-dawn world silent and waiting. The familiar silhouettes of the barn and sheep pens were just visible against the gradually lightening sky. But this had been his life since he was old enough to use his hands, and he knew dawn wasn't too far off. The eastern horizon would soon turn pink, then orange, then blazing gold, the same progression he'd watched thousands of times before. Some mornings, he'd find himself wondering what that same sunrise looked like from a mountain peak, or from the deck of a ship sailing on the Western Sea, places he'd only read about in his precious books. He pushed himself out of bed, and his uncle's nose wrinkled in visible distaste.

  "I suggest a shower before you head out, lad." Uncle Derrick's voice was gruff but not unkind, the voice of a man used to giving orders and having them followed. His uncle stood an imposing six feet four inches, with shoulders broad enough to cast a shadow over most men. Years of farm work and military service before that had left him solid as an oak, with hands calloused and strong enough to bend iron, or so it seemed to Ash growing up.

  Ash opened his mouth to object, the routine of washing after chores so ingrained that deviation felt wrong, but his uncle raised one of his burly hands, silencing him before he could speak. Uncle Derrick had never been a man of many words, preferring actions to lengthy explanations.

  "I know, it's better to take one after, but you reek, boy. Like ashes and rotting wood. Best you take two, eh? I think the scripts can handle it. Go on, now." His uncle's face twisted slightly at the smell, genuine concern flashing briefly across his weathered features. The scar that ran along his jaw, a souvenir from his military days, stood out white against his tanned skin.

  Ash frowned at the description. Ashes and rotting wood? The dream smell was following him into wakefulness now? That was new, and somehow more disturbing than the dream itself. He'd heard tales of prophetic dreams from travelers passing through, but those were just stories, weren't they? Just like the tales of dragons and heroes and magic that filled his books, entertaining but not real. Not relevant to life on a sheep farm in Sarvhall.

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  His uncle stood up from the edge of his bed, and he was so big that he took up most of the room, especially with his dark clothes, wool cape, and shepherd staff. He'd always seemed larger than life to Ash, a mountain of a man who could weather any storm. The staff in his hand was more than just a tool; it was a symbol of his authority over the farm, passed down from his father, and his father before him. Uncle Derrick ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, a habit Ash knew he had picked up from the military. The gesture was as familiar to Ash as his own reflection, a movement he'd seen thousands of times over the years.

  "I'll take care of gathering the feed, but it's your turn to do the mucking out today." The words were delivered plainly, a simple statement of the day's division of labor. Uncle Derrick had never been one to shirk his duties, and he expected the same from those around him. The farm ran on routine and hard work, the same as it had for generations.

  His uncle swept his brown eyes over the room, raising an eyebrow at the usual state of disarray. Unlike Ash's aunt, who would have launched into a lecture about the importance of tidiness, Uncle Derrick's disapproval was silent but clear. He picked up the basket of rocks near his feet and moved them aside so they were less in the way, his movements careful despite his large hands. Then he picked up a discarded book that had fallen to the floor, raising an eyebrow at his nephew as he held the book. It was one of Ash's favorites, tales of adventurers exploring the far reaches of Dominion, its pages worn from multiple readings.

  "And by Fore's burly beard, boy, would it kill you to get rid of some of this stuff? Do you need all of those books, eh? Or these rocks?" The question was rhetorical, the same one he'd been asking for years. Despite his complaints, he handled the items with care, knowing how much they meant to his nephew. For all his gruffness, Uncle Derrick had never once thrown away one of Ash's treasures, no matter how worthless they might seem to others.

  Ash rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly and lowering his eyes. He knew his collection was excessive, but each book was a gateway to somewhere else, somewhere beyond the boundaries of Al'Herder farm. The adventures within those pages were his escape from the predictable routine of farm life, his window into a world of excitement and danger. And the rocks, well, they were his treasures, each one unique, each one telling a story of the land around them. The smooth river stones whispered of journeys through water, the rough geodes held secrets within their seemingly plain exteriors, the quartz-veined specimens caught the light just so, reminding him that beauty could be found in the most common things if you looked hard enough.

  His uncle shook his head, the gesture more fond than truly exasperated. For all his talk of getting rid of things, Uncle Derrick had been the one to bring back unusual rocks whenever he traveled to the nearby village, slipping them to Ash without comment, pretending not to notice the boy's delight.

  "Some things never change. Get to it, boy. Your aunt will have breakfast waiting for us after we're done. Then, we have the house to get ready for Remembrance Day." The mention of the holiday added weight to the morning, a reminder of duties beyond the everyday care of the farm. Remembrance Day was a time to honor the Hero of Light who had sacrificed himself to seal away the Shadow, a day of reflection and gratitude observed throughout Dominion. Aunt Dara always insisted on the house being spotless, the best linens brought out, and special candles lit in every window to symbolize the light that drove back darkness.

  Ash nodded, accepting the day's tasks without complaint. For all his dreams of adventure, he never shirked his responsibilities to the farm and family that had raised him. Before his uncle left, he paused at the doorway, muttering something to himself that Ash couldn't hear, his expression momentarily distant, as if seeing something far away. It was another habit of his, these momentary distractions, as if part of him was always listening for a distant call. Then he was gone, heavy footsteps receding down the hallway, the familiar sound of boots on wooden floors that had echoed through Ash's childhood.

  Ash went to his bathroom, the small space neat and functional. All he had to do was touch the script on the wall under the spigot, and the script along the metal lit up red and blue as water poured out of it in a steady stream. The marvel of it never quite faded for him, how a simple touch could command water to flow, hot or cold at his whim.

  He adjusted the heat by running his fingers over the script to the right. The red light responded by glowing ever so brighter than the blue, the water warming immediately in response. For not the first time, he wondered how it worked. The script was beautiful, curling lines and symbols that somehow held the power to control elements. No one around could explain it to him, the knowledge as mysterious as it was practical.

  Only adventurers knew about that sort of thing, and the very few that had passed through Al'Herder farm hadn't been in the mood to answer a sixteen-year-old's questions. Their eyes had been distant, seeing beyond the farm to the next destination, the next challenge. They spoke of beasts with acid for blood, of cities built in the branches of trees so tall they touched the clouds, of treasures hidden in caves guarded by creatures from nightmare. Ash had hung on their every word, peppering them with questions until his aunt had pulled him away, apologizing for his enthusiasm. As the hot water washed away the sweat and stink, he again yearned to travel the world, to be one of those people with distant eyes and knowledge of wonders.

  What would it be like to wake up each day not knowing what challenges you would face? To rely on your wits and skills rather than the predictable cycles of farm life? To discover ancient ruins, decipher forgotten scripts, battle creatures of shadow? The thought made his heart race with excitement even as part of him acknowledged the comfort of his current life. Here, he knew every hill and valley, every sheep by name, every creaking board in the house. There was safety in that familiarity, a security that adventurers sacrificed for their freedom.

  Dominion was a vast continent that had not yet been fully explored, even by the four large kingdoms that covered it. There were places on maps marked only with question marks or warnings, places where no one had returned from to tell the tale. The mystery of those places called to him, a siren song of adventure that grew louder with each passing year. Sometimes at night, he would point out constellations to the sheep, making up stories about what lay beyond the horizon, pretending he was planning a journey he would never take.

  Most of all, he yearned to be an adventurer. To learn the secrets of script and magic, to fight monsters, to see things no one from Sarvhall had ever seen. The dream seemed impossible sometimes, farmboy to adventurer, but he clung to it nonetheless. Uncle Derrick had been in the king's army in his youth, but that wasn't the same as being an adventurer, with the freedom to choose your own path, to seek out the unknown rather than following orders. Still, it was the closest anyone in his family had come to leaving this quiet corner of Dominion, and Ash treasured the rare stories his uncle shared of those days.

  He scrubbed his hair under the water, rolling his neck to ease the tension that always followed the nightmare. His hair, when wet, looked more silver than blond, an unusual shade that had earned him teasing from the other children in the area until he'd learned to ignore it. Swiping right over the script, the red light completely overpowered the blue now, steam rising to fog the small mirror.

  The heat had never bothered him, even when the water was hot enough to turn his skin red. He had only ever felt hot when he had that dream, the internal fire that seemed to consume him from within. The sensation was fading now, the cool reality of morning chasing away the last vestiges of the nightmare. He'd once mentioned his unusual tolerance for heat to Aunt Dara, and she'd looked at him strangely before changing the subject. He hadn't brought it up again.

  After his shower, he dressed, not as heavy as his uncle, because the cold rarely bothered him. A simple shirt and trousers would do, with a light jacket to ward off the morning chill that others felt more keenly than he did. His shepherd's staff was a simple piece of wood but comfortable in his hands, worn smooth by years of use. It was nothing like the silver sword in his dream, but it served its purpose well enough. Longingly, he looked at the large collection of rocks he had found in his walks on the farm and nearby forest.

  They were all bright, each one special in its own way. Some had veins of quartz that caught the light, others were smooth river stones polished by years of flowing water, still others were rough geodes with crystals hidden within. His favorite was a piece of blue-white stone that seemed to glow faintly in the dark, though he knew that had to be his imagination. One of his favorite things was to polish them, placing them one by one into the basket they resided in, arranging and rearranging them by color, size, or the places he'd found them. His books were unorganized, seemingly thrown on the shelves haphazardly, and many of their pages were bent at the ear, marked at favorite passages he returned to again and again.

  I better head out before Uncle Derrick gives me an earful, he thought, knowing his uncle's patience had limits. Leaving the room, he headed for the sheep pens, the familiar path worn into the ground by generations of shepherds before him. The farm spread out around him, a patchwork of pastures, outbuildings, and gardens that had sustained his family for generations. The main house, where they lived, was a two-story structure of weathered gray stone and dark wood, solid and enduring as the people who had built it. Beyond it lay the barn, the chicken coops, the equipment shed, and further out, the pastures where the sheep grazed. To the west, the forest loomed, dark and mysterious, a boundary between the known and the unknown.

  The huge pitchfork he used waited for him by the pens, its tines sharp and ready for the day's work. The sheep, woolly and placid, paid him no mind, not only used to him but used to the authority of the staff. Their gentle bleating and the occasional soft thud of their hooves against the ground were familiar sounds, comforting in their normality.

  He moved them to one side of the pen with the staff, touching them gently with the hook at the end of his staff. The animals moved with docile obedience, their eyes half-lidded in the early morning light. If they didn't listen, he'd get Bruce, the old sheepdog that had been in the family since he was an infant. The dog was gray around the muzzle now, but still sharp-eyed and eager to work, his loyalty undiminished by age.

  His flock was so well trained that he hardly ever had to worry about it. After moving the sheep, he started on the mucking. It took time, but he had done this job many times. So many times, in fact, he was hardly bothered by the smell anymore, his nose immune to the stench that would have visitors wrinkling their noses in disgust. The familiar rhythm of work was almost meditative, allowing his mind to wander.

  He worked methodically, his muscles moving through the familiar patterns with ease. The repetitive nature of the task allowed his mind to wander, back to the dream, back to the woman with the silver sword and the creature with eyes of malice. It felt like more than a dream sometimes, more like a memory, though that was impossible. He had never seen a castle, never witnessed a battle like that. Yet it returned night after night, as persistent as the tide, growing more vivid each time. Sometimes during the day, he would catch himself looking for those violet eyes, or expecting to hear that thunderous voice calling his name. It was unsettling, this sense of déjà vu for places and people he'd never encountered.

  He was finished in less than two hours, the job completed efficiently despite his wandering thoughts. The pen was clean, the sheep contentedly munching on fresh hay, and the day was properly begun. The sun was now fully visible above the horizon, casting long shadows across the farm, turning dew drops to diamonds on grass blades.

  He wiped his brow, watching his breath turn white as it hit the air. Dawn's light began to play across the farm, painting the buildings in gold and setting the dew-covered grass sparkling. Birds were waking, their songs filling the air with cheerful notes that belied the lingering unease from his dream. A rooster crowed in the distance, announcing the sun's arrival to all who would listen. He was about to help his uncle with the other chores, perhaps feeding the chickens or mending a fence, when a chilling howl split the air.

  The sound froze him in place, a primal response to a predator's call. But this wasn't right, wasn't natural. The sound wasn't right, not the natural call of a predator, but something wilder, more frenzied. It had an almost human quality to it, as if the creature making it was caught between worlds. Ash whipped his head around, scanning the tree line with sudden alertness. The forest seemed darker suddenly, the shadows deeper, as if night lingered there despite the rising sun. Wolves? That didn't make sense. Wolves didn't just attack out of nowhere, especially not with the sun rising. They were cautious creatures, avoiding humans unless driven by extreme hunger. And they certainly didn't sound like that, a howl that seemed to carry madness within it.

  But sure enough, he saw several gray forms emerge from the forest, fangs bared in snarls that revealed teeth too long, too sharp for normal wolves. Their eyes glinted with a strange light, a wildness that went beyond animal hunger, almost glowing with an internal fire. Their fur was matted and patchy, revealing skin that looked diseased beneath. They moved wrong, too, with a jerky, uncoordinated gait that no natural predator would employ.

  They were headed right for him and the sheep, a wild light in their eyes that spoke of more than hunger, something like madness or possession. The sheep began to bleat in terror, pressing against the far side of the pen, sensing the wrongness of the approaching predators. Their panic was justified; these wolves were not natural hunters seeking food, but something else entirely.

  His hands tightened on his pitchfork, the familiar weight suddenly feeling inadequate against the oncoming threat. What good was a farming tool against creatures that moved like nightmare made flesh? His heart began to hammer on the anvil of his ribs, adrenaline flooding his system. This wasn't the normal order of things, this wasn't right. Something was very wrong, and deep in his gut, Ash knew that everything was about to change.

  For a brief, inexplicable moment, he felt like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life, as if everything before had been merely preparation. Then the feeling was gone, replaced by the very real fear of facing down creatures that should not exist outside of stories. The wolves drew closer, their mad eyes fixed on him, and Ash raised his pitchfork, prepared to defend his flock whatever the cost.