Chapter Three: Remembrance Day

  Ash greeted the guests at the door with a smile on his face, though his arm still throbbed where the wolf had bitten him earlier that day. Aunt Dara would give him a thorough tongue-lashing if he didn't act like a proper host, bandaged arm or not. He straightened his shirt collar nervously, running his fingers through his ashen hair to make sure it wasn't sticking up at odd angles.

  The polished wooden door swung open to reveal the first guests of the evening. Ash's heart quickened instantly when he recognized the figure standing on the porch. Rosalia. She was his age, with a smile that always made his stomach feel like it was filled with butterflies.

  Her delicately pointed ears poked through her wavy hair, which reminded him of the dying light of a sunset, all copper and rose and golden hues mingling together. Those ears and her lovely, near-perfect heart-shaped features marked her unmistakably as an elf. He only thought her features were near perfect because she had a smattering of freckles across her nose that some might consider a flaw.

  To Ash, though, those freckles were the best part about her. They grounded her ethereal beauty and made her seem more real, more approachable to a farm boy like him. Her blue eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky, lighting up when they landed on him, and he felt the familiar warmth bloom in his chest.

  "Ash!" she exclaimed, stepping forward without hesitation and hugging him in a tight embrace that he silently wished would never end. The scent of wildflowers and pine needles clung to her, a fragrance that always made him think of the forest beyond the farm.

  She was wearing forest green riding clothes that fit her slender figure rather well, Ash thought, his face heating up yet again. The fabric was finer than anything he owned, reminding him of the difference in their families' stations despite their friendship.

  "Rosalia, it's good to see you," he said, trying to keep his voice casual. He spotted the imposing figure behind her and quickly added, "Here, sir, let me help you with your bags!"

  Rosalia's father, Court Va'Sear, was a huge human man with chestnut hair and an impressive beard that spread across his broad chest. Standing nearly a head taller than Ash, he commanded respect without even trying. Court had always intimidated Ash, though the man had never been anything but cordial to him.

  Court grunted acknowledgment, his deep-set eyes studying Ash briefly before allowing the boy to pick up their travel bags. Ash hoisted the heavy leather satchels, wincing slightly as the weight pulled at his injured arm, but he was determined not to show weakness in front of Rosalia or her father.

  "Father's been in a mood all day," Rosalia whispered conspiratorially as she followed Ash through the farmhouse. "Something about trading disputes with the merchants from Aleria. He'll brighten up after a cup or two of Uncle Derrick's special cider."

  Ash nodded, knowing full well the reputation of his uncle's apple cider. It was potent enough to make even the sternest visitor relax after a single mugful.

  They walked through the main hall, and Rosalia gasped appreciatively. "Your Aunt Dara did a really good job on the decorations! These are beautiful!"

  She stopped by a large ceramic pot of white campion flowers dominating a small oak table. Reaching out a slender hand, she gently caressed one of the delicate white petals with an adoring smile that made Ash momentarily forget to breathe.

  "Yeah, we had to go all the way to Deharra for them," he explained, setting down the bags to give his aching arm a brief rest. "There's a script on the pot that preserves them. See that faint blue light? That's what keeps them fresh. But, you know how we need white flowers on Remembrance Day, and not many are around the farm this time of year."

  Aunt Dara had been adamant about having the proper flowers. "Tradition matters," she'd told him firmly while instructing him and Uncle Derrick to make the journey for them three days ago. The trip to Deharra had been worth it, though, seeing the delight on Rosalia's face now.

  "The script work is exquisite," Rosalia remarked, bending closer to examine the pot's base. Her family had enough wealth to have scripted items, but even among them, quality work was appreciated. "Whoever crafted this knew what they were doing."

  She straightened and looked around at the other decorations while Ash picked up the bags again. The whole room was decorated in white, with crisp tablecloths, landscape paintings of snow-covered mountains, and even scripted lamps burning with pure white flames that cast no shadows. The effect was ethereal but not overwhelming. It was just enough to honor tradition without seeming ostentatious.

  "The whole farm looks like it's been touched by the Light itself," Rosalia commented, running her fingers along a white silk banner hanging from the ceiling. "I always love visiting during Remembrance."

  The next room they passed through was the dining room, and the massive oak table was also decorated in white, from the tablecloth down to the polished silverware that had been in Ash's family for generations. He knew Aunt Dara had spent hours polishing each piece until they gleamed. Beyond this room was the living room with its large stone fireplace, where the story would be told later that evening.

  "Are you looking forward to the story?" Ash asked as they climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the guest room. The worn steps protested beneath their feet, smooth from decades of use.

  Rosalia shrugged, her ears twitching slightly, a sign Ash recognized as mild irritation.

  "It's nothing new, is it? It's the same old boring story. I would much rather hear about the Nythum, or the Il'Aegra. Those tales have monsters and heroes and actual excitement."

  Ash pushed open the guest room door, its hinges squeaking softly. The room was simple but comfortable, with a feather bed, a small dresser, and a window overlooking the sheep pastures. He set the bags down by the closet and turned to Rosalia, trying not to show his disappointment at her dismissal of the Remembrance tale.

  "But Amalia tells it so well!" he protested. "The way she makes the Hero of Light come alive in her words... it's like you're actually there, watching history unfold."

  He had to admit that Rosalia did have a point, though. It would be nice to hear something different every once in a while. But it was Remembrance Day, and the story was an essential part of the tradition. Not hearing it or changing the story that was told seemed... wrong somehow. Like disrespecting the sacrifice of the Hero who had saved them all.

  Rosalia raised a hand conciliatorily, seeing the expression on his face.

  "She does tell it well, I'll give you that," she admitted. "But it's still the same story, no matter how well it is told. My father says storytellers used to have hundreds of tales, not just the approved ones."

  There was something in her tone that made Ash wonder what she meant by "approved," but before he could ask, Rosalia changed the subject, her eyes darting around the room.

  "Do you still have that rock collection?" she asked with a teasing lift to her voice.

  Ash shifted his eyes away, suddenly embarrassed by his childish hobby.

  "Umm..."

  She giggled, the sound like tinkling bells in the quiet room.

  "It's okay to have a hobby, you know! My brother collects pressed flowers, and he's nearly twenty now."

  He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as she laughed, relieved that she wasn't making fun of him. Most of the village boys would have mocked him mercilessly for his collection of interesting stones and minerals.

  "I've added some new ones," he admitted. "There's this blue one with silver flecks that I found by the creek last month. It almost looks like it has stars trapped inside."

  Rosalia's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "You'll have to show me later," she said. "I've always thought your eye for beauty was—"

  "Oh no, what happened?"

  Ash turned to see what had interrupted her and found her looking back toward the entryway, shock written across her features. He followed her gaze and saw immediately what had distressed her.

  The white campion flowers they had admired just moments ago were dead. Every single one had withered and turned black as coal, the once pristine petals now shriveled and decaying. The pot that held them seemed unchanged, but the contents had transformed completely in the brief time they'd been upstairs.

  "How?" Ash wondered aloud, a chill running down his spine despite the warmth of the house.

  He shook his head in confusion, bending down to look more closely at the pot's base. The script still seemed to be working; the faint blue light pulsed steadily as it should. He could not fix it if it were broken anyway—adventurers knew scripts, not common shepherds like him.

  But the script's light was still there, so as near as he could tell, it was doing what it should be. The flowers' sudden death had nothing to do with a failure of magic.

  "Let's go tell my aunt Dara," he said, straightening. "She'll want to replace these before the ceremony."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  As they descended the stairs, voices filtered through from the entryway, growing clearer as they approached.

  "Brought all the sheep back, but there's somethin' wrong in that forest," Uncle Derrick was saying, his deep voice grave. "All the animals... they've gone wild. Even the sheep didn't want to mind. Found three of them dead, throats torn out. Never seen anything like it."

  Rosalia's father's rumbling bass responded, though Ash couldn't make out the words. The two men fell silent as Ash and Rosalia appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  Uncle Derrick's weathered face briefly softened when he saw them. He grunted acknowledgment, his brown eyes quickly assessing Ash.

  "See your Aunt Dara patched you up. That's good, boy," he said, nodding toward Ash's bandaged arm.

  Rosalia looked over, brow furrowing in concern, then her eyes widened as she noticed the bandage for the first time.

  "You're hurt! I'm so sorry, Ash, I didn't even notice," she exclaimed, reaching out as if to touch his arm but stopping just short. "What happened?"

  He rubbed his face with his uninjured hand, hoping she wouldn't see the embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks.

  "It's nothing," he muttered, not wanting to admit he'd been attacked by wolves while doing his chores. It made him sound weak, inexperienced—exactly what he didn't want Rosalia to think of him.

  Uncle Derrick caught his eye and winked, a knowing look passing between them before he turned back to Court, extending a calloused hand.

  "Always a pleasure to see ya, Court. I need to get cleaned up for tonight, if you'll excuse me," he said, then nodded respectfully to Rosalia. "Oh, and you're looking lovely as ever, young lady. That green brings out your eyes."

  Uncle Derrick walked past them, his large frame moving with surprising grace for such a big man. Ash noticed the subtle way his uncle's gait had changed since this morning—more deliberate, more watchful. Whatever he'd seen in the forest had troubled him deeply.

  The tips of Rosalia's ears went pink at the compliment, and she shifted her right boot against the floorboards, a nervous habit Ash had noticed years ago.

  "Your uncle is always so kind," she said quietly after he'd gone. "My father says there aren't many men like him left in Aleria."

  Court grunted agreement, the most conversation Ash had heard from him all day.

  As the day passed, more people began to arrive, filling the farmhouse with laughter and conversation. Families from nearby farms trickled in, along with a sizeable contingent from the village of Dahara, a few hours' ride away. The smell of Aunt Dara's cooking filled the air—roasted lamb with herbs, freshly baked bread, and apple pies cooling by the windows.

  Outside, children who had been cooped up during the journey found release in the farm's open spaces. They began to skip, play, and sing a rhyme that carried through the open windows:

  "Oh, twelve dark lords on dragons ride,

  With purple smoke and spooky pride.

  Their dragons twist, their hearts gone bad,

  They make the flowers droop and sad.

  Where wild light flashes and skies turn gray,

  They laugh and chase the sun away.

  Dead flowers fall and trees don't play,

  The Ir'Aegra's near—don't stay!

  They hum a tune, a creeping sound,

  Their shadow crawls along the ground.

  So run, run fast, don't stay too long,

  Or you'll join their scary song!

  So sing and skip, but watch the night,

  The Ir'Aegra hide from lantern light.

  When purple smoke begins to swirl,

  Stay inside, good girl or boy!"

  Ash had heard the rhyme before, long ago when he was too young to understand its meaning. Something about it nagged at him now, especially after seeing the withered flowers. The song mentioned flowers drooping and dying when the Ir'Aegra were near. He stared for a few long moments at the children as they skipped in a circle, singing it again, their innocent voices somehow making the words more ominous.

  "Always found that light-cursed rhyme to be creepy."

  The baritone voice came from beside him, deep and rich with an accent Ash had never been able to place—something from the eastern mountains, perhaps, but with hints of coastal inflection.

  He turned, finding exactly who he expected to find standing beside him.

  Nicholas Al'Smith was a short, stocky dwarf with skin like polished ebony and hair as dark as painted twilight. His beard was neatly trimmed close to his jaw, contrary to the flowing beards many dwarves preferred. Despite his mother's constant prodding to dress appropriately on Remembrance Day, he always wore the same outfit, no matter the occasion.

  A dark shirt tucked into dark jeans and a white smith's smock over it all, the fabric singed in places from forge work. At his side hung a large hammer he never left home without—not a weapon, but a craftsman's tool that had shaped countless pieces of metal. His father always liked to say that his boy was born with a hammer in his hand.

  With how Nicholas treated the tool—cleaning it daily, keeping the handle oiled, always within reach—Ash didn't doubt the story's validity.

  "Good to see you, Nick," Ash said, genuinely pleased to see his old friend.

  Nick waved a dismissive hand, though his dark eyes held warmth.

  "If Pa didn't give me so much Hero-cursed work, I'd visit more often," he grumbled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Haven't had a day off in three weeks. Straight from the forge to here, and back to the forge tomorrow."

  Ash winced slightly at Nick's choice of words, glancing toward the children to make sure they hadn't heard.

  "Far be it for me to judge, Nick, but do you have to blaspheme? Especially today of all days?"

  Nick laughed, the sound rich and full, looking up at the ceiling and spreading his hands in theatrical defiance.

  "Why? Do you think the Light will smite me? Come on then, smite me down, o'great Light!" he called out, drawing a few disapproving glances from nearby adults.

  Ash's mouth fell open halfway, genuinely expecting the Light to do just that. He'd been raised to believe that such direct challenges were dangerous, especially on Remembrance Day when the veil between the Light and Dominion was said to be thinnest.

  No bolt of lightning struck his friend, however, and the ceiling remained intact.

  "It's a bad idea to mock the Light, Nick," Ash warned, glancing nervously at the older folk who were now watching them with narrowed eyes.

  "Bah! What has the Light ever done for us, eh Ash?" Nick scoffed, lowering his voice slightly. "Your arm still got torn up, didn't it? Where was the Light then?"

  "The Bore..." Ash began the traditional response, feeling uncomfortable with his friend's irreverence.

  "Ha! The Bore!" Nick interrupted with a derisive snort. "Who even knows if it were the Light that made that eyesore, hmm? Ever thought about that? Just something we're told to believe."

  Ash flicked his gaze instinctively to the north, as every child in Aleria was taught to do when the Bore was mentioned. Hanging there in the sky, as it always did, and Light willing, always would, was what looked like a giant black line—a cosmic wound that never healed. He had always thought it resembled a zipper, though he'd never said so aloud for fear of sounding disrespectful.

  The Bore was where the Shadow had been imprisoned, according to the Remembrance story. To question its origin was to question everything they had been taught.

  Nick caught the expression on Ash's face and sighed, his shoulders dropping.

  "Never mind. I'm sorry I argued. We don't see each other much, and the first thing I do is argue with you about religion. I'm a Lighting fool."

  Ash put a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder, relieved to move past the uncomfortable moment.

  "No, you aren't. I'm the one who made a big deal out of it. Hey, let's go inside; Amalia should be here soon," he suggested, steering them away from the skeptical gazes of the elders.

  Nick grunted agreement, adjusting the hammer at his side as they made their way into the farmhouse.

  "Tell me about these wolves that got you," he said as they walked. "Pa says animals have been acting strange near the forge too. Nearly had my hand taken off by Old Tanner's hound last week, and that dog's never so much as growled before."

  The conversation shifted to safer ground as they joined the others inside, but Ash couldn't quite shake the unease that had settled over him—about the wolves, the dying flowers, and the children's rhyme that now seemed less like a playful song and more like a warning.

  As twilight settled over the farm, a hush fell across the gathering. Everyone knew what was coming next, and even the most talkative guests found reasons to glance toward the door with anticipation.

  When Amalia Vane arrived, everyone knew it without announcement.

  The storyteller lived just outside the village of Dahara in a small cottage few had ever entered. Dressed in fine black and violet robes that seemed to absorb the light around them, her face was as pale as moonlight, and her eyes shone like amethyst in the light of a clear day.

  She was slender but walked with the confidence and strength of an adventurer, not a mere tale-spinner. Her movements were deliberate, graceful, and somehow ancient, as if she had walked Dominion for centuries rather than decades. Her hood was pulled up, obscuring much of her face, but the one time Ash had seen her with it down, her hair had been like dark ocean waves, flowing and mysterious.

  She always had eyes for Ash when she visited, and that made him both proud and nervous. It was as if her violet eyes could read every thought that popped into his mind, weighing and measuring him against some standard he couldn't comprehend. When he was younger, he had tested the theory once, looking at her and deliberately thinking that she was beautiful.

  She had smiled at him—not her usual polite smile, but one of genuine amusement!

  He was embarrassed to admit that he had made a fast retreat to his room after that, convinced that she had somehow heard his thoughts.

  Now, as she had every Remembrance Day past, she was here again. The crowd parted for her naturally, like water flowing around a stone. In her right hand she carried a staff of purest light, with strange engravings etched into the wood.

  He had asked her what the engravings were at one point, as they didn't look like any script he had ever seen—not the blocky commercial script used on everyday items, nor the flowing academic script taught in schools. These were angular yet curved, seeming to change slightly whenever he tried to focus on them.

  All she would say about them was that they were, "A gift." The way she said it had suggested there was a story there, but not one she was willing to share.

  Amalia moved through the room, nodding greetings to those she recognized. When she reached Ash, she paused, her violet eyes studying him with that disconcerting intensity.

  "You've had an eventful day, I see," she commented, her voice melodious yet somehow ageless, like a song that had always existed.

  "Yes, ma'am," he replied, wondering how she knew about the wolves. "Just a small accident with the sheep."

  Something flashed in her eyes—doubt, perhaps, or concern—but she merely nodded and continued her circuit of the room, speaking briefly with Uncle Derrick, who seemed troubled by whatever she said to him.

  Amalia talked for a while with the various guests, her voice too low for Ash to catch her words. Then everyone sat down for the evening's meal, the table filled to bursting with foods of all kinds. Aunt Dara had cooked for days in preparation, though everyone helped set the dishes out on the table.

  The conversation flowed easily, old friends catching up, farmers discussing crops, children fidgeting with excitement for the story to come. Through it all, Amalia remained largely silent, observing rather than participating, as if gathering impressions of everyone present.

  After the meal, when the plates had been cleared and the younger children were fighting to keep their eyes open, everyone packed into the living room. Some sat on chairs or cushions, while others stood at the edges, unwilling to miss the yearly ritual. The scent of woodsmoke hung in the air, mingling with the sweet remnants of Aunt Dara's apple pie.

  Amalia stood before the fire, reaching up and slowly pulling down her hood with deliberate ceremony. Her black hair spilled forth like water in the night, catching the firelight and reflecting it in ways that seemed almost unnatural. The firelight made her silken hair shine like polished obsidian, a rock Ash had read about in one of his books and hoped to see in person one day.

  She lifted her white staff, murmuring words too soft for anyone to hear, and the fire suddenly dimmed. Dark shadows engulfed the room, causing several of the younger children to gasp and clutch at their parents. The atmosphere transformed instantly from cozy to otherworldly.

  Ash felt the hair on his arms rise, not from fear but from anticipation. Despite having heard the story every year of his life, there was something about Amalia's telling that always made it feel new, immediate, and important.

  It was time for her to deliver the story of Remembrance, and despite Rosalia's earlier dismissal, Ash found himself leaning forward with the others, eager to hear the ancient words once more.