The gate exploded inward with a thunderous roar, splinters raining like jagged teeth as Malek’s wings eclipsed the sun. Eli froze mid-step, the golden butterfly he’d chased darting into the late summer haze. The air thickened—Papa’s ozone scent clashing with a rotting-meat stench that curled through the yard. Mama’s moon-lilies, their silver glow a fragile ring around the cottage, withered under the crunch of heavy boots.
“Eli, run!” Mama’s scream cut through the chaos, sharp and desperate, from the porch steps. Her melody-voice, once a lullaby for restless nights, cracked under the weight of fear. Papa stood beside her, gnarled staff pulsing with sky-blue light—their quiet magic, a shield woven from years of love, now trembling. Eli’s bare feet stuck to the dew-slick grass, dread sinking claws into his chest. Moments ago, he’d giggled under a sky streaked with gold, safe in their hidden valley. Now, that safety shattered like glass under a hammer.
Papa stepped forward, boots firm on the packed earth. “Malek,” he spat, venom lacing the name. Blue energy wove a shimmering net between his hands, the crystal tip of his staff humming defiance. Shadows twisted at the yard’s edge, growling low—alien, wrong. Malek loomed over two horned Krev, their plum-bruised skin rippling with muscle. His own hide was mottled gray-green, wings hooked like scythes, red-coal eyes burning through the dusk.
“Erin, my old friend,” Malek sneered, voice slithering into Eli’s ears like poisoned honey. “Did you think your little valley could hide him forever? The prophecy stirs—his power will serve me.” His shadow-whip snapped into being, a writhing lash of dark energy pulsing like a sickened heart.
Mama scooped Eli into her trembling arms, rosemary and thyme clinging to her shawl—an armor too thin for this nightmare. “You’ll never touch my son!” she roared, fierce despite the tears streaking her face. Eli clung to her, tiny fists bunching fabric, mind spinning. Me? What power? He was just the boy who tripped over his laces, who needed Papa’s stories to chase away the dark.
Papa’s shield flared, blue weaving tight. “The prophecy isn’t yours to twist,” he growled, staff steady. Malek’s laugh scraped like claws on stone. “Poor, faithful Erin.” The whip struck—CRACK!—shattering the shield into sparks. Papa stumbled, sweat beading, blood trickling from his nose—not strong enough.
“Please,” Mama begged, voice breaking like a snapped thread. “He’s a child—take me instead!” Malek’s wings spread wider, swallowing the last light. “The boy is the key,” he said, ice sinking into Eli’s bones. “The old power will awaken—for me.” He launched, Papa’s cracked staff useless as the Krev flanked the cottage.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
“Run!” Papa shouted, shoving Mama toward the back door. Too late—rough hands tore Eli free. He screamed, kicked, useless against iron grips trampling the lilies’ glow. Papa charged bare-handed, only to crash under a savage blow, mint crushed beneath him. Mama reached—one desperate touch on Eli’s ankle—before shadow-threads pinned her back.
Black tendrils slithered from Malek’s claws, coiling around Eli’s neck—frost-cold, searing deep into a brightness he didn’t know he carried. Gold runes blazed to life, weaving a collar that burned with every twist, a cage snapping shut on something vital inside him. Pain swallowed his senses, a scream trapped in his throat as the world blurred. “He’s stronger than you know,” Malek murmured, voice fading into the void.
Mama’s plea chased him into darkness. “Remember, my son—your heart is your own!” Malek’s red eyes gleamed triumph, wings casting night over the ruined garden—Papa’s broken staff the last shard of home Eli saw.
He woke to creaking wheels and the bite of iron against his spine, a prison cart swaying over uneven ground. Hollow-eyed kids surrounded him—some bore golden runes like his, pulsing faintly; others had crimson chains or black sigils that stung his gaze. The spell throbbed at his neck, an unyielding chain of light, but beneath it, a faint warmth flickered—a stubborn spark he couldn’t name.
The cart jolted through a landscape stripped bare—green valleys gone, replaced by cliffs clawing a bruised sky. Twisted trees bent low, shadows stretching like fingers over the dirt. Iron Hold loomed ahead, a fortress carved into the mountain’s gut, its black towers spearing upward, webbed by bridges of dark thread. No walls encircled it—the sheer drop into a misty abyss was cage enough.
A scarred face shoved into the cart’s slats—ashen skin, a gash from jaw to throat, eyes cold as the metal around them. “Listen up,” Goruk growled, voice rough as gravel. “You’re Iron Hold’s now. Obey. Work. Stay quiet—or learn why we don’t need walls.” His whip unfurled, barbs catching torchlight, a silent threat. His gaze lingered on Eli—a flicker, unreadable—before he turned away, the gates groaning shut behind.
Kids spilled into the courtyard, moving like ghosts under flickering flames. A woman waited—Marta, her uniform crisp despite burn scars twisting her face. “Kitchen duty,” she said, gripping Eli’s shoulder, her touch firm but not cruel. She pressed a scrub brush into his hands. “Watch everything—fear blinds them.”
Eli nodded, the spell a dull ache now, its frost softened but ever-present. The spark stirred again—small, defiant—as he followed her through iron-bound doors into a labyrinth of stone and rust. Iron Hold swallowed them whole, a trap forged in shadow, but Mama’s words echoed—a lifeline he clung to as the wheels’ creak faded into silence.
