The boy didn’t cry when he was born.

  Didn’t scream.

  Didn’t even blink.

  He just opened his eyes.

  Wide. Quiet. Watching.

  His mother gasped. Not from pain, but something else—something older.

  His father only stared, then murmured, “Too soon.”

  The midwife swore under her breath and made a sign against the sky.

  Rain tapped gently on the thatched roof. The fire crackled, soft and low, like it didn’t want to interrupt.

  And Aven Locke entered Saeliryn.

  His mother held him close, wrapping him in linen that smelled faintly of smoke and lavender.

  She whispered something he couldn’t understand—soft, clumsy words thick with exhaustion and love.

  His eyes stayed open.

  His father crouched beside them, rough hands trembling as he brushed damp hair from her brow.

  Then he looked at the boy again.

  “Name him,” the midwife urged, already tying off the cord, wiping the blade on her apron. “Before the spirits try to.”

  He hesitated, then said it simply—without grandeur.

  “Tareth.”

  No second name. No titles. Just that.

  His mother nodded. “Tareth Vael.”

  And that was that.

  He was theirs. And the world, for the moment, was small and warm and alive.

  ***

  The sun leaned low over Orden’s Field, making gold out of dirt and dust.

  Tareth stood a few steps behind his father, small feet half-sunk in the warm earth. The stick in his hands dragged a faint trail behind him—too short for a staff, too long for a toy.

  He didn’t say a word. Just shifted his grip and swung.

  Once. Twice. The third caught on a root and twisted wrong. It jolted up through his shoulder. He hissed and let go. Picked it back up.

  Across the yard, two village boys chased a chicken in circles, shrieking like wild things. One tripped. The other howled with laughter. Neither looked his way.

  Tareth didn’t look back either.

  He moved again—left foot forward, stick raised—and brought it down like he was splitting something that wasn’t there. Not wild. Not clumsy. Measured.

  His fingers curled tighter, adjusting on their own.

  For a breath, the balance felt right. Like his hand knew something his arm hadn’t caught up to yet.

  Then it faded—just wood again.

  He swung once more.

  Behind him, his father’s voice came low and steady. “That for the crows?”

  Tareth didn’t answer. He didn’t stop either.

  His father didn’t press.

  A moment later, the house door creaked open.

  “Tareth!” his mother called. “Wash before supper, or I’m feeding the fire instead!”

  Still, he didn’t move.

  Just one more swing. He needed to feel it again. He wasn’t sure why.

  The wind pulled gentle through the field. His father kept working. The chickens kept running.

  Tareth narrowed his stance. Swung again.

  Not faster. Not harder.

  Just closer.

  He didn’t know what he was chasing.

  Only that if he stopped now, he might forget what it felt like to try.

  The seasons turned. Blisters toughened. The stick grew longer.

  Sometimes—when the village slept—Tareth would carve symbols into the dirt. Circles. Lines. A shape he didn’t recognize but couldn’t stop redrawing.

  Once, he thought of two names—Mira. Bren. They meant nothing. No faces, no voices. Just syllables that drifted up like bubbles… then slipped back under.

  Buried beneath the waves of new memories.

  By eight, the echo was gone though it left an impact on who he was.

  His hands still remembered.

  Tareth knelt beside the old well behind the chapel, fingers tracing the stone’s worn edge. Spirals. Cracked suns. Bone shapes that weren’t quite animal, weren’t quite human. They circled the base like forgotten prayers.

  He’d been coming here every few days since the thaw. The newer well drew clean water, but this one drew him. No one else lingered here. The air was damper. Unmoving.

  His hand passed over a chipped symbol—sharp-edged, buried deep.

  “Why’re these here?” he asked once, weeks ago. His mother glanced down as they passed, then back to the laundry in her basket.

  “Old stories,” she said. “Or old nonsense. Either way, don’t stare too long. That’s how dreams get in.”

  But he came back anyway.

  He didn’t know what the carvings meant. But they felt… placed. Like someone had put them there on purpose, long before Orden’s Field had fences or names.

  Today, they looked like maps.

  “You whisperin’ to rocks again?”

  Tareth’s fingers froze.

  Joren Meric’s voice always sounded smug—like he already thought he’d won. He stood a few paces off, arms crossed, coat too clean for a working boy.

  Tareth didn’t turn.

  “You kiss ‘em too? Tell ‘em secrets?” Joren said. “Stone-kisser. That’s what we’ll call you.”

  Two other boys stood behind him. One laughed. The other didn’t.

  Tareth stood, brushed dirt from his palms.

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t give Joren the weight.

  “Oh come on,” Joren pressed. “That’s it? No weird words? No creepy smile?”

  Tareth walked away. Slowly. Not rushed.

  Behind him, Joren’s voice chased after like a stone through still water.

  “Go ahead, run off! Maybe the rocks’ll teach you to fight!”

  ***

  That night, behind the barn, Tareth carved a sword.

  Not from memory. Not from games.

  From need.

  The stick was thick at the base, straighter than most. He whittled it by firelight, thumb braced against the dull carving knife’s spine. The tip came to a flattened point. The grip he wrapped in fraying twine. His fingers worked without second-guessing.

  When he tested the weight, it balanced.

  Not perfect. But close.

  He swung once.

  Then again.

  The barn groaned faintly in the wind.

  He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

  Just watched the blade move through air like it belonged there.

  And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t think about the carvings.

  He thought about the boy who called him names—

  And what it would feel like, one day, to stop walking away.

  The years stacked like firewood.

  Each swing left calluses. Each season, the blade changed—longer, straighter, closer to right.

  He started sketching patterns in the dirt after lessons. Not words. Not runes. Just shapes—grids, curves, roads that led nowhere. His teacher called it wandering.

  Tareth called it thinking.

  By eleven, the sword moved like breath. And his questions had learned to wait.

  The morning mist hadn’t lifted when Tareth slipped behind the barn.

  The sword wasn’t real—not steel, not even bronze. Just carved wood, smoothed and weighted, twine wrapped at the hilt. But it fit his grip now. It had grown with him.

  So had the swings.

  One foot forward. Turn. Cut low. Step back. Breathe.

  The rhythm came easier now. Like his bones knew the beat even when his mind wandered.

  He moved faster. The breath in his lungs felt light—charged. His back foot pivoted, and the swing followed like a pulled string.

  Then a voice in his head-

  [Swordsmanship – Level 1]

  He froze.

  No echo. No explanation. Just the words.

  He blinked. Looked at his hands.

  What was that voice?

  Then he grinned.

  The weight of him getting a skill slowly sinking in.

  He didn’t shout. Didn’t run inside to tell anyone.

  He danced.

  Feet scuffing dust, arms slicing air. Not graceful—just wild. A boy alone behind a barn, grinning like an idiot with a stick and a new truth:

  He was good at something.

  Finally.

  ***

  That afternoon, near the well, Joren Meric stood with both arms out, flame dancing between his fingers.

  “Fire Mage,” he said loudly. “Confirmed last week. The priest sent the empire a letter.”

  Two younger boys stared, wide-eyed.

  “Go on,” Joren said, smirking. “Try hitting me. I’ll block it.”

  They didn’t move. They just gawked as he flared the flame higher, then snapped it into a spiral and let it vanish with a puff of smoke.

  “My tutor said it was early, but not rare,” he added casually. “It’s in the blood, really. Dad has magic too.”

  Tareth sat beneath the tree line, just far enough away to pretend he wasn’t listening.

  He watched the way Joren held himself—shoulders back, jaw high, like he thought the whole village owed him attention.

  A class.

  A real one.

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  Tareth hadn’t even known people could awaken them that young.

  He looked down at his hand. It didn’t glow. Didn’t burn. Just skin, worn and rough, still stained from carving.

  He’d swung sticks for seven years. Alone. Quiet. Behind sheds and fences.

  Joren’s father had paid for two tutors and sent him scrolls from the capital.

  Tareth earned a skill.

  Joren had a class.

  He didn’t hate him for it. Not really.

  But he wondered.

  Could a skill ever match a class? Could he ever match Joren—magic and all—just by swinging harder?

  The thought sank deep.

  Then he stood, shook the dust from his sleeves, and walked back toward the barn.

  His sword was still there. Waiting.

  He picked it up.

  And started again.

  Smoke curled in soft ribbons through the thatch above, catching the gold of morning like it belonged there. The coals hadn’t burned out overnight—his mother always fed them early, before the cold could settle.

  Tareth sat up slowly, the blanket heavy on his chest, the room still quiet enough to pretend it was just his. But the smell of bread and root stew said otherwise.

  A pot clinked somewhere past the curtain. Then came her voice—gentle, but never soft.

  “Tareth! Up now, boy. Food’s hot, and I’m not warming it twice!”

  He swung his legs off the cot, bare feet brushing packed earth still cool from the night. The blanket slid down behind him, forgotten.

  Tareth sat at the rough-hewn table, hands still sleep-heavy as he tore off a piece of crusted bread. The river herb stew steamed in a shallow clay bowl, green and sharp-smelling, with thin curls of root drifting like ghosts across the surface.

  His mother moved behind him, ladling more from the pot into her own bowl.

  “Eat up,” she said, dropping into the bench across from him. “You’ve got errands after this.”

  He glanced up, chewing. “Where?”

  “The baker. The clothier. And Mari says she’s holding your herbs behind the counter—claims you forgot them last week.”

  “I didn’t forget,” Tareth muttered. “She just didn’t see me.”

  His mother raised an eyebrow. “Then you need to stand taller.”

  He frowned into his stew. “I’m trying.”

  She softened, just a little. “I know. And you’re doing fine.”

  They ate in silence for a moment, save for the creak of the old bench and the gentle clink of spoons. The window let in the morning light in long stripes, warm and golden.

  “You’ll walk?” she asked.

  Tareth nodded. “It’s not far.”

  “Then mind the road near the mill. Rain came down hard last night—stones might’ve shifted.”

  He nodded again, slower this time.

  “...And Tareth,” she added, voice quieter now, “if those boys are near the square today…”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

  She didn’t push it. Just tapped his bowl gently.

  “Finish that, then go.”

  Tareth picked at the last crust of bread, then looked up.

  “Where’s dad?”

  His mother sipped her stew, then set the spoon down with a soft clink.

  “He went with John. Said the storm uncovered something near the ridge.”

  Tareth straightened a little. “What kind of something?”

  She gave him a look—half warning, half fond.

  “You’re too curious, Tareth. It’s a matter for the adults. Let it go.”

  “But—”

  “Run the errands,” she said, pushing back from the table. “And don’t dawdle. The baker sells out early and the festival is tonight.”

  Tareth sighed, scraping the last of the stew with his bread.

  “Fine.”

  The door creaked as it swung open, wood swollen from the night’s rain. Tareth stepped out into the morning.

  Mist still clung to the valley floor, curling around fence posts and clinging to the legs of passing goats. Somewhere up the hill, a rooster cried out late and confused. The dirt path squished faintly under his boots.

  He shifted the satchel on his shoulder. Cloth, herbs, bread.

  Birthday.

  No one said it outright, but he could feel it in the way the morning watched him—quiet, waiting.

  A breeze pushed past him, warm already, carrying the smell of ash, dough, and wet earth. Tareth didn’t rush. Just walked.

  Ten minutes later he was in the town square making his way to his first stop.

  The bell above the door gave a lazy jingle as Tareth stepped inside.

  Warmth hit him first—thick, yeasty, and golden. Then the sound of kneading—rhythmic, heavy thumps echoing from the back.

  “Back already?” came a voice like gravel rolled in honey.

  Hal emerged from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a flour-stained apron. He was broad in the shoulders, thicker in the middle, with forearms like split logs and a smile that always seemed about to turn into a laugh.

  “Didn’t burn the stew this morning, did you?”

  Tareth shook his head. “Mum sent me. Said you’d have the loaf ready.”

  Hal snorted. “Course I do. Got your mother’s tongue sharper than my blades, though.” He bent to a low shelf, came up with a wrapped parcel, still warm, crust glistening with melted herb butter.

  “Here. And you tell her this one’s free.”

  Tareth blinked. “Why?”

  Hal grinned. “Boy forgets his own birthday, does he? Or just too humble to say?”

  Tareth shrugged.

  Hal leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Tell you what, lad. You dodge Meric out there again today, I’ll throw in a honey bun next time. That boy’s got the look of someone who’s never worked a day in mud.”

  Tareth allowed the faintest smile. “He talks a lot.”

  Hal winked. “That’s all they ever do.”

  He handed over the bread with a slap of his big hand on Tareth’s shoulder. “Now off with you. Before I start baking speeches too.”

  The door shut behind him with a puff of warm air, and Tareth stepped back into the square.

  Joren was not in the square today—maybe he was just farther down the road—but Tareth didn’t stop to check. He crossed quick, keeping to the edges where the shade still lingered, boots thudding soft against sun-dried earth.

  The clothier’s shop stood just past the smithy, half-tucked beneath a sloped eave, bolts of faded fabric hanging like flags from a crossbeam. A cat lay sprawled on the step, tail flicking with disinterest as he passed.

  Tareth pushed open the door.

  The scent inside was different—linen, cedar, and old dust. Not musty, just… orderly. Everything in its place. Thread spools lined one shelf like soldiers. A half-finished tunic hung on a frame near the window, sleeves pinned, stitches crisp and clean.

  Ressa didn’t look up right away. She sat behind the counter, needle flashing in her fingers, jaw set in concentration.

  “You’re early,” she said without turning.

  “I ran,” Tareth replied.

  “I said early, not breathless.”

  She glanced up then—sharp-eyed, with streaks of silver in her braid. Not unkind, just efficient. She had the look of someone who measured everything before cutting—words included.

  Tareth stepped forward.

  “Mum sent me. Said you had the cloth.”

  Ressa reached under the counter, pulled out a wrapped bundle—neatly folded, tied twice. “Tell her the hem on the old smock won’t last the season. I’ll have a new one ready before first frost.”

  Tareth nodded, taking the cloth.

  “And tell her,” Ressa added, “that the stitching on your cuffs looks like it was done in the dark.”

  “She tried,” he muttered.

  “I know. That’s why I’m fixing it.”

  She gave him a rare half-smile, then nodded toward the door. “Go on. Mari’ll want your shadow off her floor before the tea steeps.”

  The herbalist’s shop sat low against the hill, half-shaded by the old elm that bent like a bow over the path. Vines curled up the walls, thick with late-summer bloom, and the doorway smelled like mint, earth, and something sharp beneath.

  Tareth pushed through the bead curtain.

  Mari was already behind the counter, sleeves rolled, mortar in one hand, pestle in the other. Her dark hair was tied back with twine, loose strands clinging to her cheeks. She didn’t look up.

  “You forgot them,” she said flatly.

  Tareth blinked. “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t take them.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Not to the roots it isn’t. Dried fennel waits for no boy.”

  She set down the pestle, brushed her hands clean, and turned with a raised brow. “Your mother already came by to collect this week’s bundle. This”—she reached beneath the counter and thumped a small pouch on the surface—“is last week’s. Still here. Still mine.”

  Tareth stepped forward, sheepish.

  Mari’s tone softened just a little. “You watching the crows again, or did the sky finally whisper something more important than errands?”

  “I was listening to the stones,” he said, then immediately regretted it.

  Mari blinked once. Then smiled—just barely. “Well. That’s new.”

  She handed him the pouch, tied snug with a sprig of something bitter tucked into the knot.

  “Don’t lose it this time,” she said. “And tell your mother I’ll need more feverroot by midmonth.”

  Tareth nodded, backing toward the curtain.

  “And Tareth?” she called.

  He paused.

  “Happy Birthday.”

  The sun had burned off most of the mist by the time Tareth stepped back into the road, satchel heavier now with bread, cloth, and herbs. He could’ve headed straight home.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, his feet carried him slow toward the smithy, where the air shimmered faintly with heat and the tang of metal hung thick. The forge wasn’t lit—twice a month, never more—but Garen always worked. Sharpening blades, shaping hinges, setting broken tools back to right.

  Tareth hovered just past the corner, watching.

  Garen’s hammer clinked soft against the anvil, deliberate, unhurried. He was a tall man, all shoulder and soot, with a short beard and arms veined like tree roots. The light caught in his sweat-dark shirt, each movement clean, efficient.

  Then he spoke, without turning.

  “Tareth.”

  The boy froze.

  Garen turned, a knowing half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Your shadow’s heavier than your feet, you know that?”

  Tareth stepped closer, sheepish.

  The blacksmith reached for a rag, wiped his hands, then leaned against the bench. “Your father said you’ve got a liking for blades. Said you move like someone who’s seen more fights than he’s had.”

  Tareth said nothing—but his eyes flicked to the rack on the wall.

  Garen followed the look, then nodded slowly. “I hear your twelve-years-old today.”

  Tareth hesitated, then gave a small nod.

  “Well,” Garen said, stepping aside, “it’s not much. Mistake I made last spring—handle came out crooked, weight’s off near the tip. But it’s sharp enough to teach your hands what they’re doing. Ive seen you practicing with that stick maybe this will do you better.”

  He reached under the bench and pulled it free—a short bronze blade, notched slightly near the hilt, but gleaming where it counted. He held it out flat on his palms.

  Tareth stared.

  Then stepped forward, carefully taking it with both hands.

  “It’s not for show,” Garen said, tone quiet now. “It’s for learning. Don’t go waving it near the mill like a hero. Just practice. Find the balance.”

  Tareth nodded—eyes wide, jaw set like he was trying not to smile.

  Garen gave a short laugh. “Tell your mother and father I said hello.”

  Tareth turned, cradling the sword like something living, and this time when he stepped back into the road, he was grinning.

  The sun hung high by the time he reached the cottage, its warmth caught in the curls of smoke drifting from the chimney.

  Tareth stepped inside, careful not to rattle the satchel. His mother stood at the table, elbow-deep in dough, flour dusting her sleeves.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Back already?”

  He held up the bread. “Hal said this one’s free.”

  Her brows rose. “Did he now?”

  “And Ressa said the hem’s failing. She’ll make a new smock.”

  “Of course she will.” She turned back to kneading. “And Mari?”

  Tareth dropped the herb pouch on the table. “Said the fennel doesn’t wait.”

  That earned a snort. She wiped her hands and finally faced him, eyes narrowing just slightly.

  “And?”

  Tareth hesitated. Then drew the small bronze sword from behind his back, both hands cupped around the hilt.

  Her breath caught.

  “Garen gave it to me.”

  She took a step closer, brushed her fingers over the blade’s flat edge. “Did he.”

  “He said it’s for learning.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded once. “Just don’t go poking the goats.”

  He smiled, small and sure.

  It was festival day they had it early this year cause of testing next month but why on Tareth's birthday of all days.

  Tareth stood near the edge of the square, a cup of spiced tea warming his hands. His sword was hidden beneath his cloak, wrapped in linen to hide it from Joren and the other's. He wasn’t the only twelve-year-old but he still felt like the youngest.

  A girl darted past him laughing, cheeks red with cold. Someone called for bread. A man spilled cider on his boots and didn’t seem to care.

  Tareth turned toward the music—just as a familiar voice cut through it all.

  “Well, look who showed up.”

  Joren Meric stood across the square, arms folded, smirking like the whole village was his stage. He wore a new coat—deep crimson, gold trim—far too fine for the mud. His hair was slicked back, not a curl out of place.

  Two boys flanked him, both grinning. Shadows without substance.

  Tareth didn’t move.

  Joren sauntered over, eyes gleaming. “Didn’t think you’d come. Thought maybe you were off talking to trees again. Or playing with that little stick you think is a sword.”

  Tareth kept his voice even. “I don’t think it is. I know it is.”

  Joren scoffed. “Sure. And I’m a dragon.”

  He leaned closer. “You ever think maybe you’re just… weird? Always watching. Always quiet. Like you’re better than the rest of us.”

  One of the other boys chuckled. “Thinks he’s a hero.”

  “No,” Joren said, sharp now. “Thinks he could be one.”

  He let the silence hang, then grinned wider. “You know what I am? I’m a fire mage. Got my Class last year. Flames right from the hand. Real power. Not swinging a bent piece of wood behind the barn.”

  Tareth stared. Joren’s voice lowered.

  “My family paid for two tutors. Got tested, trained, leveled. You? You’re just some poor farmer’s kid. No skill. No future.”

  Tareth felt his hands clench. His voice came low.

  “You’re a noble in a village with fifteen houses.”

  The grin dropped.

  “What did you say?”

  Tareth stepped forward, just once. “You act like you’re above us. But no one here bows. No one cares. You’re just a name with coin. And a coat too clean for real work.”

  Joren’s mouth tightened. The others stopped laughing.

  “You think that makes you clever?” he snapped. “You think anyone’s going to remember you?”

  He spat at the dirt.

  “You’re just like your father. A failure. Got kicked from the knight order in disgrace, didn’t he? Couldn’t even protect the noble he served. Got someone killed. You think you’ll be better?”

  Tareth didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  The boys laughed. Not loud—mean.

  “Face it,” Joren said. “You’ll never fit in. Never be one of us. Just like your dad.”

  Tareth turned and ran.

  He didn’t know where he was going.

  Through the back lanes. Past the chapel. Behind the barn where the grass grew high and the hill dipped low. His chest ached. His eyes burned. The words kept echoing--Just like your dad.

  He dropped to his knees behind the old woodpile, hands pressed to his face, breath shaking. He didn’t cry loud. Just quiet—like he always did. Like the grief was something he was trying to swallow.

  The footsteps didn’t startle him. Not when they were that familiar.

  His father didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside him, hands in his coat, staring off at the clouds piling over the hills.

  “You alright?” he asked after a while.

  Tareth wiped his face on his sleeve.

  “No.”

  His father nodded, slow. Sat down beside him, knees cracking. “Festival too loud?”

  Tareth didn’t answer.

  “Joren again?”

  Tareth flinched.

  His father sighed. “What was it this time?”

  Tareth’s jaw clenched. “Said I was weird. That I’d never fit in. That you got kicked from the order. That I’d be a nothing like you.”

  A pause.

  Then his father said, almost too quietly, “He’s not wrong about all of it.”

  Tareth looked up, shocked.

  “I did leave the order,” his father said. “And i did fail. But it’s not a story for now. Maybe one day.”

  He turned, met Tareth’s eyes. “But him saying you’re nothing? That you won’t be anything? That part’s horse dung.”

  Tareth looked down again. Voice small.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No,” his father said. “But I understand you. And that’s enough for me.”

  A long silence.

  Then, quietly—ashamed—Tareth mumbled, “I do have a skill.”

  His father froze. “What?”

  Tareth swallowed. “Swordsmanship. I—I hit level one. A while ago.”

  His father stared at him, stunned. Not angry. Just… full.

  He pulled Tareth into a hug—rough and clumsy, but tight. “That’s… stars above, son. That’s something.”

  Then, pulling back just slightly, he looked down at him.

  “But we keep it quiet, alright? Just you and me. For now.”

  Tareth nodded.

  And his father smiled.

  That night, the cottage was quiet.

  Wind brushed the shutters. The coals in the hearth burned low. Tareth lay still beneath his blanket, eyes open, listening.

  It started with his mother’s voice—soft, hushed behind the curtain that separated the room.

  “You didn’t tell the priest, did you?”

  A pause.

  “No,” his father said. “Of course not. But he’ll ask. He always does.”

  Another silence. The kind that holds weight.

  “They’re taking the skilled ones this year. You know that. Anyone twelve and up, ready or not. Joren’s going. Half the village already knows.”

  “They won’t take him,” his father said. But his voice lacked certainty.

  “If they find out,” his mother whispered, “they will.”

  The wind pressed harder against the house. The shutters thumped once, then stilled.

  “We could lie,” she said.

  “They have ways to check.”

  More silence.

  “Maybe he won’t say anything,” she added.

  His father exhaled. “He’s not a liar.”

  “No,” she murmured. “But he’s still just a boy.”

  ***

  Tareth didn’t sleep.

  When the fire faded and their voices trailed off into the dark, he sat up.

  Careful. Quiet.

  He reached beneath the cot, fingers finding the wrapped hilt of the bronze blade. His belt hung from the wall peg. He looped it around his waist, tucking the cloth-wrapped blade tight into his belt.

  Then, barefoot, he crossed to the window.

  He unlatched it.

  Pushed it open.

  And stepped out into the night.

  The night air cut colder than he expected.

  Tareth crept past the goats, their ears flicking but not stirring. Past the quiet square where earlier laughter had burned into ash. His feet were damp from the grass, belt tight around his waist, the cloth-wrapped sword bouncing light against his hip.

  I won’t let them take me.

  He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t stay in that house. Not tonight. Not with their voices still echoing in his head.

  He’s not a liar.

  But he’s still just a boy.

  He clenched his teeth and kept walking.

  Up the ridge, where the fields thinned and the fence leaned sideways like it was tired of standing. The wind up here had a voice—not words, but something close. Dry, rustling, like someone breathing through the trees.

  I didn’t ask for any of this. I just wanted to practice. I didn’t think it mattered.

  But it did. And now the Empire would come. Just like they always did.

  His hand brushed the hilt behind on his hip.

  I’d rather run. I’d rather disappear than let them put me in a uniform and force me to be a soldier.

  Then he saw it.

  A shallow dip in the earth where the last rain had collapsed the edge of the hill. Stones jutted from the soil like broken teeth. Old, weathered, cracked. The moss was slick, glowing faintly green in the moonlight.

  Tareth stepped closer, heart rising in his throat.

  What is this?

  He dropped to his knees, fingers brushing away the dirt.

  The carvings were older than anything he’d seen in Orden’s Field. Spirals. Stars. A shape he half-remembered from the stone behind the well. He reached out, drawn without thinking.

  This is really old. This is…

  The ground gave way.

  His feet slid. Earth crumbled. Roots snapped around him as the hillside folded open, and he dropped—blind, breathless, tumbling into black.

  He didn’t scream.

  His hand found the sword, pulled it free.

  The light above vanished.

  And Tareth Vael fell into the dark.