The wind was gentle, almost playful. Birds chirped, leaves swayed like they were whispering old songs, and the sun painted everything golden. The village of Riverbend was alive.

  Children laughed near the riverbanks, tossing stones and daring each other into the shallows. Fishermen tugged their lines and leaned back on old crates. The scent of baked bread and fresh earth lingered in the air. A woman laughed as she stirred a pot outside her home, a baby clinging to her side. A man passed by with baskets of herbs, greeting her.

  Lysandros lay flat on his back in the tall grass, eyes closed, face tilted toward the warmth of the morning. His tunic was clean. His boots were dry. And he was younger—maybe thirteen, still lanky with the roundness of boyhood on his cheeks.

  Then—

  “Hey! Son!”

  His father’s voice cut across the field. Familiar. Strong. Worn.

  “Come over here! I have something to tell you! Something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a very long time!”

  But before Lysandros could sit up—

  CRACKK-THUUUM!

  The sky turned dark. Wind howled. The grass flattened in panic. Rain crashed down in sheets. In a blink, Riverbend was gone, no laughter, no sun, no warm bread, only silence and the stench of rot.

  Now Lysandros stood, soaked, trembling. In front of him: dozens of lifeless bodies sprawled across the mud, stacked like broken furniture. The plague, Lymesis, had left no time for grief.

  His father crouched before him, shovel in one hand. Same white tunic, same green breeches, drenched and heavy from the rain. Black hair stuck to his face, his green eyes wild with urgency.

  “Son! We have to burn them!” his voice cracked under the weight of it. “The ones who’ve died, if we don’t, the sickness will spread faster. The storm’s only getting worse. We have to gather them, rope them, and burn them inside the old kiln house. Come on, Lysandros!”

  “No!” Lysandros shouted, his young voice thin against the rain. “No, Dad! We can’t do that! These people, they were people! They had names! Lives! Families! You used to tell me, we bury the dead to give them rest. So they can sleep in the earth! Not be turned to ash like garbage!”

  His father stared at him, breathing hard, face caught between fear and pain.

  “…Okay,” he finally said, shoulders lowering. “Okay… So let’s hurry. Before anyone sees.”

  But someone did.

  A voice, deep, sharp, called out from behind them. “Oi! What’s taking you two so long?!”

  The War Chief of Riverbend stepped forward, two men flanking him, clad in leather armor. Daggers on their belts. Rain dripping from their cloaks.

  “You want this plague to eat through the rest of us too?!” he snapped. “We burn the corpses. That’s the only way. If we don’t act now, we’ll all be in those piles next week!”

  Lysandros' father turned to him, defeated. “I’m sorry, Lysandros. We can’t. Not this time.”

  “No!” Lysandros cried out, chest heaving, fists clenched. His voice wobbled but he stood firm, face red with fury. “They were people! You don’t just burn people! That’s not safety—it’s fear! That’s not mercy—it’s giving up! What if it was Mom in that pile?! Or me?! Would you still say that?! Would you still toss us in with the rest and light the match?!”

  His father flinched.

  The War Chief stepped forward.

  Then—

  BOOOOOOM!!!

  A lightning strike. A nearby house erupted into flames.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Four homes now blazed like candles in the rain.

  “What?!” the War Chief gasped, backing away. “Lightning? Now?!”

  His men panicked, shouting.

  Another deafening thunderclap cracked the air—

  And Lysandros woke up.

  He gasped.

  His chest rising fast. Skin slick with sweat despite the chill. The world was quiet again, night air, faint moonlight through broken stone, the distant croak of frogs.

  But now Alexia was no longer asleep. She sat quietly on a fallen log, one hand poking gently at the campfire with a stick, watching the embers pulse orange and gold. Her sword rested across her legs, unsheathed but calm, like her.

  She glanced at him as he stirred.

  “Woah,” she said, raising a brow. “You okay? Looked like you had a nightmare there.”

  Lysandros rubbed his face, still half-caught in the haze of what he saw. Or dreamed. Or remembered.

  “Wh–where are we?” he muttered.

  Alexia pointed with the stick, casual and calm. “Just slightly away from the gates of the Northern District of Agrekya. Look, it’s just up there.”

  Through the thinning trees, a stone wall stretched along the hill, quiet under the moonlight. Tall iron torches flickered against it. Ten knights stood guard, still, watchful, blades resting at their hips. Above them, simple banners hung down the wall. A pale stag against a gray field, a faded blue cross, and the sunburst of House Basileides.

  “Woah,” Lysandros murmured. “You’re right. Wait, how’d we even end up here?”

  “You passed out,” she replied, not unkindly. “Right after we started walking from the gravesite. I think you overused your fracture. Pushed too far.” She turned her eyes back to the fire. “But don’t worry. You weren’t out long. Just a little time.”

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  “I guess I did…” He looked at his hands again, quietly, as if unsure whether they were still his.

  “You ready to walk again?” she asked. “You can rest properly once we get inside.”

  He nodded, but something still nagged at him. “Wait, hold on. Why are you willing to pay? For my tunic, my shovel… the food?”

  Alexia looked up at the sky before answering, as if the words had been there all along. “Because in our kingdom, there are fractureborns too. But lately… fewer and fewer. People like us keep vanishing without a trace. No warning. No signs.”

  She paused. Her fingers ran along the flat of her sword’s blade, though it remained at rest.

  “So I think it’s better that we find each other. Fractureborns. That we stick together, share what we know, protect each other. While the rest of the world… well, it still thinks we’re cursed. Like we caused the plague. Like we’re not quite human anymore.”

  Lysandros frowned. “That’s horrible.”

  Alexia’s expression shifted—calm, but heavy with something old. Something lived.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It is. And you wanna know my biggest mistake?”

  She didn’t wait for his answer.

  “I told someone. When I was younger. Just a few people, I thought. That I was a fractureborn. Thought it would help. Thought maybe they’d understand. But they didn’t. Word spread fast. Faster than I could stop it. And the moment they knew…” Her voice quieted. “They changed. Some were afraid of me. Others mocked me. They didn’t throw me out of the kingdom, sure. But they stopped seeing me as one of them.”

  There was a long silence between them, broken only by the soft popping of the fire.

  “But hey,” she added, voice lighter now, with a flicker of that old stubborn strength, “you won’t be alone. You’ve got me now. And you’ll meet my friends soon, too. There’s only three of them, but they’re good. And they’re enough. For me, at least.”

  She smiled genuinely. Not out of politeness, but out of something rare and quiet.

  Lysandros felt a flush creep up his neck. He coughed and looked away, rubbing his nose. “Right. Hehe!”

  He stood, brushing the dirt from his borrowed cloak, swishing it dramatically. “Let’s go!”

  Alexia stood too, strapping her sword back to her belt with a quiet click. She chuckled as she caught a glance at the cloak now thoroughly smudged with grave-soil and dried rain.

  “I really need my cloak cleaned again,” she muttered.

  Lysandros grinned. “C’mon! The extra soil makes the cloak way cooler! Gives it that tragic-hero-who-buries-his-past kind of vibe!”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head, already walking toward the gate. “You’re insufferable.”

  And so they began to move again—Alexia leading with calm steps, Lysandros a pace behind, cloak billowing in the night wind like he owned it.

  The gates of Agrekya waited above them, flickering with light. But behind them, the fire still crackled gently, warmth in the darkness, briefly borrowed, now fading.

  — ? — ? —

  Two knights stood by the torch-lit gates, shifting in their armor, shoulders hunched against the chill. Their silver pauldrons gleamed dully under the flamelight, and their breath clouded the still night air.

  "Hey," one muttered, rubbing his gloved hands together, "we better not be caught slacking off like this. If a noble sees us, gods forbid, the Princess herself, we’re as good as dead."

  The other chuckled, half-hearted. "Dead, or reassigned to the filth pits near the South Sewers. Same thing."

  A gust of wind stirred the banners above them, plain white cloth marked with the sigil of Agrekya. A single black sword piercing a crown, the blade cracked faintly in the middle.

  "Always look sharp when they come," the first added, narrowing his eyes down the forested path ahead.

  "But it's already midnight," the other yawned, leaning against his spear. "Everyone’s probably asleep. Nobles snoring, merchants drunk, guards like us freezing our asses off. Only shadows walk at this hour."

  "Yeah, yeah. Still, we’ve got a job. Keep your eyes open. That's what we signed up for."

  Above them, on the stone walkway lining the castle wall, a stern voice called out.

  "Hey! You two down there!" It was the archer stationed on the wall. A serious one, known for writing reports even on his fellow guards. "You see anything odd?"

  "None, boss!" the first guard called up.

  "None!" echoed the second.

  The archer didn't respond. Just kept pacing, his silhouette rigid against the torchlight, bow slung across his back like a threat.

  "Tsk," the first knight muttered under his breath. "He doesn’t have to bark orders like that. We know our damn job."

  The second knight, tone quieter now, gaze focused on the road, spoke again. "Say... you heard about that boy from the Southern District?"

  The other turned. "The boy from Southern District? Seventeen? Eighteen? Fractureborn, wasn’t he?"

  "Yeah. That’s the one. They said he was kidnapped. Broad daylight. By people dressed as wanderers. Cloaked figures. Blue cloaks, I think. Covered faces. No insignia."

  A silence fell.

  "That’s the third this month," the second said eventually. "Thirteenth this year. They’re picking off Fractureborn like wolves in the woods."

  "Gods, it’s awful."

  "And no one’s doing anything about it. Not the nobles. Not even Princess Ismene herself."

  "You’d think she'd care. What with the plague, and the fractures... but no. Fractureborn go missing and all we get are rumors and shrugged shoulders."

  The first knight glanced upward toward the keep, where faint torchlight burned behind the tall windows. "Even the priests won’t speak on it. Brother Nikandros acts like it’s none of his concern. And that higher one, Brother Pyros, older brother of Brother Nikandros, he just spits at the ground whenever someone brings it up."

  "Yikes," the other winced. "What a cursed life it must be. How do they even walk around, knowing they’re hunted like that?"

  "Alone," came the reply. "That’s how."

  A long pause.

  "Wanna switch? I’m getting sleepy. Just wake me when your eyes start drooping, I’ll take over."

  "Deal. Don’t snore."

  Just as the guard leaned against the stone for rest, a third knight, older, silent, arms crossed and leaned against the wall all this time, suddenly straightened. His eyes narrowed.

  “Enough chatter,” he said.

  The other two blinked. “What?”

  He raised a hand, still watching the woods. “Someone’s coming.”

  Then came the footsteps.

  At first, faint, barely louder than the crackle of fire, but then growing. Measured. Purposeful. From the treeline, beyond the cobbled path that snaked out toward the north woods.

  All ten guards tensed. Even the archers on the wall froze, bows quietly lifted, watching.

  Then—figures. Emerging from shadow and underbrush.

  Alexia stepped forward, her cloak brushing past low brambles, her stride slow but confident. A fire-worn traveler’s gait, the kind that didn’t falter even in strange lands. Her sword was sheathed at her side, a steady hand resting atop it.

  Beside her, a younger man—Lysandros—cloaked in brown, boots dusty, a bit of soil still crusted near the hem. Wide-eyed, though trying not to show it.

  A few guards murmured quietly as they drew closer.

  "That’s her... Alexia Lethiane."

  "The fractureborn warrior?"

  "She looks... cool, doesn’t she? I mean, beautiful, too—"

  "Too bad. Still a fractureborn."

  Alexia stopped a few paces from the gate, raising her hand calmly in greeting.

  One of the gate knights stepped forward, voice brisk. “State your names.”

  Alexia, composed, spoke first. “Alexia Lethiane. Resident of Agrekya. Returning from a scouting trip east, under Princess Ismene’s charter.”

  The guard squinted at her. “We know you. You’re cleared.”

  He turned his attention to the boy beside her.

  “You. Speak. You don’t look like you’re from here.”

  Lysandros stepped forward, trying not to sound nervous. “Lysandros Damarchos. From the village of Riverbend.”

  The guard raised a brow. “Are you two acquainted?”

  Alexia nodded smoothly. “Yes. A fellow adventuring acquaintance. He accompanies me on royal assignments.”

  “Hmph.” The guard’s eyes lingered on Lysandros, but he nodded. “Very well. Enter.”

  Behind him, another guard began rotating the heavy wooden mechanism beside the wall. With a clatter of chains and groan of wood, the massive gate began to rise—slowly, its beams creaking as torchlight leaked out between the opening slats.

  The gate yawned wide enough to admit two figures.

  Alexia stepped through first. Lysandros followed, wide-eyed.

  The gates rumbled closed behind them.

  Alexia, not looking back, murmured, “Welcome to the kingdom of Agrekya.”

  Lysandros turned in a slow circle, muttering beneath his breath. “Woah...”

  Every building lining the cobbled streets was lit with warm lanterns and oil torches, some hanging beside doors, others perched atop carved posts. The air smelled of old wood, wet stone, and distant forge-smoke. Blacksmiths’ chimneys still trickled embers into the sky. A chapel tower loomed at the hill’s crest, its bell silent in the night.

  And beyond it all, rising higher than the rest, the royal keep. Pale stone. Sloped spires. Draped banners catching the wind.

  Even the trees whispered here.

  The kind of place where stories lived in every shadow.