Kialan
The car came to a stop with a crunch of gravel under the tires. A quiet stillness settled over us, broken only by the hum of the sea and the rustle of wind in the distant trees. As I stepped out, a salty breeze greeted my face—sharp, cold, and unfamiliar. I scanned the area. Jagged cliffs framed the coastline like guardians, while the boat station ahead sat nestled in a natural curve of rock and sand, cloaked in the mist rolling in from the open sea.
We began unloading our things in silence. My parents exchanged a look before calling out to me.
"Kialan," Dad said, "we'll be taking the lead boat. There's not enough space for everyone to board the same vessel."
I gave a small nod, unsurprised. Fewer people meant more silence—and more weight on every word.
As we approached the dock, I noticed a man waiting at the end of the pier. At first glance, he looked no older than thirty. But with each step closer, that perception began to unravel. His posture was ageless—too still, too measured. The depth in his eyes hinted at something ancient, as though time had left fingerprints on his spirit without aging his face.
When we reached him, he raised a hand in greeting.
"Domus Valenheart welcomes Domus Hustharic to Businish Island," he intoned.
My parents bowed slightly, and I followed their lead. Together, we replied in unison.
"Domus Hustharic is happy to be your guest."
I caught the subtle flicker of surprise in my parents' expressions. They hadn't expected me to get it right—at least, not that flawlessly.
It's not that I don't learn what they teach me. I do. I just… wanted a little more time before wearing this mantle. But clearly, time isn't interested in waiting.
As the man—Valenheart, I assumed—conversed with my parents, I used the moment to study him more closely.
His features were sharply defined, as though carved from marble with deliberate care. Symmetry that bordered on unnatural. I remembered stories Mom once told me—how the Domus Valenheart bloodline carried a rare genetic trait that made them almost ethereal in appearance. A kind of beauty you couldn't trust. Even without the telltale shimmer of the healing blood in his eyes, he stood out. Regal. Distant. Like something that belonged in a legend, not a conversation.
Still… there was something unsettling about it. Like staring at a statue and suddenly realizing it's breathing.
"Kialan."
My name broke the trance. Both my parents had spoken, in unison again.
I straightened, blinking. From their expressions, they'd been calling me for a while.
"Yes, Mom?"
She didn't look annoyed. Just quietly reminding me to be present.
Then Valenheart turned his full attention to me. His gaze pinned me in place, and when he spoke, his voice was calm—but heavy, like thunder far off.
"You're young," he said. "And yet, I see in you the unrest of the old blood."
I froze. The words sank deep, unsettling something I didn't realize was stirring inside me.
What did he see, exactly? What did that mean?
Unrest. Old blood. Was it a compliment? A warning?
A thousand thoughts spun through my mind, but I couldn't settle on one to say aloud.
He smiled faintly, as if he'd heard them all. "Businish sees all. The Island breathes, young Hustharic. Let us see what it says when you arrive."
My stomach tightened. It wasn't just what he said—it was how he said it. Like the island was alive and watching me, waiting for something. And whatever it was, it wouldn't be gentle.
As we boarded the boat, the mist grew thicker, swallowing the edges of the dock. The sky turned the color of tarnished silver, and the water beneath us looked like glass—still, yet far too dark to feel natural.
And for the first time since we arrived, I felt it:
A breath that wasn't ours.
The Island was awake.
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TO BE CONTINUED...
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