Kaelen ran.
Not with a hero's grace, but with the clumsy, desperate terror of a twelve-year-old boy. His bare feet slipped on wet cobblestones. Icy mud seeped between his toes. Behind him, the blaring horns of the Crimson Guard mixed with shouts that carved into his heart: "KILL THE DEVIL'S CHILD!"
Uncle Brom's voice echoed beneath the noise: "LIVE!"
He stumbled, skinning his knee on sharp gravel. The pain was nothing. Nothing compared to the hollow scream inside his chest where Brom's face – proud, broken, loving – flashed again and again.
Twelve Years Earlier
Elara bit down on the leather strap until her gums bled. Sweat stung her eyes in the ruined tannery. Her friend Marla knelt beside her, wiping her brow with a shaking hand.
"Almost there, Elara! Push, love, push!"
"It's… not just the baby, Marla…" Elara gasped, her voice thin with terror. "It's… him. The magic… it's too bright. It burns!"
She'd loved Kaelen's father. Loved his laugh, his gentle hands that could mend a bird's wing. She hadn't loved the power that crackled under his skin, the power that got him hanged as a sorcerer. Now it raged inside their son.
With a final, tearing cry, the baby came.
"A boy!" Marla whispered, tears mixing with relief. She placed the squalling infant on Elara's heaving chest.
Elara's trembling finger traced the silver crescent moon on his tiny palm – his father's mark. Then she saw his eyes. Not her soft brown, nor his father's warm grey. Violet. Like storm clouds lit by lightning.
"Oh, little star…" Elara breathed, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead. A wave of pure exhaustion washed over her. The violet light in his eyes flickered and faded to ordinary blue. "Kaelen… Your name is Kaelen…"
Her head lolled back. The warmth seeped from her body onto the cold straw.
"Elara? ELARA!" Marla shook her, then gathered the wailing baby close, rocking him against her own racing heart. "Hush now, little Kaelen. Hush… the world's cruel enough without you starting sad." She looked at her friend's still face, tears falling freely. "What have you brought into this hard place, my friend?"
Present Day
Kaelen huddled behind the forge's massive bellows, the smell of hot metal and coal dust thick in his nose. Uncle Brom's rhythmic Clang! Clang! Clang! was the heartbeat of their small world. Kaelen was sorting bent nails saved from scrap – a penny earned was a crust of bread.
Throb.
The familiar ache pulsed deep in his right palm. He clenched his fist, hiding the silver scar beneath his sleeve. Trouble.
The hammering stopped. Brom stood frozen, listening. The cheerful clatter of the blacksmith's quarter had died. Only the harsh clank of armored boots on stone echoed now. Brom's knuckles were white on the hammer handle. He met Kaelen's wide eyes across the smoky forge. Fear passed between them, silent and heavy.
CRASH!
The flimsy door shattered. Splinters flew.
Captain Vorlag filled the doorway, crimson armor gleaming dully. His eyes, small and hard like river stones, swept over their meager home – the worn tools, the patched blankets in the corner, the pot of thin stew bubbling over the coals. Four soldiers crowded behind him, crossbows held casually.
"Volkov," Vorlag's voice was flat. "Forty silver. King's tithe. Now."
Brom lowered the hammer slowly. He wiped his soot-streaked face with a rag, forcing calm. "Captain Vorlag. Sir. The river flooded the south road again. Three weeks, no traders. We've got scrap iron and promises. Please… next month. We'll make good." His voice was rough but respectful. He was a man used to bending, not breaking.
"Promises?" Vorlag took a step inside, his bulk oppressive. "King Borin eats promises for breakfast and shits out warrants. Silver. Or I torch this midden heap."
"We have nothing!" Brom's voice cracked, a rare flash of desperation. "My nephew… we barely feed—"
Vorlag moved. Fast. His armored fist slammed into Brom's face.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. Brom cried out, a wet, guttural sound Kaelen had never heard before. Blood burst from Brom's nose, splattering his tunic and the dirt floor. He reeled
bac
k, crashing into the heavy anvil with a groan, then slumped to the ground, clutching his face, shoulders heaving.
"UNCLE!"
Kaelen was moving before he thought. He threw himself at Vorlag, small fists pounding uselessly on the cold crimson plate. "Leave him alone! YOU HURT HIM!"
Vorlag laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Gutter rat bites?" He grabbed the front of Kaelen's thin shirt, yanking him off his feet so they were eye-to-eye. Kaelen smelled stale ale and metal. "You'll learn respect."
Kaelen panicked. He kicked, flailed. His right hand, scrabbling for purchase, slapped against the exposed skin of Vorlag's wrist where his gauntlet ended.
AGONY. ECSTASY. INVASION.
Fire ripped up Kaelen's arm, burning his nerves. He gasped, soundless.
Vorlag's sneer vanished. His eyes widened, showing white all around. "Wha—?! Get OFF, you little—"
Floodgates opened:
The sharp sting of hunger cramps in a small, hollow belly. Sunhaven slums.
The greasy feel of a cold, black stone hidden under armor, pulsing like a dead thing's heart. Whispers: "Hurt them first. Be strong."
And then… the life-force. Not just heat, but Brom's forge on a summer day, the taste of cheap ale, the ache of old bruises, the petty satisfaction of making a beggar flinch – Vorlag's entire existence, raw and roaring, tore out of him and poured into Kaelen. It was too much. Like gulping down the sea.
Vorlag's scream died in a wet rattle. His skin seemed to shrink, pulling tight over his bones, turning waxy yellow. His dark hair bleached white in seconds. His grip vanished. He crumpled to his knees, then folded forward onto the dirt, empty as a discarded wineskin.
Silence. Thick. Stunned. The soldiers stared, mouths agape.
One dropped his crossbow. "S-Soul-eater…" he whispered, backing away. "Demon child…"
Outside, the harsh, blaring cry of Valorian horns shattered the quiet: "WITCHCRAFT! ASH QUARTER! SEAL THE GATES!"
Brom groaned, pushing himself up on trembling arms. Blood streamed from his broken nose, soaking his beard. He blinked, dazed. His gaze fell on Vorlag's withered corpse. Then he looked down at his own legs. His right leg, bent and useless since Borin's guards shattered it years ago for refusing to make torture irons… was straight. He touched it, then pressed his weight down. It held. Solid. Healed.
His eyes snapped to Kaelen. The boy stood frozen, shaking violently, staring at his own right hand. It glowed faintly, casting sickly silver light on his tear-streaked, soot-smudged face. Horror, pity, and desperate, overwhelming love warred in Brom's eyes.
"Kaelen… lad…" Brom's voice was a wrecked whisper, thick with blood and fear. "Oh, stars above… what's inside you?"
He lurched forward, ignoring his own miraculous leg. He grabbed Kaelen's shoulders – the familiar, strong grip of the smith, now trembling. "Look at me! Boy, LOOK AT ME!"
Kaelen flinched, finally meeting Brom's eyes. What Brom saw there shattered him: pure, uncomprehending terror and a deep, sickening revulsion. "I… I didn't mean… Uncle, he was hurting you…" Kaelen choked out, tears overflowing.
"No time!" Brom rasped, hearing the thunder of boots and shouted orders getting closer. With frantic, clumsy fingers, he tore the thin leather cord from around his own neck. A small, cold, rusted iron locket landed in Kaelen's trembling palm. It was warm from Brom's skin. "RUN! NOW! Back alley! Over the wall! WILDLANDS!"
"I can't leave you! They'll—"
"FIND SILAS!" Brom roared, shoving Kaelen hard towards the ragged curtain separating the forge from the stinking alley beyond. His voice cracked. "The old hermit! Deep in the black woods! He knew your mother… he loved her like a sister! HE KNOWS ABOUT THE MOON MARK! HE KNOWS… HE KNOWS WHAT YOU ARE! GO! FOR ME! LIVE, KAELEN!"
Brom's eyes held his, fierce and pleading. Live.
The curtain was ripped aside. Sunlight glared on polished armor and the cold steel tips of crossbow bolts.
"THE WITCH-BOY! THERE!"
Brom didn't hesitate. He snatched up his heavy forging hammer – the tool that had fed them, mended pots, been his companion for twenty years. A sound tore
from his throat – not a warrior's roar, but a father's final, desperate cry: "GET BACK! YOU'LL NOT HAVE HIM!"
He charged the soldiers. Not to kill. To block. To buy seconds.
THWUNK!
A bolt slammed into his shoulder. Brom staggered but kept moving.
THWUNK!
Another hit his thigh. He stumbled, his healed leg buckling.
THWUNK!
The third struck with a wet thud, dead center of his chest.
Brom stopped. His eyes widened. Not with pain, but surprise. He looked down at the bolt protruding from his tunic. Then his gaze found Kaelen's, standing frozen in the alley mouth. In those eyes, Kaelen saw no fear. Only a fierce, protective love, and a terrible, crushing sorrow. I'm sorry, lad.
Brom Volkov crumpled to the blood-soaked dirt. His hammer clattered beside him.
The sound broke Kaelen. A raw, wordless shriek tore from his throat – the sound of a child's world ending. He turned and fled down the garbage-choked alley, Brom's locket clutched so tight in his bleeding hand it felt fused to his bone. He didn't see the filth, didn't feel the cuts on his feet. He only saw Brom's eyes.
The high wall loomed, topped with jagged glass. He scrambled up, fingers tearing on stone and sharp edges, hot blood slicking his grip. He hauled himself over, tumbling down the other side into wet ferns.
He lay gasping, curled around the cold iron locket.
THE WILDLANDS.
Giant trees blocked the bloody moon, plunging everything into deep, green-smelling shadow. The air was cold and damp. Somewhere close, an animal snuffled.
Behind the wall: Shouts. The crackle of fire – his home burning? Brom's body…
Ahead: Darkness. Silence. The unknown.
And a name: SILAS. The only thread left.
The locket felt heavy. It smelled faintly of smoke and sweat… and Brom.
A ragged sob escaped Kaelen. He pressed the locket to his lips, tasting iron and blood and salt. "Uncle…" he whispered into the uncaring dark.
Run. Hide. Survive. For Brom.
He pushed himself up, every muscle trembling. He wiped his bloody face on his sleeve, leaving streaks of crimson and grime. He took one last, shuddering look at the monstrous wall, the only home he'd ever known. Then, holding Brom's locket like a lifeline, Kaelen Volkov turned and stumbled into the vast, ancient darkness of the Wildlands, utterly alone.