The trees thinned until they were gone.
Light opened wide and the air changed — cooler, clearer.
The forest's shadows gave way to open fields, a flat stretch of yellow grass on both sides of a single dirt road.
The road ran straight toward the town: Aetheria.
In the far distance, small houses grouped like a cluster of scattered shells, and a low wall marked the edge of the town.
Fazer's father pulled his hood back up before they walked into view.
He moved without hurry but with purpose, sliding into the role of a man who preferred faces unrecognized.
The hood hid the glint of his crimson pupils, the sharpness of his jaw, the slick black hair that waved as he walked. Fazer watched him do it and felt a familiar mixture of pride and a dull, stinging worry.
His father always went quiet when he covered his face — like he put on armor that wasn't metal.
"Stay close," his father said, but there was no warmth in it — only instruction. They walked the last stretch in silence.
Aetheria was the kind of town that smelled like many lives joined together: sweat from laborers, the sweet tang of market fruit, smoke from bakers, and a tang of animals from the outskirts. As they approached, people glanced with casual curiosity at the pair — a tall hooded man and a small boy with long black hair and red eyes like burning coals. Fazer felt those glances like little hands on his skin.
They stopped outside a low building with weathered shutters. It looked like a normal bar from the outside — wooden sign creaking, a couple of rough benches out front. A painted ale cup dangled by a rusty hinge. But Fazer had learned the world's secret lesson well: things were often not what they seemed.
"Wait here," his father said, pushing open the door and slipping inside. "You're too young. Stand by the wall and don't move."
Fazer did as he was told. He positioned himself beside the building, heart thumping in his chest like a small drum. From where he stood he could see the street — a handful of carts, a woman gossiping with a butcher, a child chasing a dog — but he couldn't peek through the bar's doorway. He had the sharp itch of curiosity. Who would pay knights to burn a village? Who could order such cruelty?
Inside, his father moved like a man who belonged to the dark corners. The bar's interior was dim, lantern smoke curling to the low rafters. On the surface, there was clatter of mugs and the scent of stale ale. But deeper in, past a curtain, voices were low and coins thick. Fazer's father walked straight to a table where a man sat with his sleeves rolled up and a pouch on the table. No one looked up more than a glance. There were no questions asked. That was the rule here: do the work, take the pay, shut your mouth.
Fazer pressed his shoulder to the wall and tried to listen. He caught a muffled voice — a quick exchange, the clink of coins. A heavy breath. Then a single footstep approaching the door.
When his father came out, his face was still set in that quiet, closed way. He held a fat leather pouch at his hip and did not smile. He moved like a man who had done what needed doing. He did not say a word about the man who had paid them, nor did he mention who had ordered the knights and how he knew about the knights. The pouch swung heavy at his side. The afternoon light fell on the man's coat as if testing him.
Fazer met his eyes. "Who were those knights under? Who gave them the order to destroy the village? Who do they work for?" The questions poured out before he could stop them.
His father's face hardened for half a heartbeat, then answered in a voice deep and measured. "It was an illegal commission. The money was high, but the one who pays, cannot be questioned. That is the rule."
Fazer's chest tightened. "But you know who they worked for," he said, small and stubborn. "You must know."
His father looked away, practiced and careful. He shifted the subject with the ease of someone who keeps dangerous thoughts tucked away. "Let's get meat for your mother. She said she'd cook meat tonight."
The word 'meat' changed Fazer instantly. It was the simple joy of a child. His crimson eyes brightened, mouth breaking into a wide grin. The hard questions sank for a moment as his stomach took the lead.
They moved through Aetheria's market with quick steps. The butcher sliced thick slabs and wrapped them in brown paper. Bargaining was light and efficient. They bought the best cut and headed back down the lane.
Their cottage smelled like hearth and the small, steady life that held them together.
At the stove, Fazer's mother worked with practiced hands, Her hair was long and black like his and his father's; her eyes were the same crimson that marked the Fossa bloodline.
The house was small and warm: low beams, a single window that let the town's light in at an angle, and a plain wooden table where they all gathered.
"How was your training, Fazer?" his mother asked as he set the meat on a board.
"It was awesome," Fazer said, puffing his chest just enough to be proud. "I learned a lot." He was a boy who could laugh and fight and still be innocent when he wanted.
His mother's smile was a soft thing. "Good. Wash your hands. Dinner will be ready soon."
She turned to his father. "And you? How was your day, honey?"
His father let out a tired breath. The road had settled into the lines of his face. "As usual," he said. He wanted sympathy and didn't want to ask for it.
"Aww, honey," his mother said, kind and practical. She reached and touched his cheek with the flour-scented back of her hand. "Go wash up. I'll cook your favorite."
Fazer's father allowed himself a small, private ease at that. The simple domestic moment threaded itself through him, a small glimpse of the life he fought to protect.
They ate together in hushed comfort. The meat tasted of honest work and tiny mercies—salt and fat and the joy of fullness.
For a few quiet minutes the rest of the world did not exist.
Then three measured knocks split the air.
The spoon in his mother's hand paused. The room grew suddenly thin.
Fazer's father's shoulders straightened. The ease slipped away like breath. He set down his fork and rose slow enough that the motion seemed part of a ritual. He moved to the door with a control that told Fazer everything he needed to know: this was not a simple visit.
"Who is it?" his mother asked, voice steady but small.
Fazer's father opened the door. A man stood in the threshold—a traveler in a dark coat, hood low. The face was hidden; the shoulders, the way he held himself, said a person who did not knock for small reasons. He did not come inside. He simply waited like a statement.
He lifted one hand in a gesture that stilled the room. When he spoke, his voice was flat and calm, the sort of voice that made small rooms colder.
"Lord Arthur Fossa, leader of the Fossa clan. I have a message."
The name landed in the dining room like a stone. Fazer felt the floor tilt. Heat dried in his mouth. He had heard the name before in whispers—Fossa, cursed—but never like this, never spoken to his father in the doorway of their own home.
Arthur's grip on the doorframe tightened. The man who had laughed at his son's small jokes and accepted his wife's touch was gone in an instant. In his place stood something older and more dangerous: Arthur Fossa, the leader, a weight that carried history.
His mother's hand went to her apron, fingers gathering the cloth as if to steady herself. "Who sent you?" she asked, though the traveler had already said the purpose.
He drew a small folded paper from his coat and extended it toward Arthur. The seal on it was simple, but Fazer saw the change in his father's eyes when he looked at it — like a spark under soot.
Arthur took the letter. He did not open it at once. He held it like a blade he did not fully trust. His face did not move. Fazer watched every turn of it, every tightening of the jaw.
He slit the seal with a thumb, unfolded the paper, and his eyes ran over the lines. Fazer could not see the words, only the slow shadow that slid across his father's face as he read. At first curiosity. Then comprehension. Then a darkening like storm-clouds folding around the sun.
The traveler's words came out quietly, as if to confirm the thing already known. "The capital watches, Lord Arthur."
Fazer's mother paled. The kitchen's warm air tasted colder. Every sound of the town outside seemed to fall away.
Arthur gestures to the traveller
Seeing that gesture the traveller left.