It started like any other day.
The sun hung lazily above Riverton, its golden rays warming the stone pathways that twisted through the castle grounds. A soft breeze stirred the banners on the outer walls. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried overhead, but down in the courtyard, all I heard were the grunts of effort, the clash of wooden weapons, and the ever-familiar voice of Alfred barking corrections.
We were in mid-session—three boys locked in a rhythm of parries and footwork.
Reus ducked under my swing, countered with a swift jab toward my ribs, and I just barely deflected it. He always moved fast. Too fast, sometimes. That came from his bloodline—his father was an officer in Riverton's armed forces. Discipline was something Reus had been trained in since the moment he could walk.
Chris, on the other hand, stood a few paces away, rolling his shoulders and waiting for his turn. He wasn't noble-born like us. His mother served as a maid in the castle kitchens. But in the ring, none of that mattered. Chris was sharp. Reliable. And while Reus and I had awakened as Manipulators, Chris had turned out to be a Binder. His style was slower, more methodical, but he always made it count.
We'd known each other since before I could even pronounce "Primordium," let alone wield it. We were at Half Kindle stage now—still early, still clumsy in our own ways—but there was something comforting in struggling through it together.
Alfred, who oversaw our sessions, paced the edge of the courtyard with a hawk's eyes and the posture of a seasoned warrior. He was more than just a butler in our household. He was a Half Ember Manifestor, one of the strongest in the estate—and in many ways, the closest thing I had to a mentor alongside Zane.
"Stop dragging your feet, Summer," Alfred called out, just as I overextended my stance. "You're not harvesting crops. Control your weight."
I gritted my teeth and readjusted. He was always like this—blunt but not unkind. If anything, his training kept me grounded. Especially on days like this, when I felt… off.
The training grounds sat just inside the castle's outer perimeter, not far from the main gate. Riverton Castle was massive, built from pale grey stone that seemed to glow gold under the morning light. The grounds had a way of feeling alive—like the weight of all the history embedded in these stones watched over us.
Father was preparing to leave on patrol when a guard from Dunford arrived, carrying a sealed scroll with the Vale Family sigil. The castle guards brought him inside at once. Alfred wasted no time and escorted the messenger to meet my father.
An hour later, Father left the castle with a small unit of guards. None of us had a clue what was going on, but Alfred's face was unusually tense.
Later that night, word began to spread—A small village near the edge of Dunford had gone silent. No messages. No scouts. No signs of life.
By midnight, the whispers had turned to tremors.
The village hadn't just gone quiet. It had been erased.
All thirty families. Gone.
When the first report reached our castle, the details were vague—too vague. But Father was already on his horse with a small squad of Riverton guards, riding under the pale light of the moons. I didn't know then, but he was heading into a graveyard.
They called it The Hollowing of Dunford.
Not a raid. Not a beast attack. Not even a war crime.
It was something worse.
When Father returned, he didn't say much. But I overheard Alfred speaking with one of the returning guards—his voice low, like even speaking the truth aloud might invite it back.
They said the village was untouched from a distance—chimneys still standing, roofs unburnt, laundry hanging frozen in the wind. But inside the homes, it was a different story.
No bodies. Only heads.
Stacked in neat little rows on tables. Eyes still wide. Mouths still parted. No blood trails, no signs of struggle—just clean cuts, like the heads had been plucked from their bodies and set there.
In some houses, they even found a meal still warm on the table… and a severed head placed right beside the bowl, as if it had been about to eat.
Children. Elders. Guards. Even livestock had been killed—but their bodies were gone, erased like smudges from a page.
And not a single scream had been heard.
No signs of magic. No residual Essence. Nothing to track.
It was like something had walked through the village and hollowed it out, leaving only a display behind—as if to mock anyone who came looking.
That night changed everything.
People started locking their doors during the day. Guards patrolled even during mealtimes. And behind every noble's composed expression, you could see it—that quiet, quivering fear.
In the weeks that followed, strange incidents began surfacing.
People disappeared without a trace. Others were found—dead, torn apart, their bodies missing.
No signs of struggle. No Essence left behind. Nothing to chase.
In upcoming weeks, Father's visits to Dunford became more frequent, and with each return, his expression grew heavier. Cedric Vale, the Patriarch of Dunford, also began visiting us often. Sometimes alone, sometimes with his guards. Occasionally, his son Luke came with him.
About Cedric Vale—the Patriarch of the Vale family—was a man who commanded attention effortlessly. Respected and composed, his mere presence was enough to draw eyes. With his sharp, imposing stature, piercing brown eyes, and perfectly kept brown hair, he had a way of owning a room without ever raising his voice. His wife, Elaira, was rarely seen in public, but her name carried its own weight in the noble circles. They had three children. The daughters, Sereine and Stephaine, were a year older than my sister. Their son, Luke, was in his early 20s—quiet, polite, always standing a step behind his father like a shadow.
This evening, Cedric Vale and his son, Luke, stayed for dinner at the castle.
It was just Father, Mother, Cedric, Luke, and me at the table. The air was heavy, tense—no one said it aloud, but we all felt it. The investigation had stalled. No suspects. No trail. Just a growing list of the dead and missing.
Dinner itself was quiet. Conversations were limited to surface-level topics—crops, trade updates, minor territorial issues. Even those felt forced. Cedric barely spoke, and when he did, it was with the same guarded tone he always used when something weighed on his mind. Luke remained quiet too, responding only when directly addressed.
I mostly kept to myself. Ate quietly. Observed. Whatever Father and Cedric were really thinking, they weren't saying it here—not in front of me, and not during a meal.
Then Mother, bless her heart, broke the silence with a question I don't think anyone expected.
"So... has there been any sort of update about Stephaine and Celestia?"
The mood in the room went straight into the dustbin.
Cedric paused, his expression unchanged, but the silence that followed spoke volumes.
"Nope."
That was all he said.
Father let out a quiet tsk, barely audible, but it carried enough weight.
The rest of the dinner passed in strained silence. No one mentioned them again. No one needed to. The implication lingered like smoke.
Once we were done, I excused myself quietly and made my way toward my chambers. Father and Cedric headed straight for the study room.
I didn't look back. But for the first time, I realized just how much was going unsaid.
On my way back to my chambers, I caught sight of something strange.
Down one of the quieter corridors near the western hall, one of our castle guards was shouting—no, raging—at a Dunford soldier. The man was red-faced, hurling insult after insult, voice echoing off the stone walls. I'd never seen him so unhinged. But what struck me most was the Dunford guard himself.
He just stood there.
Still. Silent. Like a statue.
Not angry. Not confused. Just… watching.
Expressionless.
He didn't blink. Didn't even breathe, from what I could tell. Something about him felt wrong, even though I couldn't explain why.
I didn't know what the fight was about, and honestly, I didn't care. But instinct told me something was off. So I turned and went to Alfred.
He handled it quickly, as always—his presence alone was enough to dissolve most conflicts. He pulled the castle guard aside, speaking to him in a low voice, while the Dunford soldier remained unmoved.
As I turned to leave, I cast one last glance back.
And our eyes met.
Everything inside me froze.
There was something in those black eyes—something utterly hollow. Like staring into a well with no bottom. No light. No soul. Lifeless Dead Black Eyes.
And for a brief moment, I felt like it was looking through me.
I quickly looked away, heart thudding, and forced my legs to move saying, "What is wrong with him!". I didn't run—but I wanted to. I told myself it was nothing. Just stress. Just the tension from everything going on.
But even after I reached my room and shut the door behind me, that face lingered in my mind.
Still. Silent. Watching. But eventually I slept.
A few hours later, I woke with a jolt, disoriented. The castle was rarely this loud at night—urgent footsteps echoed through the halls, followed by muffled voices and slamming doors. I threw on my coat and stepped out of my room.
Guards were rushing past, eyes sharp and movements clipped. Something had happened.
Something big.
I followed the movement through the stone corridors, past the cold walls of the western wing, until I caught sight of a my Mother. She stood just outside Father's study, arms folded tightly over her chest, speaking to one of the guards.
"Mother," I called out, approaching quickly. "What's going on?"
She turned to me, startled at first, then held up a hand, signaling me to wait.
A minute dragged into minutes, me standing there quietly, waiting for her to say something. Finally, after what had to be ten, maybe fifteen minutes, she walked over and said,
"You shouldn't be out here, Summer."
"I couldn't sleep. The whole castle's awake. What happened?"
Her expression darkened.
"A murder. A family in Riverton. But this time…" she hesitated, her voice lowering, "…there's a witness."
That pulled me still.
Before I could ask more, the door to Father's study creaked open. He stepped out, Cedric Vale just behind him. They both looked up as they saw me standing with Mother.
Father's brows furrowed. "Summer," he said, "go back to your chambers. This doesn't concern you."
"What—"
"Go back." His tone left no room for protest.
Nowadays, I can see it — that disappointment in his eyes. He tries to hide it, but... damn it, what am I supposed to do if I haven't grown the way he expected me to?
Cedric glanced at me briefly, his face unreadable.
Mother placed a hand on my shoulder. "Go, Summer."
I was just asking what you planned to do with him—the witness.
So I left, but as I made my way back through the halls toward my room, something felt off. The usual guards weren't at their posts, and the deeper corridors felt... empty. Quiet. I told myself it was probably just the commotion, maybe they'd shifted the guards elsewhere temporarily. But then—
A sharp sound.
Wet. Splitting. Like flesh meeting steel.
I stopped.
It came from a room just ahead—dimly lit, door ajar.
Instinct kicked in.
No one's supposed to be there at this hour making a sound like that.
It came from the west wing. Somewhere near the old storage room. The air there always felt heavier. Cold stone walls, cracked in places. Flickering torch sconces.
I shouldn't have followed the sound. I knew that. I felt it. But still my feet moved anyway. The noise that had pulled me here was gone now, but the silence it left behind was worse.
Something's wrong.
The pressure came all at once—so dense it stole the air from my lungs. I staggered, leaning against the wall, heart hammering.
As I stepped into the storage room, what I saw didn't make sense. Two of our guards were slumped against the far wall, still in their armor. Their bodies looked... untouched. But their heads were severed. Clean. Precise. No mess. No trail. No signs of struggle.
I stumbled back, trying to process it, when the air in front of me began to twist. A void opened in the middle of the room. A warping of space, the edges of it flickering like a mirror submerged underwater.
And from that emptiness, a freaking hand emerged. Long. Emaciated. Something that hadn't felt the warmth of blood in centuries. Then it stopped. It knew that I was here.
I tried to run. I tried to move. But my body wouldn't respond.
My mind screaming. My instincts begging. And still I couldn't move.
The hand lunged forward and wrapped around my throat. It felt like being touched by winter itself. Every nerve in my body lit up. I gagged, kicking as my heels scraped the stone.
Just like that, I was dragged. Dragged through that broken space, through the tear between places, and slammed into the ground with brute force as I lost consciousness.