"Even the sunniest fields can hide the roots of shadow."
The village of Yldrahollow rested in a fold of golden hills, kissed by wind and crowned by wheat. Nestled in a forgotten corner of the realm, it was said to sit atop the remnants of an ancient veil—a place once touched by forces long erased from history. Travelers rarely passed through, and the world beyond seemed more myth than memory. The land whispered of old magic and hidden truths, but the villagers lived simply, unaware that their home was not just quaint, but chosen. It was a place that time forgot—quiet, unhurried, safe. And at the heart of it all was a boy named Eliakim Darkmoor.
Eliakim, now eight, was as bright as the dawn he often chased through the meadows. He was known by every villager not because he was strange or troubled, but because he was beloved. He laughed freely, climbed trees like they were ladders to heaven, and made up tales so wild that the baker swore her bread rose faster just from hearing them.
The elders called him sunshine. The children followed him like he was a game they never wanted to end. Yet beneath the light in his eyes was something… listening.
He once told a story—just a bedtime whimsy shared with Mareth, the sprightly girl with hair like autumn leaves—that a dreambird laid eggs made of moonlight and hid them by the river bend.
The next morning, the villagers found it: a silver egg resting where the tale had said, warm to the touch and humming with some unspoken rhythm.
It cracked open beneath the sunrise.
From within emerged a creature unlike any bird they had known. Gasps filled the morning air—some in awe, others in quiet fear. Children clung to their parents, while the elders murmured prayers under their breath. The blacksmith stepped back, eyes wide, while the baker dropped her dough in astonishment. For a moment, the village stood still, as if time paused to witness the arrival of something old and sacred. It was not just the birth of a strange bird, but the echo of a prophecy none dared to speak aloud. Its feathers shimmered like molten glass, and its eyes held the swirling calm of distant stars. It gave a single trill that lingered in the valley like a flute's last note.
The elders called it a Skyling. The children called it Moonwhistle. But to Eliakim, it was familiar—as if it had stepped out of a dream he hadn't told anyone yet.
The villagers built it a perch near the square, and it would fly freely through the skies above Yldrahollow… yet each night it returned to rest near Eliakim's window, silent and watchful. It never spoke, yet wherever he wandered, it followed—never begging, only existing alongside him, like a shadow born of starlight.
The longer it stayed, the clearer it became: some invisible thread bound it to the boy.
When Eliakim was away too long, its glow dimmed; when he returned, the shimmer flared back to life. At night, when he dreamed, the Skyling's feathers faintly pulsed with light—as though feeding on some unseen force flowing from him.
The villagers assumed it was affection. Seraphine knew better.
"She's tethered," she whispered once, watching the bird nuzzle Eliakim's hand. "But to what, I fear to name."
Eliakim only smiled.
"She was waiting for me."
Seraphine watched her son with a smile that did not reach her eyes. At night, she lit a candle and stared at the box beneath her bed. The shard inside—black obsidian, pulsing faintly—had begun to hum.
One afternoon, while playing hide-and-seek near the forest edge, Eliakim counted aloud, eyes covered with a grin. Mareth and the other children darted into the waving wheat and behind trees.
When Eliakim opened his eyes, he laughed and began the search. Giggles and rustling grass guided him from one friend to another, until only one was left unseen.
Mareth.
A hush fell over the woods. The children began to call her name. She did not answer.
Without panic, Eliakim stepped to the edge of the trees. He closed his eyes. A wind shifted. Leaves turned.
He whispered, "Where are you?"
Then he walked—not aimlessly, but like a thread pulled him forward. Past the creek bend. Beneath the leaning oak. Into a hollow where no trail led.
There, hidden behind overgrown bramble and earth, was a crack in the ground—narrow, but just wide enough to slip through. Eliakim crawled in, heart thumping.
Mareth was trapped at the bottom of a narrow crevice, her ankle twisted, eyes wide with fear.
"I knew you'd come," she whispered hoarsely.
Eliakim reached for her, steadying her with all the calm his small hands could muster. As he lifted her up, a sharp rock gashed his side. Blood trickled down the stones… unnoticed.
Far below, the droplets disappeared into a hidden seam in the rock. The blood hissed faintly as it touched the stone—an ancient pulse stirring beneath the surface. A low hum began to resonate through the buried channels of the land, as if something long slumbering had stirred at the taste of the boy's blood. A single shard, black as a starless night and sealed away beneath Seraphine's home, trembled in its wooden prison—its heartbeat syncing, waiting, watching.
And deeper still—beneath Seraphine's home—the box under her bed began to pulse. The obsidian shard inside flickered to life, reacting to the boy's blood.
But Eliakim noticed none of this. His focus was only on Mareth.
The children cheered when they returned. But from the hill, old Mara, the midwife, clutched her shawl tighter and muttered, "Earlier that day, Mara had paused mid-step as Eliakim passed by—his shadow flickering strangely in the noonday sun, just for an instant. She said nothing then, but now, as she clutched her shawl tighter, the words spilled from her lips: "That boy walks paths no one should see.""