"What would you be willing to sacrifice for someone, after you've already lost everything?"
The village of Briholm awoke beneath a veil of mist, much as it did every morning. Nestled beside the Tavros River, the settlement had learned to live with its blessings and its burdens. Dew clung to the slate rooftops and the fields of rye, while the river's murmur wove with the cockerels' crowing. From afar, the houses looked like pale ghosts rising out of the valley, their stone and timber frames softened by the haze of the season, where days felt brief and nights unending.
Life in Briholm demanded early rising. The villagers were used to it—work, and more work. The bakers had already toiled through the night, and now the scent of fresh bread drifted through the air. Smoke from chimneys climbed into the grey morning sky, carrying with it the illusion of warmth and safety. Outwardly, the place looked peaceful. At least, that was what everyone chose to believe.
The streets were narrow, paved with cobbles slick with moss. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the windowsills to ward off sickness and spirits, while freshly washed clothes fluttered from wooden pegs. Men and women exchanged weary greetings as they set out for the day's labor, while barefoot children darted through the mist with laughter that seemed too alive for a place so still. For most, this endless cycle of sowing, harvesting, and waiting out long nights by the hearth was enough. But not for Rook and Sett.
Rook made his way down the slope toward his grandfather's workshop. His boots, worn and frayed, splashed mud at every step; the rain from the night before still soaked the earth. His honey-colored eyes carried that familiar glimmer of longing, the sort of light that made him stand apart from other boys his age. He watched birds glide above the fields and imagined them as messengers from distant lands. There was an innocence in him—too much, perhaps.
At his side walked Sett, shorter and leaner, his stride steady, chest out, his expression locked in a skeptical frown that seemed permanently etched on his face. His thoughts had always set him apart from others. He couldn't accept a life of sowing and reaping until his bones gave way. He didn't know what awaited him, but the mere act of questioning was enough to push him toward change.
- "Thinking about the capital again?" Sett muttered, tugging at his rough wool tunic.
Rook smiled without looking away from the horizon.- "What do you think? Picture it, Sett: walls higher than oak trees, plazas filled with music, people from every corner of the world… We wouldn't spend our lives chopping wood, tending hens, or cutting grain. We could enlist in the army, train as soldiers—or make our own fortune."
Sett snorted.- "In the capital there are thieves, beggars, and guards who'll throw you in jail just for staring too long. The king doesn't care about us. Briholm is too far from his gaze—except when it's time to collect taxes. Your 'fortune'? How would we earn it? We've barely enough to eat, and last I checked, dreams don't buy a bed in the city."
- "Maybe not. But at least it would be different. Here, the days fall like raindrops, one after another."
Rook's tunic was plain, hand-me-down linen from his grandfather, belted with worn leather. Mud stained his wool stockings, but he didn't seem to care. Broad-shouldered though not yet grown into his frame, his chestnut hair fell in untidy locks across his brow. His eyes held warmth, the gaze of someone who still believed the world was filled with promise.
Sett, by contrast, always looked ready for a fight. His tunic, coarsely woven and patched by his mother more times than he could count, hung just above his knees. His hair, black as pitch and crudely cut, framed a sharp face hardened too early by the weight of expectation. His dark green eyes seemed to mistrust even the air he breathed. Sett walked with deliberate steps, as if pausing might cause the world around him to collapse. He loved to argue—not to provoke, but simply because it was in his nature.
He shook his head, though a flicker of curiosity betrayed him. He'd never admit it, but leaving Briholm tempted him as much as it frightened him.
The carpenter's shop stood at the heart of the village, beside the open space that doubled as a market square. Inside, the smell of resin and fresh-cut wood clung to the air. Benches sagged under the weight of tools worn smooth from years of use—handsaws with bone handles, nails hand-forged by the local smith, planks waiting to be reborn as chests or doors. In one corner, wooden figurines of animals stared from the shadows, guardians of the place.
Their grandfather, Adalfus, waited for them. His broad chest and powerful arms still carried traces of the strength of his youth. In his hands he held a piece he had been carving, rubbing it carefully with a cloth dipped in resin varnish. The scent of sap and burning pitch lingered around him.
Light from a narrow window caught the shine of his bald head, while his face—lined deep with wrinkles—told of decades of labor, hardship, and endurance. Yet his eyes, dark as wet earth, still burned with a fire that refused to fade. Age had bent his body, his hips tormented him with every step, but he refused to abandon the workshop. Among sawdust, hammers, and the perfume of wood shavings, Adalfus remained the man he had always been: strong, stubborn, and unyielding.
He was a living lesson to Rook. The world might break the body, but never the will.
- "Rook," Adalfus said, his voice rough yet warm. "I've got something for you. You won't stay in this village much longer—I know you too well. You're grown now, with a life ahead of you. But take this with you, as a memory."
Rook unwrapped the cloth to reveal a wooden knife. Its surface bore intricate carvings, knots and roots intertwining like veins of an ancient tree. Though useless as a blade, it was crafted with great care, polished until it gleamed.
- "It was the first knife I carved as a boy," Adalfus explained. "It had grown worn, so I cleaned it up, etched some new lines. It won't cut bread or meat, but it's worth more than steel to me."
Rook held it as if it were treasure. His eyes shone, not for the knife itself, but for what it meant: a piece of his grandfather's soul.
Sett chuckled.- "It's beautiful, sir. But if we ever leave Briholm, what good will it do us against a wolf?"
Adalfus's gaze hardened.- "Don't mock it, Sett. Value what is given freely. Not everything of worth is made of gold or silver."
An uneasy silence followed. Rook stroked the carvings with reverence.
Later, Adalfus sent them to the market for nails and lamp oil. The square was alive with noise and color: women selling baskets of apples, men unloading sacks of flour, children chasing runaway chickens through the crowd. The ring of the blacksmith's hammer echoed across the cobbles.
Rook lingered at every stall, marveling at spices, herbs, and trinkets he'd never seen before. Sett tugged at his sleeve.- "We don't have coin for luxuries. Stop gawking."
- "I know," Rook replied, but his eyes betrayed his hunger for more than food.
Then they saw her—a bent old woman who seemed older than the village itself. Her skin hung in folds, her back curved like a question mark, but her eyes, hidden beneath a veil, gleamed with eerie light.
- "Listen well, boys," she rasped. "When the mist falls and you hear the bell at night… don't stay. Don't look back."
Rook shivered. Sett scoffed.- "Crazy old hag," he muttered. "Does she think we're still children?"
But the warning clung to Rook's thoughts like a burr.
Evening fell slowly. In the meadow beyond the village, Rook and Sett wrestled in the damp grass, laughing as they had since childhood. They threw each other down, trading victories like it was the most important contest in the world. Above them, the sky burned in streaks of orange and violet. For a brief moment, everything felt eternal.
- "I don't know what we'll become in Thar'Vallos," Rook said between laughs. "Maybe I'll forge weapons… or work in some tavern if they won't take us in the army."
Sett lay back in the grass, a rare smile tugging at his lips.- "I don't care what I do. I just want to get out of here."
The wind stirred the leaves, carrying with it the scent of the river. Rook's mind drifted to the nights he had hidden in Sett's house to escape scoldings. Sett's father had been a builder all his life; most of Briholm's homes bore his mark. But age had drained his strength, and pain gnawed at his arms. His frustration often erupted in harsh words toward Sett, demanding he pick a trade or follow in his brother's footsteps.
- "A man without work is nothing," his father would growl. Sett's elder brother had long ago marched to the capital to join the king's army, sending back a few coins when he could.
Sett's mother, by contrast, was small, quiet, and endlessly patient. She tended the hearth and garden, her gentle voice soothing the storms that threatened to tear the house apart. Yet even her calm couldn't erase the weight of reproach that hung over Sett.
That house of silence and demands had forged him. It explained the hardness in his gaze, his refusal to dream like Rook. And yet, in some hidden corner of his heart, he envied his brother's innocence—the ability to imagine a future brighter than the one laid out for them.
Night settled over Briholm. Rook lay awake in bed, unease prickling at his skin. A sound reached him—faint, delicate.
Chime…
A bell.
His heart leapt. He hurried to the window. Mist rolled thick through the streets, swallowing the houses until they seemed like fading memories. From within the fog moved a figure cloaked in shadows, each step marked by the eerie glow of the bell it carried. The old woman's words came back to him, sharp as blades.
When the mist falls and you hear the bell at night… don't stay. Don't look back.
Shapes emerged from the fog. Pale, gaunt figures with skeletal hands and hollow faces. The Pale Host had come to Briholm.