Inside a large cottage on top of a hill, a child with a head of golden hair stood with his cheek against a wooden windowsill. Light spilled over him like a blessing, gilding each strand until it seemed a crown.
The cottage creaked around him, warmed by the steady burn of the hearth. He stood in its glow yet strained toward the cold, listening.
Beyond the glass, the wind carried hints of the village. A dog's bark, the faint clang of a hammer striking iron, the low murmur of voices on the road. Each sound came to him like silhouettes, moving in the dark behind his eyes.
Coming down from an illness, he pressed his hand to the pane, porcelain fingers gliding over the cold surface in search of the tiny chip his grandfather had etched there at his request. When he found the groove, he let his touch linger, using it to anchor both his vision and his imagination.
Behind that mark, the world opened. It framed the best view of the village gate. The place where the men would return from the hunt. From there, he would see their ragged flames engulf the tree line, tall and sure, hear their voices carried faintly on the wind as they called to one another, heavy with triumph and the weight of their catch.
That is, if they returned.
Until such mercy, their fate remained sealed in the hand of the Heavens. It was the cottage's daily ritual: watching and waiting, waiting and watching. His grandfather marched with the hunters each dawn, and with his grandmother on another pilgrimage, the boy had nothing left but the window and his thoughts.
Still. Today, he watched that gate far more intently. As if averting his eyes would make the old, rickety thing disappear. "Please bring them home. Lumere."
Seconds later, the young boy gasped.
He was out the door in a breath, even forgetting the hand-woven sandals one of the nice ugly ladies offered him down at the shoemaker's.
With the flames as his guide, Solvanel raced through the familiar dirt roads of his village, ignoring as usual the chorus of voices calling out under the setting sun.
"Why, good evening, young savior! On a little run, are we? Need a little snack to keep up your energy?" As he went past the bakery.
By the shoemaker's, "Little Sun! Oh, good heavens! Did my tribute come apart already? Don't worry. I'll get started on another right away!"
"Promised one," In front of the tavern, "Rushing to meet your old man again? How bout a little drink for the road?"
"Heh. If my grandson cared this much about me, maybe I wouldn't have to beat him."
Grandmother warned him never to linger in the village square. Productivity fell to an all-time low when word spread of his descent from the mountain. Yet the fault was not his. He did not ask the people to stop and stare. And for all his attempts at haste, the boy could not outrun their whispered fascination.
Solvanel ducked under a gift-bearing hand and pushed his body to the limit. A sprint that left them coughing up his dust. Faster! Faster! Faster!
And faster he went until a set of flames was finally in sight.
Nine fierce embers were approaching the village borders.
Yes! There are still nine of them!
Tears welled up behind his cloth and blurred the young boy's vision. At that time, near the village gate, a man stepped into his path with both hands outstretched.
Solvanel collided with the man, and the force sent them both crashing to the ground. His shoulder bit into the earth, and his ribs rattled as air fled his lungs. For a moment, the world spun — a blur of limbs, dirt, and the echo of his own gasp.
Groaning, yet still somewhat used to it, he picked himself up with the intention to take off.
But while he found the rest of his body was free, his ankle was locked in place by a hand the size of his chest.
"Please, MESSOLAH." The familiar voice whispered. "Please visit my home."
Solvanel could already hear the crowd closing in behind him.
"Why are you grabbing me? Let me go!" He kicked at the man's hand in a frantic attempt to break free, but the grip was far stronger than anything his six-year-old body could resist. Panic surged through his chest as he twisted and thrashed, yet the hold did not loosen.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," pleaded the stranger. "Send me to the fires if you see fit, but I'm afraid I can wait no longer. I- it's my wife. She saw you eating some RED BANES."
Red-hot embarrassment flushed the promised one's face. All of a sudden, he was thankful those nine flames hadn't yet come through the gates.
"I know now that it was foolish," the man explains, voice breaking with grief. "But she is with child, and we are hungry. Now she is bedridden, unable to eat or drink." She has refused Zeus' treatment, swearing the only salvation she will accept is that of your divine hand. Please, sir… I beseech you!"
Solvanel said nothing. His lips parted, then closed again. The man's voice still rang in his ears, raw and pleading, but no answer would come.
The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of the man's sobbing breaths.
Behind him, the villagers caught up one by one and formed a crowd that threatened to engulf the two.
"My daughter's cough has not left her for weeks." The woman who offered him cake. "And my boy's leg," cried the one who wove him a pair of sandals three sizes too big, "he cannot walk since the fire." "Bless my harvest, just one touch!" He didn't ask for those fruits. "Make my cows healthy again!" He didn't ask for her heirloom.
"Please stop this famine!" He didn't ask for their prized possessions. And certainly not to be one. "Save us!"
Hands reached forward, some trembling, some clawing, all desperate. Hopeful eyes reflecting the promised light of change. And a raging inferno of ash-gray flame that threatened to engulf him whole.
"Save us!" "Save us!" "Save us!"
And when the first of the beggars, started placing kisses on his feet, it was too much to bear. But before Solvanel could deny them their miracle, a single voice slammed into the crowd. "Enough!"
The voice cut like steel, worn and unyielding. A man over six RENtall, shoulders wide and squared, cast a long shadow over the mob in the setting sun. His gaze swept over his people and froze them stiff, none exception.
Seven men of similar build stood behind him, hauling several dimming flames over their shoulders.
"Fuck outta my way!" One of the hunters was already inside the crowd, pushing through frozen bodies without a modicum of care.
Before he knew it, Solvanel's wrist was locked in this hunter's vise.
He barely kept up his pace as he was dragged to the front of the crowd, where his grandfather's gaze weighed heavily on the top of his head. Solvanel turned his head to the ground.
"Ya' were told not to come down from the mountain alone."
"…I wanted to make sure you're okay. I was worried."
"Yer worries ain't worth shit this side of the fence. Now, tell me which one of your ears ain't working so I can tell your grandmother which one to twist up when she gets back home tonight."
Tonight? Grandmother's coming tonight?!
"Ah, go easy on the dreamer-boy, you damn hillbilly," the hunter who saved him patted the oldest man on the shoulder. "You damn near threw out your back lugging my kill back to the village. Might as well hand THE HUNTING DOGS over to me so Little Sun-Sun can stop pissing the bed about his old lady."
The crowd was already frozen stiff.
"And I ain't talking about the one with the gold hair!"
But now, they'd gone mute.
Jonah repeated. "And I ain't talking about the one with the gold hair!"
Before they let out a sound, the old man shot his team of hunters a look. Some of the onlookers wondered if The Heavens subjected them to a terrible plague, that men so strong were suddenly coughing their lungs out while averting their eyes.
Though the young man had given his all on the battlefield only hours before, he felt those steel-like fingers bite into his neck and resigned himself to death.
The old man took him off the ground like a kitten by the scruff. "Three weeks ago, the prophecy foretold was set into motion. Solly turned ten years of age and received a BESTOWMENT, the legendary TRUE SIGHT profaned by THE RECORD OF CLOUDS."
"An' along with it came a seeing. He saw that on this day, we would set outta these gates and never again set foot in this here village. First my woman and now my grandson. That makes two of ours who see tale from the future. So color me surprised when this one comes knocking at my door bright and early, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for his initiation."
"I said, 'Look at ye'. All dressed up and armed to the teeth on a restful day. Dead set on slaughtering some of Gods' fine creations to prove ye' ain't scared of nothin'. Yer a sinner through and through, kid, I tell ye' what. But I gotta ask just in case ye get me and the rest of my boys smit: It's written on the first day, we don't do no killing. Ain't you afraid of what the heavens'll do to ya'?'" "' N' he looked me in the eye and said…" For the only time in Solvanel's life, perhaps even in the old man's own, he heard a sound rise from his grandfather's mouth that was neither speech nor reprimand. It was laughter. Low at first, raw, like stone cracking under strain. Then fuller, spilling out into the air, strange and terrible in its rarity.
"Why, I ain't even gonna take my chances, repeating the first part. But the next thing he said was something like this: 'The only thing left for The Heavens to do is kill me. So I'm gonna live however the hell I please until they change their mind'."
Circulated glances hinted at the crowd's general feelings.
Between their leader's no-nonsense attitude and the general rowdiness of his closest subordinates, this particular hunting group was known to be a little less than respectful when it came to their religious beliefs. Barring the fact that his wife and grandchild played essential roles in the prophecy, one would be troubled to think their chief a believer, himself.
However, he was strict on the others when it came to mocking those beliefs. The last thing they would expect is for him to mock them. Were they supposed to cheer for this?
"There's a saying who's about I came from about the necessity of light and dark. Any good light shines brighter in the darkness. And the brighter such light, the darker its shadow needs to be to compensate. That's why every time a LIGHTBRINGER passes the torch, the DOG passes the sword to the next generation. We all know that for the coming light, there is no better option than my grandson, Sully. In six years, when the profaned make pilgrimage to The Heavens and bring starlight back to the soil. He will be accompanied by a shadow that follows closely behind, protecting him from the beings that hide in his domain."
He dropped the boy onto his feet and led the crowd to the village center, where the young hunter stood at the edge of a podium. With hundreds of eyes, some confused, some judging, others indignant, he massaged the back of his neck while shooting glares at the old man.
Due to his truancy from the village congregations, he was the only one who hadn't a clue what was happening.
The hunters stood in formation behind their leader, whose voice boomed across the entire village.
"Today, I bring the name of the one who will remain with that light — forever. At ten years of age, he expressed genius with the blade that puts mine to shame. At fourteen years of age, he followed us into battle against his own people. And now, at sixteen years of age, he defied the will of the heavens and brought an end to the year-long famine. One day, he will carry my great sword. And with it, the weight of your lives. But today, the only weight he carries upon his back is his name."
The crowd noticed the animals slung over the hunters' backs — not carcasses, but living beasts, bound and writhing weakly against the ropes. Their bleats and cries cut through the air like music after a year of silence.
A hush swept the square. For the first time in a year of hunger, there was meat. Real, living proof that the famine had loosened its grip. Mothers clutched their children closer, tears pricking their eyes. Men muttered prayers under their breath. Some only stared, as if afraid the sight might vanish if they blinked.
The village had almost forgotten what abundance looked like. And now, bound and struggling on the hunters' shoulders, it had returned.
He patted his successor on the back and said loud enough that only the boy and his grandson right beside him overheard. "You made this village proud today, son. Go ahead an' let them know."
The hunter stopped mid-complaint. A sudden chorus of tearful rejoice, rendering him still like none had ever seen him. Slowly, he bared his fangs to the village, a smile of honest pride spreading across his face, his pearly white canines shimmering faintly in the sunlight. Carefully sharpened, like all the men who risked their lives, they were the pride and foundation of the village. The Hunting Dogs. One at first. Eight yesterday. And today, there were nine.
Yet before he spoke, he lifted his little brother onto his shoulders so he could get a better view. "My name is Jonah, The Prodigal Son. And if you don't know my name, you don't know yourself."
[The worst thing on earth isn't silence in response to your prayers," he said, crying in the darkness underneath my grandmother's apple tree. "It's not being able to answer your friend's prayers when they're in need. I'll always be around to protect you, Solvanel. So long as I live, the only place for you is by my side.]
"You little!"
Our reunion is cut short when a beastly howl sends the fauna fleeing in the opposite direction.
His cronies surround the two of us, their stolen armor outlined clearly in my vision, like that of our steel captors. Any one of them would be enough to stop this farce, but the six of them have rested dormant since last night's battle.
I hook my brother's arm around my neck, ready to defend him no matter the cost.
A gust of wind blows against my side and startles me. He is far heavier than I anticipated, like a patient unable to carry his own weight. His bones rub against my own, thin and trembling, as though two dying fires are trying to keep each other alive.
"Dammit, Sol!" Jonah curses. "You were supposed to run away!"
"These people are my flock, Jonah. I will not leave them or you behind," I tell him. "Also, I am chained." He laughs, a dry bark that shakes like a loose hinge. The largest of them is behind us, blotting out the sun. I can feel his hunger from here. It rubs itself against my face like a stray animal, begging to be fed. Weapons come unsheathed, slicing the air—an organized formation. Without fanfare, one of them thrusts his sword straight for my brother's chest. He gasps, no time to dodge.
Suddenly, someone whistles. A shrill sound followed by metallic stomps.
The inner flame erupts within the farthest soldier, glowing within his visor. Faster than any of us can see, he is between us. The soldier catches the attacker's blade between his fingers and stares into the traitor's eyes before snapping it in two. The piece that remains in the soldier's hand becomes visible and is sent flying at the one who hurt me previously.
"Enough."
But a single command is enough to change his course.
The soldier disappears and reappears in the path of the broken blade. He catches it mere centimeters from the brute's left eye, now staring at the one whose life he was made to save.
From between the trees, a single human appears. He moves with a gentle hurry, as if always late to an appointment with himself. Jonah stiffens against me; I feel the tremor run through him, a shudder from collarbone to wrist. He wears a long, seamless garment like a robe, yes, but the material is… strange. To the others, it must look like a simple scholar's robe. To me, it is a woven of things I do not have words for: threads of clear glass, hair-thin lines of cooled lightning, seams stitched with characters that shift when I blink.
"Commander," he says mildly to the one who had my hair in his fist. "This was not part of our deal."
The big man drops to one knee with a clank, mud slapping his greaves. "I- I'm sorry, my lord."
Lord?
The stranger turns his gaze to me. He does not look at my bruises or my chains. His eyes—almond-pale, almost luminous—arrest on my face as though he recognizes it from a sketch. It makes my skin crawl in a strangely hopeful way, like a fever breaking.
"You stood through a fist," he says. A statement, not a question. "Interesting."
His speech patterns and vocal accent are unlike anything from my village. His every word inflected by the whine of a recluse or perhaps a scholar, dragged out of his keep and into the sun.
His face is drawn and sharp-edged, as if carved from spite and sleepless nights. A smear of ash clings to his cheek like warpaint, though it's likely just the stain of fire and extended travel.
At least, I can only imagine these appearances based on memory and their personalities. This is just my way of keeping track of the 'faces' that matter. That being said, I am certain this slimy gentleman possesses a goatee. I imagine he brushes it twice before bed.
Jonah tries to push himself upright; the effort makes his breath scrape. However, his voice sounds far more threatening than it was before. For a moment, I'm back in the days of our youth. "Leave him. He's not one of yours."
The stranger gives him a small, private glance. "Slaves do not speak when I am calculating." He clicks his tongue, a dry metronome. "And you are not trained to calculate."
The word lands like a stone. Slave. It drags the world down an inch.
I envision Jonah, really envision. The collar at his throat is slim as a ring, metal so fine the rain beads on it like sweat. A thin chain trails from it, but the chain is snapped; the torn end dangles like a wick. There is a brand at the base of his neck, a small circle with a line slashed through it, almost elegant.
I think of the hands that would craft an elegant mark for ownership.
"Jonah?" I say.
He does not meet my eyes. The tendons in his jaw stand out like strings tuned too tight.
"I apologize for their… exuberance," the stranger says, gesturing lazily at the men. "The Men of Fer are excellent at killing. Less excellent at considering the value of what stays alive. While the mercenaries… are just the same. Except far less useful for doing either." He steps closer. His robe's hem does not get wet, does not get stained. It glides over the mud with the disdain of a comet crossing a filthy sky. "Stand up straight," he tells two nearby soldiers, and they hurry as if he spoke into their bones.
They lift me by the elbows. Jonah scrambles to steady me, and one of the mercenaries gives him an absent backhand that knocks him sideways.
"Gently, now," the stranger says without looking. "We do not throw slaves. We place them where they will be useful."
"Yes, my lord," the young mercenary mutters, tutored into obedience.
The stranger's nostrils flare, tasting the air like a cat. "You carry a light," he says to me. "No. A light carries you. Useful or dangerous, I will decide."
He raises a hand. He turns his head fractionally toward Jonah. "And you, boy! What have you done? Didn't I tell you to keep in the rear? You proved… disobedient."
"They were going to kill him." Jonah's voice steadies, then trembles again. "You said I was allowed to keep my brother if he came willingly. Do what you may to me, but please hurt a hair on his head. I beg of you!" A hesitant pause. "My lord…"
A low ripple runs through the mercenaries, laughter described as a cough.
"Did I?" The stranger seems genuinely curious about himself, like a collector confronting a mislabeled shelf. "Yes. I remember now. Willingness is a valuable chain. It weighs less and holds just as well."
His gaze slides back to me. "And are you willing, lamb?" The word cuts. Flock, shepherd, lamb. "Willing to be obedient?"
"Were it so, you need not have me chained." "Mm," he says, half-pleased. "A mouth that balances truth and defiance. How rare." He flicks a finger, bored with his own interest. "Bind them together. I want his feet unbroken." He glances at Jonah. "And stop throwing this one like a sack of dry reeds. He fetches a better price without bruises."
They obey. Belts slap. Shackles bite. Jonah's shoulder brushes mine when they pull us together, and the brief contact scalds me with an exhausted warmth. The mercenaries move us into a crooked cellar inside a dilapidated ruin.
Once there, the stranger dismisses his men with a nod. He remains, studying us awhile, robe shining in the darkness on the other side of a tiny cell. "Is it true?"
"Yes, it's true."
"Oh, be quiet, boy. I'm not talking to you!"
The stranger's tone sharpens like silk drawn across glass. Even the mercenaries flinch. Jonah lowers his gaze, hands trembling as though the very sound of that voice carries punishment.
"So," the stranger continues, turning his pale eyes back to me. "Is what your brother told me the truth?"
For a moment, I forget the question, caught by the motion of his robe. The fabric shifts with the light, forming ripples that do not match his breathing. The threads move like living veins beneath a skin of glass. They pulse faintly, synchronized with the air currents, or perhaps my own heartbeat. I cannot tell which.
"Pardon?" I murmur.
He tilts his head, and the motion is soft, almost tender. "I've been told that you possess a gift. Some remarkable sight that grants you the ability to see past the ember of form."
The words settle on the air like snow—cold, soundless, and heavy. I feel every eye in the clearing turn toward me.
"…I do," I admit at last.
The stranger's lips part in something between approval and amusement. "Good," he says quietly, "then there's use for you yet."
"You see, this forest is older than the empire that claims it. Older than the men who named it. Every tree here remembers. Every shadow listens. And I have walked its borders for the better part of a month, and still, no path opens."
His voice lowers, as if confessing to the stone. "The Men of Fer grow restless. Their blades thirst for direction. But perhaps…" He brings his face close to the bars, close enough that I can feel his breath touch the iron at my wrists. "Perhaps you can show me what the eyes of ordinary men cannot."
I do not answer. My gift—the Sight—has never been something I shared freely. To see the flame of life within all things is to live in constant mourning. Every leaf, every insect, every creature that falls bears a light, and I see it gutter out. To use that gift for him feels like a desecration.
Sensing my hesitation, he leans forward. "Trust me, I know all about your village tales. Make no mistake. Such beliefs can only exist where the sky is close to the ground. Solace to the hopeless and the ignorant. Do I take your silence for defiance, oh great shepherd? I am giving you purpose, and purpose is a kindness."
Jonah squirms guiltily beside me, but says nothing.
The stranger straightens again, smoothing an invisible crease in his robe. "Rest up while you can, tonight," he says at last. "In a few days, I'll have need for such abilities. My little Jonah spoke quite highly of you." His eyes drift toward my brother, a gleam of quiet menace lurking beneath his smile. "It's thanks to his affection for you and, more importantly, mine for him that you're still alive."
He lets the pause stretch. Then, as lightly as one might comment on the weather: "But if you fail, there's plenty of time to change that for you both."
He turns away, dismissing the thought, and the Men of Fer follow behind him like extensions of his will. The shadows of the cellar envelop them slowly as they depart. The last glimmer of his robe vanishes into the dark like a wound closing over light.
Jonah exhales shakily beside me, the sound almost a sob. Rain comes outside in earnest, spilling petrichor through the holes in the bricks.
The chain between his collar and my wrists tangles; he touches it with careful fingers, every touch apologizing for a life he did not choose.
"You're hurt," he says.
"So are you," I answer.
We breathe. Our breaths do not match. Far off, an owl asks a question no one answers.
"What happened to you?" The words leave me in a whisper. I am afraid to ask them too loudly in case they learn my grief and fly away with it.
Jonah stares at his hands. I imagine there is mud under his nails. "I was sold," he says. "Despite all their fancy words and fake promises, no one wanted a boy who couldn't keep his temper steady. Told me I was going on a hunt and that's that. They got some food, and I got sold off to some wandering noble. That damn eunuch is the one who freed me. At least, I thought he did. They just put a ring on my neck after killing the other guys." He tries to laugh and fails. "I made myself a promise that day. If I ever saw you, I'd do whatever it takes to bring you back to my side."
A wet memory shifts in me. The morning the rumor crawled through our door like a slug: Jonah attacked you; Jonah betrayed you. The old women's tongues were quick, and the men grateful to have a conversation with their drink.
They told me you stabbed me in the dark," I say. "They said I almost died because of you. It sounded neat. It sounded like something that would make the world make sense if I let it." My jaw aches from holding words I did not say for too long. "I didn't believe it. Not where it mattered." His head lifts, eyes raw. "Sol—"
"I waited by the window, every night the wind came down from the hills." I can see the panes, cracked like old teeth, the way the lamplight made a lake in the glass. "I told myself the lie was for someone else. That you would come and untie it from my throat." I swallow. "And you did. Grandfather was right about you accompanying me on my destiny. Light and shadow."
Jonah huffs a breath that might be a laugh if it weren't so tired. "I'm sorry."
"So am I."
We lean back against the wall. The stone groaned like old men and listened to the others fuss around its own boredom. The stranger's robe shadows in my mind, all those threads only I could see. The brand on Jonah's neck hurts my eyes more, although… "I don't know how we'll live through tomorrow," I admit, voice thin as winter sun. "But seeing you again makes me feel as if there's hope after all, brother."