Though eight years had passed since the Great Catastrophe, its shadow still clung to the land. Scars from that night marred the hills and valleys, and many who once had homes now wandered as refugees. Yet in the south central part of Skyland, the Adanels did not wait for peace. From stone and ash, they rebuilt Greimdall, their capital, lifting it from ruin with calloused hands and unshaken resolve. Its tall shiny towers now rose again beyond the horizon, defiant against memory.
Not far from that horizon, in the fertile lowlands of Firya, lay the village of Vaelridge. A modest farming settlement known for its golden fields of grain and swaying wheat, it sat cradled between winding riverbanks and sun-dappled meadows. Thatched rooftops lined its gently worn paths, and sun-bleached fences bordered the land that had fed generations. Here, the air smelled of dew and wildflowers, and laughter still lingered on the wind.
Edran ran barefoot along a packed-earth path between swaying wheat, his copper-brown hair catching the breeze. Ten years old, lean and quick-footed, he carried dreams too big for a village this small. In one hand, he clutched a wooden sword, roughly carved by his father before they'd left the forge for life in the fields.
"You swing too high! You'll cut the clouds before the dragons!" came a voice from the tall grass.
He spun around, grinning. Daina stood behind him, seven years of age, small and barefoot, with uneven braids and a wildflower in one hand. A woven bracelet dangled from her wrist, and dimples bloomed each time she smiled.
"I wasn't aiming at dragons," Edran said, lifting his chin. "I was aiming at the sky itself. If I hit it just right, maybe I'll break through and see Shiruba U'windo."
Daina laughed, clear as the wind chimes on their porch. "You always say strange things like that."
"It's not strange if you believe it," he replied.
A horn sounded from the road.
"The soldiers!" Edran cried, grabbing her hand.
A line of mounted knights rode past in a haze of dust and sunlight, their cloaks trailing like banners. Villagers came out to watch—some waved, others stood in quiet awe.
Edran's eyes gleamed. "Look at them, Daina. One day I'll wear that armor. I'll protect Firya—from dragons, from the Sylvankin... from everything."
She looked up at him, unsure, but nodded anyway. "And I'll sing for you when you come home."
They stood there until the last rider disappeared, then walked home, heads full of dreams.
Later that evening, the family gathered by the hearth. The scent of stewed herbs and roasted root vegetables filled the small cottage. Their mother stirred the pot slowly, humming the same soft melody she always did. It was Daina's favorite.
Daina climbed onto a stool by the window and gazed up at the stars. "Can I sing now?" she asked.
Her father, a sturdy man with soot-stained hands and tired eyes, looked over at her and smiled. "Of course, my little songbird. The stars are waiting."
She stood, placed her hands gently over her chest, and closed her eyes.
Her voice rose, soft and airy at first, like the breeze through tall grass.
"O stars above the endless sky,
Whisper where the rivers lie,
Carry dreams through silver air,
And guard the ones I hold most fair.
In fields of gold and forest deep,
Where children laugh and flowers sleep,
I'll sing until the darkness fades,
And light shall bloom in shadow's shade."
The room fell silent. Even the fire crackled more softly, as if listening. When she finished, Daina looked down with a shy smile, her cheeks warm.
"I want to sing like that forever," she whispered.
Her mother stepped over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Then sing, my love. As long as your voice lives, peace lives too."
-Break-
That night, Edran couldn't sleep. He lay awake, staring at the wooden beams above him, listening to Daina's soft, steady breaths on the other side of the room. A breeze drifted in through the window, and in it, he swore he could still hear her song lingering… like a promise too delicate to hold.
Then came a sound. A low, unnatural thud. Followed by Another. Then a scream.
Edran bolted upright. The smell hit next—smoke, thick and acrid. He scrambled across the room and shook Daina awake.
"Daina! Wake up. Something's wrong."
She stirred, groggy and confused, then sat up fast as another scream pierced the night.
"What's happening?" she whispered.
"I don't know. We have to find Mama and Papa."
He grabbed her hand and rushed downstairs. The air burned in his lungs. Smoke curled through the cottage, and the kitchen doorway was already swallowed by fire.
Outside, heavy footsteps shook the ground. Shadows passed by the windows—tall, twisted, shifting like smoke. Not men. Not beasts. Their eyes glowed with a faint, cruel light.
"Here!" Edran pulled Daina toward the cellar.
They stumbled through the dark, coughing, and ducked beneath a stack of old apple crates. Dust and ash clung to their skin.
Daina trembled, holding tight to his arm. "I'm scared, Edran…"
"I know," he whispered, forcing a smile though his heart pounded in his ears. "Remember your song? Just sing the first part. I'll hum with you."
Her voice shook as she began to sing, a single fragile note breaking through the noise. Edran joined her with a soft hum, trying to push away the fire, the fear, and the screams that filled the night.
Then the door burst open. "Edran! Daina!" It was their father's voice.
"Papa!" Edran shouted.
"Come here! Quickly, take my hand!" their father called, reaching toward them.
Edran grabbed Daina's wrist and surged forward. The heat was unbearable. As they reached for their father's hand, a beam crashed from above.
Daina screamed as she slipped from Edran's grip.
"No! Daina!" Edran reached back, his fingers brushing hers, just enough to pull the bracelet from her wrist before smoke swallowed her completely. Her echoing screams still echoed in his ears.
"Papa! She's still in there! Let me go back!" Edran cried, struggling against his father's grip.
"No!" his father shouted, yanking him away just as the ceiling collapsed behind them in a storm of ash and flame.
"Daina!" Edran screamed, his voice cracking with heartbreak as he watched their home collapse, flames devouring everything they had known.
Outside, the village was ablaze. The sky glowed red, the fields devoured by flame. The shadows melted into the night, their purpose complete. Villagers wept. Some screamed. Others were simply gone.
Edran clutched the bracelet in his hand, his heart hollow. Daina's song was no longer in the wind. He stood there until the flames died and dawn painted the sky in muted gray. The cries of survivors echoed faintly through the scorched remains of Vaelridge.
Eventually, the soldiers came, but it was too late. The village lay in ashes, and their presence served only to inspect what little remained. Their captain dismounted near the ruins and spoke with the few elders and survivors who had clung to life through the night.
"We don't know if it was dragons or shadows," one elder muttered to the captain of the crusade who had come to investigate the horrific scene.
"It was shadows!" Edran stepped forward, his voice hoarse. "I saw them. Black, tall, with glowing red eyes."
The captain turned, barely sparing him a glance. "And who are you, boy?"
"I'm Edran. I want to join the soldiers. I want to avenge my sister." His voice was steady, his gaze unwavering despite the tears welling in his eyes. A storm of grief burned behind his stare, but it was sharpened by something fiercer and resolve.
"You're too young," the captain said with a faint, knowing smirk. It wasn't mockery, but the recognition of someone who had seen this kind of fire before. "Keep surviving. Grow stronger. Then come find me."
"What's your name?" Edran asked, his voice cracking.
The captain paused before answering. "Captain Halric," he said. "Remember it."
Before leaving, the soldiers addressed the remaining villagers. "Gather your dead," one said. "Those of you with strength, come to Greimdall. You'll be placed in refugee camps or considered for reassignment. If you want protection, you must earn it."
The survivors obeyed without protest. They had no fight left, but Edran did. He watched as the soldiers mounted their horses and disappeared beyond the trees, leaving the broken village behind.
Edran held the bracelet tight in his hand, its threads singed but intact, like the memory of her voice, still echoing in his chest. He would go to Greimdall someday, not as a beggar or a child, but as someone forged by fire, carrying the promise of a voice the world had tried to silence.