The door let out a long, low groan as it pushed open, spilling a tide of night air thick with frost and blood into the tiny room. The fire shrank from it, shadows leaping high across the walls like startled spirits.
Mira didn't move.
Her fingers wrapped tight around the worn hilt of the old dagger — a relic of her husband, long dead. The blade was pitted, its edge dulled by years of neglect, but it felt heavy, solid in her hand. The only thing standing between her son and whatever horror lay beyond that threshold.
A figure stepped inside.
He was tall, clad in piecemeal armor blackened with soot, the sigil of a gray flame etched crudely across his chestplate. His face was hidden beneath a battered iron helm, save for the gleam of his teeth — yellowed, crooked things, bared in a grin too wide, too eager.
He carried an axe. Fresh blood slicked its head.
Behind him, more shapes moved — five, maybe six — half-seen through the gloom, their heavy boots grinding over frost and broken twigs. The wind followed them inside, carrying the faintest chorus of screams from the village beyond.
The leader's gaze swept the room.
Mira straightened her spine. She could feel the warmth of the hearth against her back, the cold of the dagger against her palm. Her breath left white trails in the air.
"Well now," the man rasped, voice like stones grinding in his throat. "Thought you'd be wiser, Mira. Knew we'd come."
She said nothing.
The silence between them was thick, a cord stretched taut. Vaelen, hidden behind the hanging pelt, clutched the wooden star to his chest and held his breath so tight his chest ached. The world shrank to the shallow rise and fall of his mother's shoulders.
The man took a slow step forward. The other Ashen Blades fanned out, boots scuffing against dirt floors, knocking aside baskets, tools, the modest relics of a simple life.
"You know why we're here," he muttered, lowering his axe. Its head struck the floor with a dull thud. "They say one of the old bloodlines still runs through this mud-stinking little hole. A god's rot left behind. And wouldn't you know it — right here in your cursed womb."
His grin widened.
Mira moved then, fast as a striking adder.
She lunged, the dagger flashing in the firelight, and drove it toward his throat.
But the man was quicker.
A gauntleted hand shot up, catching her wrist mid-swing. The force of it jolted her arm, bones grinding. She let out a sharp cry but didn't loosen her grip.
He yanked her forward, spinning her and slamming her against the wall. The dagger clattered to the ground.
The others laughed — a harsh, mirthless sound that curdled the air.
"I'll enjoy this," the man growled against her ear.
From behind the pelt, Vaelen's vision blurred. The shadows in the room seemed to deepen, a strange coldness seeping into his bones. His small hands trembled, clutching the wooden star until it dug into his flesh.
And then something… shifted.
A low, thrumming sound filled the air — too deep, too ancient to be made by man or beast. The hearth fire guttered. The light dimmed.
The leader of the Ashen Blades stiffened, eyes narrowing.
"Did you feel that?" one of his men murmured.
Another stepped toward the pelt, reaching out as if sensing something beyond his understanding.
Vaelen's heart pounded, but it was no longer from fear.
A warmth bloomed behind his eyes — searing, inhuman. Whispers crawled through the recesses of his mind in a tongue older than stars, calling to him, welcoming him.
Vael'Zhaur's blood remembers.
The fire flared, turning a sickly green.
The Ashen Blade's leader spun toward the hearth, cursing. The wind howled, carrying a voice — not a scream, not a cry.
A song.
Soft. Dissonant. Impossible.
The night itself seemed to lean closer.
**