The wind over Hollowmere carried the smell of smoke.
It was faint at first, a thread of scent woven into the crisp morning air, the kind that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. The villagers, still half-asleep in their beds or tending to the first chores of the day, thought nothing of it. To them, it could've been the fading ghost of last week's harvest fires, still lingering in the air.
But Soryn Duskbane knew better.
He stood alone on the ridge above the golden fields, his father's old spear leaning against his shoulder, its shaft smooth from years of use. The pale morning light washed over him, silvering his black hair and casting long shadows behind him. From up here, Hollowmere seemed peaceful — just thatched rooftops nestled between the swaying wheat, smoke curling lazily from chimneys.
Yet the wind told a different story.
It carried not the comforting scent of hearthfires, but something sharper, acrid — and beneath it, a metallic tang he could almost taste.
Blood.
Soryn's gaze shifted to the treeline beyond the fields. The green blur of leaves and branches should have framed the horizon. But today, the horizon bled red.
It wasn't dawn.
It was flame.
By the time Soryn reached the village, the first screams had already risen. His boots pounded the dirt path, kicking up dust as he leapt over a toppled cart. Chickens scattered in his wake, their shrieks drowned out by the sounds of chaos.
A single arrow hissed past his ear, embedding itself in the frame of Old Mara's door with a violent thunk. The door did not open.
"Soryn!"
The voice snapped his head toward the square. Lyra Veylen stood there, her dark braid half-undone and streaked with ash, her green eyes wide with panic. She clutched the hand of her little brother, Taren, who was crying silently — the kind of terror so deep it stole your voice.
"They came from the woods!" she gasped, chest heaving. "Black armor, no banners. They—"
Her words died as the barn across the square shuddered. The heavy wooden doors bowed outward before bursting into splinters. Smoke rolled from the opening, and something emerged from within.
It was shaped like a man. But that was where the resemblance ended.
Its limbs were too long, its movements too precise, too fluid. Armor clung to its frame like a second skin — not forged metal, but something darker, bone-like, fused to its body. The helm had no face, only a smooth mask etched with pulsing crimson veins that seemed to glow faintly, as if a heartbeat throbbed beneath them.
In its hand hung a jagged blade. Black liquid dripped from its edge — not blood, but something thicker, heavier, that seemed to absorb the light around it.
Soryn had never seen one before. But every child in Elyndra knew the stories whispered around campfires.
Eclipse Wraiths.
"Run," Soryn told Lyra, forcing his voice to steady.
"What about you?" she demanded.
"I'll follow."
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
The Wraith tilted its head, the motion disturbingly deliberate, almost curious. Then it moved.
Not ran — moved. One instant it was ten paces away; the next, it was within striking distance, its blade carving a black arc meant to separate his head from his shoulders.
Soryn dropped into a crouch, the air above him splitting with the force of the swing. He thrust his spear upward, feeling the tip connect with the thing's armor — and slide off uselessly, as if he'd struck stone.
The Wraith's mask turned toward him again. The crimson veins pulsed brighter, faster.
And then the sky cracked.
It was not stone or light that split, but sound. A deep, resonant boom rolled across the valley, like the voice of a god speaking in its sleep.
The Wraith froze.
Soryn's balance shifted as the earth beneath his boots seemed to pulse, like the heartbeat of something far larger than the world itself. From deep within the soil, from roots and stone and hidden places, that heartbeat echoed.
A light burst from the ground beneath him.
Not sunlight — it was pale silver, streaked with threads of black, swirling upward like smoke caught in a storm. It struck his chest before he could move.
Pain tore through him. Not skin-deep — deeper. Into his bones. Into his blood. His vision fractured, bending the world into impossible shapes. For a moment, he saw through the Wraith — not its armor, but the thing inside it: an emptiness, a hunger where life should be.
The Wraith stumbled back.
Soryn fell to one knee, gasping. The silver-black light sank into his flesh, leaving faint vein-like patterns across his forearms.
Somewhere in the haze, a voice whispered — neither male nor female, but both. "…heir…"
"Soryn!"
Lyra's hands gripped his arm. Taren was gone — hidden, he hoped.
"We have to go!" she cried, her voice breaking.
From the smoke, more Wraiths emerged. Their armor gleamed with the same crimson patterns, their blades heavy with that impossible darkness.
Too many.
They ran.
Hollowmere didn't fall in a day.
It fell in an hour.
By the time they reached the ridge on the far side of the valley, the village was gone — reduced to skeletal frames of burning timber. The smoke rose in thick black columns, carrying with it the smell of ash and the last breath of the people who had lived there.
The Wraiths didn't pursue beyond the treeline. They didn't need to. Hollowmere was already dead.
That night, they camped in a shallow cave, the walls damp and cold. Neither spoke for a long time. Lyra sat curled around her knees, staring into the darkness. Soryn stared at his hands, tracing the faint silver-black lines that now pulsed beneath his skin.
He remembered his father's voice, years ago, telling him about the Ecliptic Veins — rivers of power that once connected Elyndra to the gods. Centuries ago, those Veins shattered, their fragments scattering across the world. Most who touched them died. The rare few who survived became something else entirely.
Chosen.
Or cursed.
No one in Hollowmere had ever been chosen. Not until today.
And if the stories were true, those chosen were hunted until the end.
Far away, beyond mountains Soryn had never seen, a man sat upon a throne of black crystal. His armor was adorned with the same crimson veins as the Wraiths, but his face was human — young, almost beautiful, smiling without warmth.
A messenger knelt before him, forehead pressed to the floor.
"The fragment has awakened, my lord. In Hollowmere."
The man leaned back, fingers tapping the throne's armrest.
"Good," he said softly, his voice smooth as silk. "The game begins."