"Even if the world takes everything away from you, don't hesitate, don't look back, get up and fight."
The forest had received him in silence, and that silence was the last thing Rook remembered. He had stumbled only a few steps among the blackened trees, limping, the wooden knife still warm in his hand, Briholm's smoke burning in his throat—then everything went black.
He woke with a jolt. The timber ceiling was gone; above him was only damp gray stone streaked with moss. He lay on a rough cot, covered by a coarse blanket that smelled of old leather. He sat up too quickly and the world spun.
The pain came rushing back: his wounded leg, his exhausted body, the stiffness in his bones—and behind it all, the memories. The bell. His grandmother's scream. The fire devouring his home. Sett dragged into the shadows. All of it crashed into his chest so hard that for a moment he thought his heart would tear itself apart.
- "No…" he gasped, burying his face in his hands. "No!"
The cold air of the chamber seared his lungs. He staggered to his feet, ignoring the stabbing ache in his leg, and stumbled into the corridor.
The place was strange. The walls were worn stone, lined with torches that cast long, twitching shadows. Heavy doors reinforced with iron, stairways curling downward, and the distant echo of steel clashing against steel. The smell was a mix of sweat, iron, and hot broth.
He descended a spiral staircase that opened into a wide rectangular hall. A long wooden table sat in the middle, lit by low fires at the corners. Bread, a chunk of cheese, and dried meat were set upon it—and a man sat there, eating with absolute calm. Otherwise, the hall was empty.
Rook stopped, stunned.- "Where… where am I?" he asked, his voice ragged, still full of fear and anger.
The man looked up. He was in his late thirties, maybe forty, with dark hair streaked with gray and a short, trimmed beard. His eyes were gray, cold, but within their calm was a weight of authority that demanded respect.
- "In Argenholt," he said, his deep voice carrying without effort. "I found you in the forest, half-dead. Frankly, I'm surprised you woke at all."
Rook clenched his fists.- "My village! Briholm! Sett!"
The man chewed another bite with unhurried ease before answering.- "I know. But when I arrived, the village was already ashes. You were the only one left. I'm sorry. Sit, eat something—you must be starving."
- "I can't sit! Not while my brother is still out there!"
- "Brother?"
- "Sett…" Rook lowered his gaze, his fury crumbling into grief. "They dragged him away. And I… I couldn't stop them."
The fire crackled in the silence that followed. At last, the man exhaled.- "My name is Amaric. I am a Fenn—hunter, sorcerer, stray soul, call us what you like. What happened to your village is not normal. At least, it should not have been possible. And you—what's your name?"
- "Rook, sir."
Amaric pushed the plate aside and leaned forward.- "Only a great host of specters could have wrought such destruction. The Pale Host is always a sign of death, yes—a grim omen that marks the end of men. But they had never attacked villages. Never taken the young. Those specters were not moving of their own will… someone was guiding them. From what you muttered in your fever, it was a bell."
The bell. The hooded figure's hidden face. The image struck Rook like a whip.- "The figure in the cloak…" he whispered. "He rang the bell, and the specters obeyed like soldiers."
Amaric nodded darkly.- "That fits. But we still don't know who he is, or what he wants. And believe me, boy—you won't survive if you run blindly after him."
- "I don't have time!" Rook slammed his hand on the table, his voice cracking. "They took him—he could still be alive!"
Amaric's eyes held his. There was no harshness there, only a calm, almost paternal weight.- "I know. And I also know I found no young corpses in Briholm. That means the youths were captured, not slaughtered. That gives you a chance."
Rook's heart lurched.- "So… you think Sett might still live?"
- "Perhaps. But if you want to find him, you won't do it alone. We need information, and we won't find it here. This Dun holds hundreds of books, but none speak of this. One more thing—tell me: how did you strike down a specter?"
Rook hesitated. Slowly, he drew the wooden knife from his belt and laid it on the table. Amaric took it in his hands, examining it closely. A crease of interest marked his brow.
- "Curious… just a flicker, but yes, there's magic here. Old, faint, almost imperceptible—but real. Your grandfather carved this?"
Rook nodded, silent.
Amaric returned the knife.- "We can't draw conclusions yet, but this won't be ignored. What happened to your village cannot be allowed to happen again. And it is our duty to stop it."
Rook bit back his retort. Our duty? He wasn't a Fenn, not a hunter, not anything. He barely knew how to cook his own meals. He only wanted Sett. Before he could answer, a clear voice cut into the hall.
- "So this is the boy you've been talking about?"
- "This is Elv. She'll be going with you…"
Rook turned—and his breath caught. The rest of Amaric's words vanished.
A young woman stood in the doorway, perhaps a year younger than him. Her dark brown hair, streaked with golden highlights, tumbled in loose waves to her shoulders, some of it tied back in small braids. Her eyes were a brilliant sky-blue, glowing warm in the firelight.
But Rook barely saw her face. His eyes, betraying him, slid downward. The light leather clung to her shape, marking a narrow waist that flared into powerful hips. The neckline revealed nothing, yet hinted at a generous bust—larger than one might expect on such an agile frame, but perfectly balanced. Her thighs, firm beneath the leather, looked strong enough to topple him with a single kick, yet every step she took carried a grace that unstrung him more than any blade.
Rook realized he was staring, unable to look away. Heat flushed his cheeks; part of him wanted to avert his gaze, but another part clung to her curves as though she might vanish if he blinked.
She arched an eyebrow, amused, and gave him a faint smile, as if this was hardly the first time someone had looked at her that way.
- "Rook!" Amaric's gravelly voice snapped like a whip, yanking him out of his thoughts. "This is Elv. The two of you will ride down to Dornach for information."
- "Pleasure to meet you," she said with a clear, steady voice, her smile never fading.
Rook swallowed hard, managing only a stammered greeting.
- "Listen, Rook," Amaric continued, his tone returning to iron. "Long ago, the king, the Fenn, and the Coven of Witches bound protections over this land. The king and the capital dealt with mortal threats, while the witches and the Fenn watched over what does not belong to this world. Each village near the capital was entrusted to a witch, and they wove veils no creature could cross."
His eyes darkened.- "If Briholm was attacked like this, it means those veils have failed—or the witches themselves are in danger. We must speak with them, learn what is happening. They may know more than they admit."
He paused, weighing his words, then turned to Elv.- "You leave at once. Move quickly, but with caution. I'll head to the capital. We'll meet there in two days."
Elv nodded without hesitation.- "Understood." She turned to Rook. "Get ready. I'll be waiting for you at the stables by dusk."
And with that, she strode out, the soft jingle of her daggers fading behind her.
Rook's heart still hammered in his chest. He stared after her, caught between admiration, relief, and a new, unsettling kind of fear. His treacherous gaze slid once more to the sway of her hips, to her firm thighs and the rounded curve above them—too perfect for him to look away in time.
His face burned hot. He swallowed sharply, cursing himself for thinking of her like that now, after everything he had lost, but unable to deny that the vision had disarmed him more than any specter.
- "Well…" Amaric's voice broke in, tinged with dry amusement. "If you don't want to snap your neck, you might try being less obvious."
Rook spun toward him, crimson, fumbling for words.- "I… it's not—"
- "Relax, boy. I'm only teasing." Amaric lifted a hand, the ghost of a smile still on his lips.
The smile faded as quickly as it came. His gray eyes hardened again.- "Don't lose sight of what matters. This is far graver than I first thought. We don't yet know who or what pulls the strings of the Pale Host—but I give you my word, I'll do everything I can to help you. You… and your brother."
Rook's hand tightened around the wooden knife at his belt. Amaric's final words gave him something he had not felt since the night of fire: a spark of air, of hope, as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.