The warmth of Ravenshollow's hearth should have been enough to lull Aden into sleep.
But it didn't.
He sat cross-legged near the fire, sword leaned within arm's reach, listening to Durik snore loud enough to shake the rafters.
The dwarf had sworn he'd keep first watch. Yet there he was—mouth open, head tipped back, beard glittering with dried ale. His hammer-axe was propped against the table, as useless as its owner at the moment.
Aden let out a long breath. "Some guardian of the night you turned out to be."
"Eh… don't nag," Durik mumbled mid-snore, though he was clearly lost in his dreams.
Aden shook his head and glanced across the room.
Yvaine slept quietly on the cot the villagers had given her. A woolen cloak was draped around her shoulders, her hair spilling like pale silk across the pillow. For the first time since he had met her, she looked—fragile. Almost like a child.
But even in that innocence, her brow furrowed. Small tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Her lips moved soundlessly, shaping words she couldn't bring into the waking world.
Aden's chest tightened. Even in sleep… she's burdened.
He looked away, unwilling to intrude further on her sorrow.
That was when the scar on his chest stirred.
At first it was faint, like an ember pressed against his skin. Then it grew hotter, pulsing in rhythm with his heart. Aden pulled aside his cloak, eyes narrowing at the black star carved into his flesh.
It wasn't bleeding. But it was alive.
And then—
The fire vanished. The room vanished.
One moment, he had been surrounded by the familiar warmth of candlelight and cracked stone walls; the next, he was swallowed whole by nothingness. Aden's senses screamed, grasping for reference, for weight, for air—but found only void. No ground, no ceiling, no horizon. Darkness stretched infinitely, swallowing the edges of his vision and muting the sound of his own heartbeat until it sounded small, fragile, insignificant.
Before him, a throne rose from the void, impossibly high, jagged black stone scraping the unseen heavens. Its form seemed alive, shifting subtly in the darkness, as though the throne itself inhaled and exhaled, expanding and contracting with a pulse older than time. Above it hovered a crown, broken into sharp fragments that glimmered with violet fire, shards suspended midair as if frozen in a violent, eternal collapse.
Seven lesser thrones circled the central seat, perfectly arranged, their emptiness resonating like hollow drums across the abyss. They were waiting. Silent. Expectant. Watching.
The very air—or the absence of it—pressed against Aden's chest. It carried the weight of judgment, of dominion. Hunger coiled around the void like smoke, curling into him, whispering in a language older than words. His mind screamed for grounding, for touch, for familiarity, but there was none. He felt naked, reduced to a trembling shadow of a man, less than dust before the vast throne.
Instinctively, his hand moved toward the familiar grip of a blade. His fingers closed around nothing. Panic bubbled up like molten metal in his veins. He knew he was unarmed, unprepared, unworthy—but his body reacted with the reflexive hope of survival.
Something stirred.
A movement, subtle at first, like the brushing of stars against one another. Then it grew, a presence that did not walk, crawl, or fly, but simply was. Ancient. Infinite. Patient. Watching.
"...What are you?" Aden whispered, his voice brittle, swallowed almost immediately by the emptiness.
The abyss answered with silence—so complete it rang in his skull. It stretched and pressed and sank into him, until he could feel it not just in his ears, but in his bones, in the marrow of his hands and the hollow of his chest. And yet, from the silence, came understanding. Not spoken words, but a resonance that touched his mind like icy fingers brushing across fire.
It was hunger. And it was not hunger for food. It was hunger for everything, for all things small and great, for life and thought and hope. Dominion. A hunger to see all things bow, to consume all creation into nothingness and remold it in its shape. And though Aden could not see a face, he felt eyes, countless and patient, drilling into him.
A shiver crawled down his spine. Every instinct screamed to flee, to turn and run, but there was nowhere to run. The void extended infinitely in every direction. There was only him and the throne and the crown of shattered starlight, spinning slowly as if amused by his fear.
Aden's chest tightened. A thousand questions tried to force their way through his mind, but none could form. Only one sensation was clear: he had been summoned. Pulled from his world into something incomprehensible. And something, somewhere in the shadows of that impossibility, waited for his answer.
He clenched his fists, fighting against the weight that threatened to crush him. His voice trembled, barely a whisper:
"I… I am Aden Noctis."
And still the abyss gave no answer.
He jolted back to the hearth-lit room, chest heaving. His palm pressed hard against the scar, half-expecting it to split open. But it was only warm. Warm—and awake.
A faint sound broke the stillness. Not from within. From outside.
Aden's gaze shifted to the shuttered window. Through the thin slats, he caught it: a shadow slipping across the rooftops.
His hand went to his sword, but he stopped.
Perched on the ridgepole was a beastkin. Her form was lithe, built for silence, her ears flicking like antennae for every sound. A twin blade glimmered faintly at her side. She crouched low, her golden eyes fixed on the house—fixed on Yvaine.
Her tail twitched once. Patient. Calculating.
Not a villager. Not the Order either. A hunter of her own design.
Aden didn't move. He didn't breathe. Only watched as the figure melted back into the dark.
So. We are being hunted already.
He returned to his seat by the fire. He would not rouse Yvaine now, nor Durik. They needed rest. Even if the shadows had already found them.
Morning crept in soft and gray.
Durik stretched first, arms cracking. "By the Stones, that was a good night's sleep."
Aden gave him a flat look. "You were supposed to be awake."
The dwarf froze, then gave a sheepish grin, scratching his beard. "Eh… can't blame a dwarf for enjoying a good fire and a full belly, eh lad?"
"I can. And I do," Aden said.
Durik chuckled and waved it off. "Aye, but we're still alive, aren't we?"
Aden didn't answer. His eyes flicked once more toward the shuttered window before he stood, pulling his cloak around his shoulders.
Yvaine stirred last, her lashes heavy, her expression faintly raw as though her dreams had been battles of their own. She adjusted her cloak without a word.
"Are you well?" Aden asked quietly.
She hesitated, then nodded, though her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her. "…I'll manage."
Durik clapped his hands. "Then let's move before my stomach decides to stay here. I smell bread, and if we don't leave soon, I'll be robbing the villagers blind."
"Subtle," Aden muttered.
The three of them left Ravenshollow with little more than cloaks on their backs and bread in their packs. From the road, they looked no more than weary travelers bound for another nameless journey.
But Aden's chest still throbbed with the memory of the abyss.
And behind them, unseen, golden eyes lingered on their trail until the morning mist swallowed them whole.