Blaaarr—!
Flames devoured everything in sight, smoke clawing into his lungs. Ean's breath came in ragged gasps, his chest burning as he fought to see through the blaze. A shadow emerged from the fire, its outline wavering.
"Ean!"
The call struck him like a thunderclap. His body jolted, and his eyes flew open.
He was no longer in the fire. The searing heat was gone, replaced by the gentle glow of lamplight. Standing by his bedside, Melian's face came into focus, her eyes filled with worry.
"Ean," his mother said softly, brushing a hand against his arm, "it's time for dinner. Everyone is waiting."
She lingered for a moment, studying him with concern. "Did you have a nightmare?" she asked gently.
Ean gave a small shake of his head and forced a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Mother."
Melian's expression softened. "Alright then. I'll head down first. Take your time and get ready."
With a look of understanding, she stepped back and quietly left the room. Ean exhaled, nodding faintly, letting her go ahead while he tried to steady himself.
**
The rich aroma of beef stew drifted through the Briden household, carried on the faint warmth of the hearth. The home was no mansion, but neither was it lacking. Solid oak beams framed the ceiling, their surface polished smooth by years of careful upkeep. A collection of books, heirlooms, and well-kept trinkets lined the shelves, evidence of a family that lived with quiet dignity. Brass fixtures on the lanterns glimmered faintly, giving the space a cozy but respectable glow.
The Bridens were not nobles, yet their name carried weight among their neighbors. They were a family known for honesty and resilience, for work that was steady and lives that were clean. Though not rich, they were never in need. It was a life of balance, neither indulgent nor wanting.
At the sturdy dining table of varnished oak, laughter rang out. Ean Briden sat across from his younger sister, watching as she reached with daring little fingers toward the simmering pot.
"Lira!" their mother scolded, catching her hand before it could snatch the morsel of meat. "Must you steal from the pot every time?"
Lira pouted, pulling her hand back, but her father chuckled, his deep voice filling the hall. His eyes, weary from a day's labor in the records office, softened as he glanced at his family.
"Let the girl be, Melian," he said with a smile. "The stew smells too good not to tempt a thief."
The warmth of their home - the easy rhythm of scolding and laughter, settled into Ean's chest like a balm. He smiled, a boyish curve to his lips. For a moment, all was perfect. Too perfect.
And yet, when the nights grew long and quiet, he sometimes felt a hollow tug in his chest - an emptiness, as though something vital had been ripped away. Dreams haunted him: visions of fire devouring the world, and a man standing amidst the blaze, his heart split with pain. But the moment he opened his eyes, the images vanished like smoke.
Tonight was no different.
"Ean," his mother said gently, breaking his reverie. "Don't just sit there staring. Eat."
He forced a smile, lifting his spoon. "Yes… of course."
Just as he raised it to his lips...
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A thunderous knock rattled the door. The table fell silent. Even the crackle of the hearth seemed to die.
His father pushed back his chair and stood, his brows knitting into a frown. But before he could cross the hall, the door burst open. The hinges groaned, wood splintering against the frame, as cold night air swept inside.
Figures in dark cloaks entered, their boots scraping against the polished floorboards. The lamplight caught on steel clasps at their belts and faintly glimmering badges upon their chests. Their eyes swept the room, cold and sharp as blades.
The tallest of them, a man with a commanding presence, scanned the family before his gaze locked onto Ean.
"There he is," the man said, his voice low, steady, certain. "Ean Briden."
Ean froze. "What…?"
Lira whimpered and clutched her mother's sleeve.
His father stepped forward, shoulders squared. His voice hardened with authority, the voice of a man used to being respected.
"Who are you people? What business do you have in my house?"
The man pulled a badge from within his cloak and raised it. Its silver sigil gleamed in the lantern light - an emblem of a rising sun pierced by a sword.
His father's eyes widened in recognition, his anger faltering.
"The Guardian of Dawn…" he murmured.
The man inclined his head slightly. "I am Kael Draven, Shadow Inquisitor of the Guardian of Dawn. I have come with two Acolytes to take this young man." His chin tilted toward Ean.
Ean's heart pounded violently. "Me? Why?"
"I don't understand," he stammered. "Why me?"
Kael reached into his cloak again and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment. On its surface flowed delicate brushstrokes of ink, elegant and strong - calligraphy Ean knew well.
"Did you write this?" Kael asked.
Ean blinked. It was one of the pieces he had sold in town to earn his own money. His family wasn't poor, but at twenty, he wanted to carry his own weight, to prove himself.
"Yes," Ean admitted slowly, nodding. "I wrote it."
Kael's expression hardened. "Then you will come with us. You are under arrest on charges of inciting heretical communities."
The words struck like a hammer.
"What?" Ean's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's insane! It's only calligraphy!"
"That's impossible!" his father roared, stepping forward again. "My son is no heretic!"
But the two Acolytes had already moved. They seized Ean's arms with iron grips, their cloaks brushing the floor as they restrained him.
"Mother! Father!" Ean roared, muscles straining against their grip. His chest burned with desperation. "You know me, I would never do this!"
His mother's face was pale, her lips trembling, but her voice was steady as she whispered, "We know, son. We believe you."
"I only sold calligraphy," Ean shouted desperately. "Nothing more!"
"You will explain yourself later," Kael said coldly, rolling the parchment back into his cloak. "At our office." He gestured, and the acolytes pulled Ean toward the door.
"No!" his father thundered, trying to push past Kael, but the inquisitor's arm shot out, barring his way.
"Stand down. If your son is innocent, he will be released soon enough."
His father's fists clenched, but the authority in Kael's eyes froze him in place.
Lira's sobs echoed as their mother drew her into her arms, her gaze fixed on her son being dragged away.
Ean fought against the hands on him, but it was useless. His parents' figures blurred through his tears as the night swallowed him.
**
The carriage jolted as it set into motion, the wheels grinding against the cobblestones of the main street. Inside, Ean sat between the two guards, his arms bound, his body trembling.
Across from him, Kael Draven sat with an unhurried air. He lit a cigar, the faint scent of smoke mixing with the night chill. The orange glow illuminated his sharp features as he studied the parchment again.
Ean swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. "I swear, I didn't do anything. I don't know why you're accusing me."
Kael exhaled a long trail of smoke, his gaze like steel. "Save your words. Your case will be examined by Selene Veyra herself."
The name struck Ean with a strange chill.
Selene Veyra?
Who… is that?