"Yooohoooo!"
Zelder's shout rang above the morning din as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop, his shadow flashing across sun-washed tiles. Below him, the great market of Oarth had already awakened—merchants crying their wares, carts creaking over stone, and villagers pressing shoulder to shoulder like a living tide.
"Mind thy step, whelp!" an old man cried from the street, lifting his staff just as Zelder sailed overhead, laughing as the wind rushed past his ears.
He landed at last with a light roll near a small corner stall, breath steady, grin wide. His clothes were simple and worn—his usual runner's garb, stitched and mended more times than he could count—but they moved with him like a second skin.
Zelder stepped to the counter and tapped the wood with familiar ease.
"The usual, good sir," he said politely. "For my father."
The shopkeeper, gray-bearded and sharp-eyed, shook his head as he reached beneath the counter and handed over the bundle.
"Take it, lad," the man muttered. "But mark my words—thy father still owes me coin from yesterday's sun."
Zelder was already gone.
By the time the shopkeeper's voice carried across the stall, the boy was a blur weaving through the crowd, boots drumming against stone as laughter trailed behind him like an echo.
Zelder slowed only when the market sounds faded behind him. He slipped through a narrow passage where sunlight barely reached, a place forgotten by carts and crowds alike. There, wedged between two tall stone houses that leaned toward each other like weary giants, stood his home.
It was small. Too small for the space it occupied. Its roof sagged, its walls bore the scars of many winters—but it was theirs.
Zelder pushed the door open gently.
"Here, Father," he said, trying to sound cheerful as he stepped inside. "I've brought your wine and bread."
The room was dim and quiet, smelling of dust, old wood, and something faintly bitter. His father lay upon a narrow bed near the hearth, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, eyes half-lidded.
"You know the shopkeeper… yesterday's payment, I suppose," Zelder added, breath still uneven from the run. "He spoke of it as I left."
There was a pause.
"Oh…" his father murmured, pushing himself upright with a slow groan. His hands trembled slightly as they found the edge of the bed. "I must be growing old, my son. Slower in the mind than I once was."
He gave a weak, tired smile.
"I forgot," he said quietly. "I'll pay him tomorrow. I swear it."
Zelder set the bundle down on the small table and nodded, though his eyes lingered on his father longer than he meant them to.
Have you heard the news?" his father asked suddenly. "The rumors?"
Zelder looked up from tying his boots. "News?" he said. "What rumors?"
His father—Medir—lifted the bottle to his lips and took a slow sip of wine, as though weighing whether the words were worth speaking.
"They say Valmer has spoken again."
Zelder frowned. "Ve… who?"
Medir paused mid-drink and glanced at him over the rim of the bottle. "Valmer," he repeated. "The Dark Lord."
Zelder shrugged. "I thought he was just a story. One of those old fireside tales meant to scare children into behaving."
Medir let out a dry breath. "You should know these things, son. Oarth was built on such stories."
"So Valmer spoke," Zelder said lightly, stretching his arms. "And?"
"And he claims the time has come," Medir replied. "He seeks to reclaim Oarth."
Silence settled between them.
"Oh," Zelder said at last. "That… sucks, I guess."
Medir lowered the bottle slowly and set it aside, his fingers lingering on the glass. "That is all you have to say?" he asked. "This is Oarth we speak of. Our home. You seem far too at ease."
Zelder tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Is it truly such a great matter?" he asked. "Legends return all the time in stories. They never seem to reach our door."
Medir studied his son for a long moment—the careless posture, the easy breath, the youth that had never known war. Then he waved a hand dismissively, though the motion lacked its usual strength.
"Forget it," he muttered. "You are right. It is likely nothing."
He leaned back against the bed, eyes drifting toward the small window where light crept in.
"Just a rumor," he said softly.
"Alright then," Zelder said, tightening the strap of his boots. "I'm off to see my friends."
Medir gave a tired nod, already settling back against the bed. Zelder slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.
The moment his feet touched the street, he ran.
He vaulted over a low cart, ducked beneath hanging cloth, and raced along the narrow lanes of Oarth as if the town itself were his path. Morning bells chimed overhead. Children laughed. Merchants cursed good-naturedly as the wind of his passing tugged at their stalls.
"Runner!" someone shouted.
Zelder only grinned and leapt again, landing near the old trading row where the shops stood shoulder to shoulder, their signs creaking in the breeze.
He slowed to a stop at a small nut-seller's stall.
"Hey, you lot," Zelder said, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.
Two boys sat on a wooden crate beside the shop, shells scattered at their feet. Kael, broad-shouldered and loud even when quiet, cracked another nut between his fingers. Beside him sat Tovin, lean and thoughtful, already mid-sentence before Zelder arrived.
"—and I'm telling you," Tovin said, "the old tower wasn't built by men alone."
Kael snorted. "You believe every tale that crawls out of an elder's mouth."
Zelder straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. "What are we arguing about today?"
Kael tossed him a nut. "Legends. Again."
Tovin smiled faintly. "Rumors, actually."
Zelder caught the nut and shrugged. "As long
as they don't slow me down.
"What rumors?" Zelder asked, tossing the nut into his mouth and cracking it between his teeth.
Tovin leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the stones themselves might listen. "The Dark Lord, lad," he said. "They say he's coming back again."
Kael scoffed loudly. "I told you already—he's nothing but a legend," he said, brushing nut shells from his palms. "A shadow parents use to frighten children into obedience. No one alive has ever laid eyes on him."
"Legends have beginnings," Tovin replied. "And endings."
Kael rolled his eyes. "And storytellers. Don't forget them."
Zelder said nothing.
He stood between them, gaze shifting from Kael's easy grin to Tovin's uneasy eyes. The laughter from the market drifted around them, bright and careless, yet something in the air felt… thinner. As if the words spoken had stolen a little warmth from the day.
"Even if he were real," Zelder said at last, trying to sound unconcerned, "Oarth has stood for thousands of years. It won't fall to a rumor."
Tovin studied him. "That's what they said the first time," he murmured.
Kael snorted. "You're getting dramatic."
Zelder forced a smile, but his thoughts drifted—back to his father's tone, the way his hand had lingered on the bottle, the way he had said just a rumor as though
hoping it were true.