Chapter 2: Ashes on the Road
Arin did not remember when the screaming stopped.
He remembered running—branches clawing at his face, roots snagging his boots, lungs burning as though filled with smoke instead of air. He remembered the forest swallowing the sounds of the village behind him, until the crackle of fire and the cries of the dying became nothing more than echoes in his skull.
When he finally collapsed, it was beneath an ancient oak, its trunk wide enough to hide a wagon. The earth was cold and damp beneath his palms. He retched, though there was nothing left in his stomach, and pressed his forehead to the ground as if the soil itself might steady him.
The night stretched on, vast and uncaring.
Arin lay there for a long time, listening for pursuit. Every rustle of leaves sent his heart racing; every sigh of wind sounded like a whisper of the shadows that had torn Greyhaven apart. But no footsteps followed. No glowing eyes pierced the dark.
At last, exhaustion claimed him.
He dreamed of light.
Not the steady, comforting beam of the lighthouse, but something fractured and desperate—flickering between his fingers, slipping through cracks he could not seal. In the dream, his father stood on the shore, calling his name, while the sea rose higher and higher behind him.
Arin woke with a gasp.
Dawn filtered weakly through the trees, pale and uncertain. Birds sang hesitantly, as though testing whether it was safe to do so. His body ached from the fall, from the run, from the weight of fear that had settled into his bones.
For a moment, he did not move. He stared at the canopy above, half-expecting it to dissolve into smoke.
It did not.
Greyhaven was gone.
The realization struck him slowly, like a tide creeping up the shore. He sat up, hands trembling, and looked around. The forest was unfamiliar here—older, denser than the small woods near the village. He had run farther inland than he ever had before.
Something cold pressed against his palm.
Arin looked down.
The object his father had shoved into his hands lay clenched in his fist, still wrapped in cloth darkened by soot and blood. His breath caught. For a moment, he could not bring himself to look at it. The memory of Tomas's face—set, urgent, afraid—rose unbidden in his mind.
Protect the light.
With shaking fingers, Arin unwrapped the cloth.
The artifact was small, no larger than a child's fist. It resembled a shard of crystal, clear yet faintly luminous, as though a glow slept within it. When sunlight touched its surface, the light bent strangely, refracting into soft hues that had no name.
It was warm.
Arin sucked in a breath and nearly dropped it. The warmth was not like fire, but like a living thing—steady, reassuring, aware.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The crystal pulsed once, faintly.
Arin wrapped it again and tucked it into his satchel, heart pounding. He did not know why, but he was suddenly certain of one thing: whatever this was, the creatures that destroyed Greyhaven had come for it.
And he had it.
A shiver ran through him—not from cold, but from the weight of that knowledge.
He stood and oriented himself by the sun, choosing a path that led deeper inland. The sea was behind him now. The lighthouse—his home, his father—might as well have been a lifetime away.
Each step felt like betrayal.
---
The road found him by midday.
It was little more than a dirt path, worn thin by cart wheels and hooves, winding through the forest like a scar. Arin hesitated at its edge, listening. The silence was different here—less wild, more cautious. Civilization, however distant, had left its mark.
He followed the road.
Hunger gnawed at him by afternoon. He had fled with nothing but the clothes on his back, his satchel, and the artifact. No food. No water skin. The practical worries began to crowd out the shock, as they often did in moments of crisis.
He had survived this long, a voice in his head said—his father's voice. You can survive a little longer.
The road curved toward a low hill, and beyond it, smoke curled into the sky.
Arin froze.
His hand went to the satchel instinctively. Smoke meant people. People meant safety—or danger. He weighed his options, then forced himself forward. Hiding forever was not living.
As he crested the hill, the source of the smoke came into view: a small camp set just off the road. A fire burned low at its center. A single wagon stood nearby, its paint chipped and its wheel repaired with mismatched boards.
And there were voices.
Arin's pulse thundered in his ears as he approached cautiously. He saw them then—four figures around the fire.
A woman with pale hair sat with her back straight, a bow resting across her knees. Her ears, pointed and elegant, marked her unmistakably as elven. Her eyes scanned the forest with alert precision.
Beside her, a broad-shouldered dwarf tended the fire, his beard braided and singed at the ends. He hummed softly, deep and tuneless.
A man leaned against the wagon, sharpening a sword. His movements were economical, his gaze distant but sharp. A mercenary, Arin guessed.
The fourth figure stood slightly apart—a woman in dark robes, her hood lowered. She held a staff carved with symbols that made Arin's eyes ache to look at for too long.
A party.
Adventurers.
Stories flooded Arin's mind—tales told by sailors passing through Greyhaven, of heroes and monsters, of magic and ruin. He had always listened from the sidelines, never imagining he would stand this close to such people.
A twig snapped beneath his boot.
The elf was on her feet instantly, bow raised, arrow drawn.
"Don't move," she said, her voice calm and deadly.
Arin froze.
"I—I'm not armed," he stammered, raising his hands slowly.
The mercenary straightened, sword half-drawn. The dwarf scowled. The robed woman studied Arin with unsettling intensity.
"Name," the elf demanded.
"Arin," he said. "Arin Vale. I'm from—" His voice broke. "From the coast."
The robed woman tilted her head. "The coast burned last night."
Arin swallowed. "You saw it?"
"We felt it," she replied. "A disturbance. Old magic."
The elf lowered her bow slightly, eyes narrowing. "You're a long way from home, boy."
"I don't have a home anymore," Arin said quietly.
Something in his tone shifted the air. The dwarf's scowl softened. The mercenary's grip on his sword loosened.
"Sit," the dwarf said gruffly, jerking his head toward the fire. "You look like you're about to fall over."
Arin hesitated, then obeyed.
The warmth of the fire seeped into his bones, and for the first time since the night before, he felt human again. Someone handed him a waterskin. He drank greedily, coughing.
"Slow," the elf said, though not unkindly.
They watched him as he ate a piece of hard bread, their gazes curious, wary.
"You ran from shadows," the robed woman said after a moment. It was not a question.
Arin nodded.
"They came from the ruins," he added. "Near the cliffs. They wanted… something."
Her eyes flicked to his satchel.
"Everyone wants something," she murmured.
The mercenary finally spoke. "If you're lying, we'll know."
"I know," Arin said. "I don't have the strength to lie."
A silence followed—heavy, considering.
At last, the dwarf snorted. "Well then. Looks like the road's given us a stray."
The elf met Arin's gaze. "We're heading north. Away from the coast. If you stay, you follow our rules."
Arin's heart leapt. "I will. I swear it."
The robed woman's lips curved faintly. "Careful, boy. Roads change people."
As the fire crackled and the forest listened, Arin Vale took his first step into a wider world—one shaped by ashes, secrets, and a light that refused to die.