Part I: Ash in the Air.
The sun was setting by the time you reached the valley's edge. You hadn't noticed when Aeloria slipped away, one moment she was walking beside you, her quiet presence a steady lantern, and the next, she was gone, swallowed by the forest like a name lost to time.
Now, alone, you stand upon a rocky overlook where the world seems to have forgotten how to breathe. Below you sprawls the remnants of a town, once proud perhaps, now shrunken, a ghost curled around itself.
Even from this height, the decay is obvious. Roofs sag with moss and ash. Trees on the outskirts grow twisted, some split open like they'd wept molten sap. Smoke rises, not from chimneys but from smoldering fire pits long gone cold. No birds cry here. No wind moves.
You descend slowly.
The air thickens the further you go, not with smoke, but with silence. The kind that has teeth.
A carved wooden sign leans sideways at the entrance to the town, half-swallowed by vines. Its name is worn away, though the elven letters at the base remain:
Thaleah.
"A home for the weary."
You step past it, and the moment your foot touches the cobblestone, the pendant Aeloria gave you pulses faintly, once, twice, as if warning you.
Part II: The Town That Forgot.
The streets are empty.
Or at least… they pretend to be.
Shadows shift behind curtains. Doors creak open just wide enough to let an eye peek through. Somewhere, a metal latch slides into place with a soft click.
You keep walking. The buildings are of mixed make, elven arches here, human stonework there. Signs of a once-thriving trade town that bridged peoples and paths.
Now, rot clings to the walls. Ivy hangs like hair from collapsed balconies. In the distance, a fountain trickles a thin line of water, the statue at its center, a once-winged maiden, is missing her face.
The smell isn't death. It's neglect, old sweat, mold, and ash. And underneath it… something else. Like something sick has burrowed into the stone.
Then you hear it.
A door creaks wide behind you.
A child's voice:
"Are you one of the bad ones?"
You turn. A boy, maybe seven, stands barefoot in the dirt. His skin is pale, lips cracked, eyes too old for his age. He doesn't flinch when you approach. He just stares, like he's seen worse than whatever you are.
You kneel.
"No," you say softly. "I don't think I am. Who are the bad ones?"
He frowns, shrugs. "The ones who come from the woods. They smile too much. Mama says they bring the sickness."
Your stomach tightens.
"Where's your mama now?"
He points.
A small cottage across the square. The only one with a candle burning in its window.
You thank him. He nods, then turns and disappears into the shadows again, barefoot steps soundless on the stone.
Part III: The Plea.
You approach the cottage, heart heavy.
The door opens before you knock.
A woman stands there, tall, thin, but not weak. Her hands are worn from work, her dress threadbare but clean. Her eyes linger on the pendant at your chest.
"You're not from here," she says. Not a question.
You nod.
She steps aside without a word.
Inside, the room is small but warm. Herbs hang from the rafters. A fire flickers low. In the far corner, beneath a pile of woven blankets, lies a child, the boy's sister, you guess.
She's still. Too still.
"She hasn't woken in days," the woman says. "Neither healer nor priest could help her. Whatever it is… it's not of this realm."
You move closer. The pendant pulses faintly again, glowing near the girl.
The mother notices. "You feel it too," she says.
You nod once more. Words seem useless here.
"Some say it's a curse. Others say the town angered something sacred. But I think…" Her voice lowers. "…I think something found its way in. Something old. And now it's feeding."
Your hand hovers above the child's forehead. Her skin is cold, but not dead. There's a flicker of life beneath the frost, a trapped warmth, buried.
"Can I help her?" you ask.
The woman's eyes glisten.
"I don't know. But if you can do anything..."
She swallows hard.
"...please try."
Part IV: Beneath the Hearth.
You kneel beside the girl once more, fingers brushing the edge of her blanket. Her skin is clammy, brow pale. The pendant around your neck hums faintly, responding not just to her presence, but to something beneath.
You look to the mother. "Has anything… happened? Before she fell ill?"
She hesitates.
"We heard whispers at night. From the walls, the floorboards. Then the dreams began. She started mumbling in her sleep, in a language I didn't know. Then… she stopped waking."
You glance around. The cottage is unremarkable. Firewood, shelves, a small table. But the hearth, wide and blackened, draws your eye. Its stone mouth yawns slightly too deep, the shadows too dense.
"Have you looked inside the fireplace?"
She shakes her head. "There's no flue. It leads nowhere."
The pendant burns hot suddenly. You rise and approach it.
As your fingers touch the outer rim of the hearth, the shadows within ripple. Like breath.
A sound slithers out, faint, like claws across stone. Then a whisper:
"…He remembers…"
You recoil.
"What, what is that?" the woman asks, stepping back.
Before you can answer, the girl stirs.
She gasps sharply, as if dragged from water. Her body arches.
Her mouth opens, but it's not her voice that escapes.
"The watcher… walks… too soon."
Then she screams.
Not out of fear — but as if something tears through her soul.
The shadows in the hearth spill out, thick and living, forming into a hunched, writhing shape with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth. It howls without sound.
A Shade.
Part V: Flicker of Power.
The mother pulls the girl into her arms, shielding her. The Shade stretches, dripping from the walls like black ink peeling from reality. Its eyes, if they are eyes, fix on you.
It lunges.
You step forward, unarmed, heart pounding, yet the pendant flares in your chest, and for a moment, you are not afraid.
A flash.
A memory not yours, a forest burning, a winged figure roaring above it, and your hands raised as if to command the flames.
You raise your palm now. Instinct moves faster than thought.
Light bursts from your fingertips, not fire, not lightning, something older. A rippling gold-blue flare that sears through the Shade's shoulder. It shrieks, retreats, not destroyed, but wounded.
It crawls back toward the hearth, but not before casting one last, trembling whisper:
"You do not belong here… yet."
And with a final hiss, it vanishes into smoke.
Part VI: Aftermath.
Silence returns.
The girl breathes softly now, asleep, but no longer sick. Her mother cradles her, murmuring thanks through tears.
You stand motionless.
What was that? How did you…?
Your fingers tremble.
The pendant dims again. The warmth it carries is now just that — warmth, no longer heat. But something inside you feels opened. Like a gate has been unlatched.
The woman rises. "Whatever you are… thank you. The Shade has haunted this place for weeks. We heard it… felt it… but no one could face it."
You swallow. "It wasn't me. Not really. I don't even understand what I just did."
She nods. "Maybe not. But the land remembers. Perhaps you were meant to come here."
You step outside again. The sky is darker now. A few villagers have gathered at a distance, watching you. Word travels fast, even among the weary.
And then, a sound.
Soft at first, almost mistaken for wind.
A distant dragon's roar.
Far away, carried on the wind, not a threat… but a call.
You turn toward the sound.
And walk.
Part VII: Embers Left Behind.
Dawn crawls slowly across the cracked rooftops of Thaleah, washing the town in gold that doesn't quite chase away the grey. A few townsfolk gather as you pass, not to cheer, not to beg, just to look. To wonder.
Their eyes follow you, whispering behind weathered palms. And for the first time, you feel it, the weight of their hope pressing lightly against your back.
The mother from the cottage meets you at the town's edge, her child asleep against her
shoulder. She offers you a bundle, dried herbs, bread, and a flask of something warm.
"You may not remember who you are," she says, "but I think the land does."
You don't know how to answer. So, you nod.
As you step beyond the border, past the leaning Thaleah sign and back onto the road that winds eastward, a flicker draws your gaze downward.
A single feather; pale, translucent, rests on your path. It glows faintly.
You kneel, fingers brushing it gently. It is warm, pulsing with faint light… and when you lift it, a whisper curls into your ear, soft and clear:
"One step closer."
Your journey is only beginning.
But already, the world stirs.
[End of Chapter Three]