Dawn came like a mercy he didn't deserve. Gray light creeping across the sky, chasing away the stars but not the memories.
Kael huddled in the drainage ditch. His body convulsed with shivers that started in his bones and worked outward. The torn nightclothes hung stiff with blood and frost. Every breath tasted of copper and cowardice. Of failure.
Was it real? Maybe if he went back... maybe they'd be there. Eating breakfast. Mira stealing bacon from Father's plate. Mother humming.
No. He knew better. But knowing and accepting were different creatures entirely.
He forced himself upright. Joints screamed. Feet screamed louder. Pink ice had formed between his toes. The little toe on his left foot had turned white. Frostbite? He'd lose them if he didn't find warmth soon.
But first... first he had to know.
The walk back took forever. Or was it minutes? Time moved strangely when the world had ended. Morning mist clung to Millhaven's streets, softening edges, muffling sounds.
Mrs. Henderson hung wash on her line. The baker's boy hauled flour sacks. Normal. Mundane. As if blue light hadn't consumed his family. As if Mira's neck hadn't bent like wet clay.
Should he tell someone? Should he scream the truth until they listened?
No. They'd think him mad. Lock him away. And then who would remember what really happened?
His house sat at the end of Carpenter's Row. Same as always. Except the door hung open like a broken jaw. Except frost still traced the window frames despite the warming air. Except for the silence that pressed against his ears like deep water.
One step. Two steps. Twenty steps. Thirty-seven steps exactly from the corner to his gate. His bare feet left bloody prints on the cobblestones. Through the garden gate. Past his mother's vegetable plot where the carrots were just starting to sprout. The shed where he'd landed bore a him-shaped dent in its roof. Three tiles missing. Father would have fixed that by noon.
Father wouldn't fix anything anymore.
The kitchen door beckoned. Opened. Inviting him into whatever horror waited inside.
He entered.
The smell hit first. Copper and winter and something else. Something that made his hindbrain scream warnings. Like ozone before lightning. Like flowers left too long in a tomb.
His eyes adjusted to the dimness. There. In the center of the kitchen floor.
His parents lay arranged with terrible precision. Arms crossed over their chests. Eyes closed. Faces... peaceful? No signs of struggle on their bodies. No wounds except...
Kael dropped to his knees beside them. His hands hovered over his mother's face. Afraid to touch. Afraid to confirm what his eyes already knew.
They'd been drained. Something had pulled all the warmth, all the life, through two small punctures at the base of their throats. The blood hadn't spilled. Hadn't pooled. It had been... collected? Absorbed?
This arrangement. This reverence. Whatever had killed them had taken time afterwards to show respect. To honor them even as it fed. Why? Wandering spirits didn't show respect. Did they?
"Mother?" The word came out cracked. Broken. "Father?"
Nothing. Of course nothing. He pressed his palms against his eyes until stars burst behind the lids. Red stars. Blue stars. Breathe. Think. What now?
Mira. Where was Mira?
He searched every room. Her bed lay empty, covers thrown back. No body. No blood. No sign except...
Ah. There. On her pillow. A single long hair, silver now instead of brown. Coiled like a question mark. Or a goodbye.
Voices outside. Getting closer. Three distinct tones. Male, male, female.
Kael scrambled into the pantry and pulled the door almost shut. Through the half-inch crack, he watched three figures enter his ruined home. Black coats that absorbed light. Measured movements. They examined the scene with professional detachment. Like physicians studying a corpse.
"Wandering class spirit," the tallest one said. Male voice, educated accent. Northern? "Origin item was the hairpin. Silver setting, blue stone. Probably First Era craftsmanship."
"Confirmed." The woman knelt beside his parents. She pulled out strange instruments. Glass vials. Copper rods. "Clean feeding. Almost respectful. Unusual for a wandering. They typically tear. Rend. This is..."
"Surgical," the younger man finished. Nervous voice. New to this? "The girl's body?"
"Consumed completely." The tall man gestured at the ceiling. Dark stains Kael hadn't noticed before. Had been too afraid to look up. "Spirit must have needed the energy for manifestation. Probably been dormant in that hairpin for decades. Maybe longer."
They moved efficiently. The woman extracted something from his parents' bodies. Small vials filled with... light? Essence? The pale glow made Kael's birthmark itch. She wrapped them carefully in black cloth. Tucked them into her coat.
"Strange..." The nervous one stood where Kael had been earlier. Studying the floor. "The spirit didn't pursue the boy."
"What boy?"
"Blood trail. Someone escaped through the upstairs window. See? Here, here, and here. Barefoot. Young. Wounded but moving fast."
Should they search? Should they care? Kael held his breath. Pressed deeper into the pantry's shadows. Between the pickle jars and preserve shelf.
"No." The tall man decided after a long pause. "Probably died in the woods. Blood loss and exposure. Temperature dropped to negative ten last night. We have what we need."
"But if there's a witness..."
"To what? A boy raving about monsters? They'll think him mad. Come. The Council wants confirmation of the Thornwood losses."
Council? Thornwood? What were they talking about?
They left as quietly as they'd come. Kael waited. Counted to one hundred. Two hundred. Five hundred. Only then did he emerge. Legs cramping. Throat dust-dry. The birthmark between his shoulders throbbed with each heartbeat.
What now? He couldn't stay. When his parents didn't show up for work, people would investigate. They'd find... this. And he'd have no explanation that wouldn't sound like madness.
He moved mechanically. His father's coat from the hook by the door. Still smelled like sawdust and pipe smoke. Still warm, somehow. His mother's shawl, soft lamb's wool she'd saved three months to buy. Three silver coins from the emergency jar behind the flour. Not much. But all they had.
Should he say something? Prayers? Apologies?
He knelt instead and cleaned their faces with his mother's favorite dishcloth. The one with tiny embroidered roses. Arranged their hair. Straightened his father's collar. Closed their eyes properly. Made them presentable for whoever found them.
"I'm sorry." The words felt small. Useless. Like trying to bail out the ocean with a teacup. "I'm so sorry."
His stomach cramped. Sharp and sudden. When had he last eaten? Yesterday's dinner. Rabbit stew. Mira had complained about the vegetables. Said they were mushy. Mother had laughed...
Don't think about that. Think about now. About survival.
He stumbled to the window. The baker's shop across the way displayed fresh loaves. Still steaming. Mrs. Chen would be in the back, preparing the afternoon batch. No one watched the front this early.
Was he really going to...?
Yes. Yes, he was. Because the dead felt no hunger, and he was unfortunately, shamefully, still breathing.
He crossed the street on unsteady legs. The shop bell stayed silent. He'd watched Chen oil it yesterday. His hand closed around two loaves. Still warm. The yeast smell made his stomach clench. He tucked them under the coat and walked out. Not running. Running drew attention. Just a boy heading home with breakfast.
Except he had no home. Not anymore.
The abandoned mill on the town's outskirts had been empty for three years. Four? It stank of mold and rat droppings, but it had walls and a roof. Kael tore into the bread like an animal. Barely tasting. Just filling the hollow space inside.
When night fell, he examined his hands in the moonlight. His parents' blood had dried beneath his fingernails. Black crescents of accusation. Of memory.
He left them there. They were all he had left of home.