The sun dipped low behind the hills as Reed approached the edge of the village. It looked just like Alex described—the village was nestled in a shallow valley wrapped in mist, the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth heavy in the air. Modest homes built of dark timber leaned toward one another, fences tangled in ivy and dried herbs. The weathered stone paths weaving through patches of wildflowers, and a thick border of forest standing like a wall around it all. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of pine and something sweet baking in the distance.
She paused, hand resting on the strap of her pack. She wasn't sure what she expected, but the moment still caught her off guard—this place, untouched by the noise of the world, felt like a secret someone had trusted her with.
She looked back to the paper she was holding—names and details about them were written on it. Werrin, Auren, and Kaiser.
"They are kind, warm, but guarded."
That was what's written on the paper—simple and direct, just like Alex.
The people here walked slowly, not out of laziness, but familiarity. She walked through the winding paths and into the village proper. Children paused in their play, and the scent of firewood and sweet herbs drifted on the air. Reed moved through it like a ghost, unannounced and unseen.
Or so she thought.
A tall man stood at the edge of the village square, his hair a silvered halo even under the haze. His cloak was worn, but regal in its own quiet way. His eyes, a pale shade of stone, landed on her and softened—not with pity, but with knowing.
"You made it," he said, smiling beneath a neatly trimmed beard. "I'm Werrin. Head of this place. Alexandra told me you might come."
The mention of her name tugged at Reed's chest.
Reed stopped a few feet away. "Yes, Alexandra sent me."
"She did," he said gently. "I've been expecting you for some time."
"I didn't know I was coming," Reed said.
He smiled. "Sometimes, it's not up to us."
Werrin motioned for her to follow, and she did—cautiously, warily. He led her toward a large house that sat slightly apart from the others. A garden curled around the front steps, overgrown and fragrant with lavender and wild thyme.
Inside, it was warm. The fire crackled in a wide hearth, casting golden light across simple furnishings. A boy was seated at the long table, lazily spinning a dagger between his fingers. He looked up when they entered.
"This is Auren," Werrin said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Auren looked to be about Reed's age, maybe younger. His eyes were sharp, amber like foxfire. He nodded once at her, not unkindly but without effort. She returned it the same way.
"She doesn't talk much," Werrin told him quietly.
"That's fine," Auren replied. "I don't listen much."
Reed didn't smile, but something in her chest loosened. A fraction.
"Take your time settling in," Werrin said. "You'll have your own space upstairs. If you need anything, ask. If you don't want anything... that's fine too."
Reed met his eyes and saw no expectation there. No pity, no pressure. Just a strange, quiet welcome.
And for a moment, she hated how much it almost felt safe.
She explored the village in silence. People offered glances—curious, cautious, mostly kind. No one asked her name, no rumors. No one touched her. She liked it that way.
Later that evening, the light turned amber through the windows, and Werrin had stepped out to check on a neighbor. Auren had gone quiet upstairs.
Reed stood alone in the front room, hands still gloved, staring at the fire. She didn't know how to sit still. She didn't know how to feel warmth that didn't end in burning.
The door creaked open behind her.
"Home, sweet—oh."
The voice was amused, lilting with the edge of a smirk. She turned.
He was tall, lean, and looked like trouble wrapped in worn leather and wind-dusted boots. His hair was dark and unruly, his eyes bright with something dangerous—cleverness or carelessness, she couldn't yet tell. A short blade hung lazily from his hip, and a crooked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Well, you're new," he said.
Reed said nothing.
The silence didn't seem to bother him. He walked inside, boots leaving faint marks on the wooden floor, and flopped onto the nearest chair with a sigh of someone who never stayed anywhere long but liked pretending he might.
"Let me guess," he continued. "You don't talk, don't trust, and definitely don't want anyone near you."
She still said nothing.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly—not cruelly, just curious. "Hm. You've got the look. The gloves help. I'm Kaiser, by the way. Blade-for-hire. Werrin lets me sleep here in exchange for not being a complete nuisance."
Reed raised a brow slightly.
"I know," he said. "A tall order."
He leaned back in his chair, one boot propped against the edge of the table, spinning a coin between his fingers now instead of a knife.
"You look like someone with a lot to hide," he said casually.
She looked away.
"Don't worry," Kaiser added. "I like secrets. Keeps things interesting."
Reed finally spoke, her voice low. "I'm not here to make things interesting."
"Oh," Kaiser said, mock-offended. "But I am."
Silence.
He tilted his head. "Are you planning to stay quiet forever or just until you decide if I'm worth acknowledging?"
"I'm tired," she said finally, voice quiet.
Kaiser grinned. "A fair response. You've got mystery all over you, you know."
She turned toward the window. "That's not intentional."
"Makes it better." He flopped into the chair near the fire. "Anyway, not my business. Just figured I'd say hello. You're the most interesting thing to happen around here since a goat stole Werrin's boot."
Reed glanced back at him. "Was that your fault?"
Kaiser gave her a look of mock horror. "How dare you. I merely… encouraged the goat's free spirit."
She blinked slowly, unimpressed.
He chuckled. "Alright. No jokes. For now."
He let the silence settle, leaning back in his chair, flicking a coin through his fingers. After a moment, he glanced at her again.
"You got the look," he said. "Like someone who knows nothing and doesn't know what they're running from. Or maybe someone who remembers too much. Either of the two."
She stiffened. She turned to leave, but his next words caught her.
"You don't have to say anything, you know," he said, tone quieter. "But you're not invisible. Just... thought you should know."
Reed froze in the hallway, something in her spine going tight.
"You don't have to stay," she said over her shoulder.
"Not planning to," he said with a shrug. "But I always linger when something's about to get messy."
She didn't like that. But she didn't hate it either.
— —
The village had long since fallen asleep. Smoke no longer curled from the chimneys, and the warm candlelight behind shuttered windows had been replaced by the cool glow of the two moons. The forest loomed like a silent witness beyond the fields, dark and half-wild. A breeze rustled the trees as though beckoning the restless.
Reed couldn't sleep.
The bed beneath her had been soft, the room quiet and warm, but something in her bones felt wrong. Stillness pressed against her ribs. Like a weight she couldn't name. She lay awake until the silence became too loud.
So she slipped out of bed.
She moved like a ghost through the hallway, each creak of the wooden floorboards making her wince. She didn't want to wake Werrin or Auren. She didn't want questions, eyes, or anyone asking if she was alright. She pulled her gloves on, tucked her boots carefully under her cloak, and stepped out into the night.
The air met her like a breath. Crisp, pine-touched, damp with the memory of rain.
She walked toward the edge of the village, where the trees stood like old guardians, their limbs stretched high toward the stars. The forest whispered to her. It didn't ask her name or her past. The forest didn't care even if she didn't remember where she came from. That made it easier to step inside.
She didn't go far, only deep enough that the edge of the village blurred behind the curtain of trees. The moonlight filtered through branches, casting shifting patterns along the moss-covered floor. The hush settled her, wrapping around her like the softest part of solitude.
A twig snapped.
She turned sharply, heart rising—her hand twitched toward the small knife hidden in her boot, but she didn't draw it. Kaiser leaned casually against a birch tree a few feet away, one brow arched.
"I was wondering when you'd sneak out," he said.
"You followed me," she said.
"I waited. There's a difference." He straightened, stepping forward. The moonlight silvered his dark hair, and the shadows under his eyes made him look older than he was.
Reed narrowed her eyes. "Go back."
"And miss a midnight stroll with a girl who clearly doesn't want company but still looks too sad to be alone? Not a chance."
She turned and kept walking.
Kaiser walked beside her now, hands in his pockets, steps quiet. "You always run when you can't sleep?"
"I don't run."
He smiled faintly. "Right. You vanish."
Reed didn't answer for a while, until the silence became too much for her to handle.
"You don't sleep either?"
He grinned. "Sleep and I have a complicated relationship."
She kept walking, and he fell into step beside her without asking.
"You always sneak off into forests at night?"
"You always spy on people?"
"Only the interesting ones."
She sighed. The forest rustled around them.
They walked in silence for a time. The path beneath them narrowed, then widened again into a small glade where moonlight pooled like spilled silver. A fallen log bisected the clearing. Reed sat on it, adjusting her cloak as Kaiser hovered nearby, uncertain.
"You can sit," she said.
"Permission? I'm honored."
He settled beside her, far enough not to invade her space, but close enough she could feel the heat of him.
Reed tilted her head toward the sky. The stars blinked down, distant and indifferent. "It's too quiet here."
"Too quiet?" Kaiser echoed.
"Like the world's holding its breath. Like something's coming."
He was quiet for a bit. "Maybe it is."
She glanced sideways. "You say that like you know."
"I don't know anything," he said. "Except that most people run from their past. You're the first person I've met who doesn't even have one."
She stiffened.
He raised his hands. "I didn't mean to pry. Just. . . You're different."
She looked away. "Different doesn't mean good."
"Doesn't mean bad either."
They fell quiet again. Crickets sang low. An owl hooted in the distance.
"You don't ask a lot of questions," she said.
"I find people say more when they're not answering any."
She allowed a small breath of laughter. It surprised them both.
Reed, whose smile can make someone stop from their steps, whose voice can lul a child to sleep—her laugh was something that made Kaiser stare, just a little longer.
"You're looking at me strangely." she said.
Kaiser chuckled, "Well, I can choose how to look at people, can't I?"
Silence filled them again, but this time, it was something that didn't bother her.
Kaiser leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you want to be alone? I can go."
"Isn't it a bit too late to say that?" Reed frowned,
"A bit," Kaiser paused, "but it's better than never."
Reed stared at her gloved hands. She flexed her fingers slowly, the memory of heat prickling against her palms.
"No," she said. "Stay."
He nodded, saying nothing more. Kaiser just watched her as she wrapped her arms around herself. Mischief faded slightly from his face.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Then he spoke,
"I won't ask who you are," he said. "But I'd like to know."
She hesitated.
He waited.
Finally, her voice—quiet, steady—broke the silence.
"My name is Reed."
The words barely rose above the hush of wind.
Kaiser went still beside her. The reaction was subtle—a sharp intake of breath, the slight widening of his eyes, a flicker of something that wasn't quite a surprise. Recognition. Maybe something sharp—heavier.
It was gone a heartbeat later, vanished quickly. Too quickly.
It was replaced by his usual lopsided grin. But the silence had stretched just a fraction too long.
"What?" she asked, wary.
He turned his head, a smile finding its way back to his lips. "Reed," he said. Slowly. As if tasting it. "Nice name. Suits you."
She watched him carefully. "You paused."
"Did I? Must've been stunned by your sudden willingness to speak."
She didn't believe him. Not entirely. But she let it go.
He tilted his head back, staring up through the trees, then the sky. "You know, this forest used to be cursed."
"Used to be?"
"Maybe it still is. Who can tell with curses? But you're here now, so I think it's upgraded to haunted."
She rolled her eyes.
"Progress," he said, smiling. "You haven't told me to shut up yet."
"I'm thinking about it."
"You know," Reed looked at him, like the first time she had acknowledged him.
He looked at her sidelong. "People here don't ask questions. But I'm not from here. So if you ever feel like telling someone what you're running from… or toward… I'll be around."
Reed said nothing at first, then she spoke softly, carefully.
"You know something."
"I know many things," he said breezily. "But not all of them are worth sharing."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're deflecting."
He smiled wider. "It's a hobby."
She didn't press. Not yet. But something inside her shifted. The way he'd said her name. The way he hadn't asked her to repeat it—as if he already knew.
"Have we met before?" she asked.
Kaiser turned his gaze upward. "If we had, I think I'd remember."
"You remembered my name."
"You told me your name."
"You paused."
He didn't answer that.
Reed looked down at her gloves again, pressing her palms together. "There are things I can't remember. Things people refuse to tell me. I keep thinking I'll wake up one day and everything will come rushing back. But it never does. It's like there's a hole where my life should be."
Kaiser was silent for a long moment.
Then, quietly, "Maybe the hole isn't meant to be filled. Maybe it's a scar."
She turned to him, startled.
He met her eyes, and for once, there was no smirk. No teasing glint. Just something steady. Sad.
"Scars don't go away," he said. "But they do remind you that you survived."
She looked away. Her throat felt tight.
Why does this feel both suffocating and comforting at the same time?
She smiled, tightly, forcedly.
"Thank you," she said finally.
He didn't respond. Just stood slowly, brushing dirt from his cloak.
"It's late. We should head back before the trees start whispering secrets."
Reed hesitated, then stood. "I thought you like secrets?"
Kaiser stared at him, amused, then grinned. "You remembered."
"I listened." Reed corrected him, "There's a difference."
Kaiser simply laughed at her remarks. He never thought that Reed would be like this. Sarcastic, fun, and someone who uses your own words against you.
"Well, I do like secrets." he paused, "As long as it stays as one." he said as he looked at her.
The leaves fluttered as the two moons shone brighter than before. It felt as if the moment was theirs alone, and the forest—their witness.
They walked side by side again, but this time, something was different. The air between them wasn't as sharp.
When they reached the edge of the woods, Kaiser paused.
"Reed," he said again, softer this time.
She turned to him.
He looked like he wanted to say more—like the words were right there, heavy on his tongue.
But he swallowed them.
"Goodnight."
She nodded. "Goodnight, Kaiser."
She turned and walked back toward the house. Her hair swiftly moved along with the winds. He watched her until she disappeared behind the door. Only then did he lean against the side of the cottage and let the grin fall from his face.
He whispered her name once more. As if saying it alone, under the two moons, made it safer.
"Reed."
She didn't remember.
And he didn't dare remind her.
Not yet.
Behind him, deep within the trees, a second pair of eyes opened—glowing.
Something stirred. Something turned.
Something that has been listening.
And now, it knew her name too.
In the darkness beyond the treeline, the shadows shifted.
A claw scraped bark. Silent as breath. Measured.
Not a predator. Not quite—but something different, with too many memories and too much hunger. It exhaled—a long, low sound like steam escaping the cracks of a sealed vault.
A mark pulsed faintly in the soil. A delicate glyph in a circle of stone, etched centuries ago—or even more. It flickered, as if awakened from dormancy. The trees bent slightly toward it, not from wind, but like a pull, a gravity.
The forest remembered that name.
Did it even forget in the first place?
Far above, clouds slid across the two moons, veiling the clearing in shadow. A silence deeper than before fell over the grove, like a heartbeat skipping a beat.
Then, a whisper—not of leaves, not of beasts, not of the two moons.
A voice. Faint. Cold.
"She has returned."
The glyph cracked. The forest held its breath, like it was waiting for this time
And something began to crawl toward the village. Desperate. Like it needed something for it to live—to breathe.
It crawled,
And crawled.
Toward the girl they called, Reed.
Toward the scar that fate tried to bury.
— —
Arc I: Embers of the Unknown.