Morning in the village came quietly, with light filtering gently through the slats in the window. The air smelled of dew, turned earth, and something warm and spiced that drifted in from the kitchen.
Reed lay still for a while, staring at the wooden ceiling. Her body ached—not from physical wounds, but the tiredness that came from existing. Last night still lingered in the marrow of her bones. The forest. The name she had spoken aloud. The look in Kaiser's eyes.
He knew something. She was certain of it now. But he wouldn't say.
Eventually, she pulled herself up, got dressed simply, and stepped into the kitchen.
Werrin stood at the stove, humming an old tune, stirring something in a thick clay pot. Auren was by the window, peeling apples with a curved blade, his motions precise and absentminded.
"Morning," Werrin said without turning. "There's bread on the table. Some honey, too. Take a sit."
Reed obeyed silently. The warmth of the hearth touched her chilled fingers. Auren offered her a brief nod, his gaze lingering for a second longer than it should have. She didn't return the smile.
"Kaiser already ran off," Auren said after a beat. "Said something about checking on the southern fields. Don't think he even sleeps."
Reed's stomach tensed, but she said nothing.
Werrin set a steaming bowl in front of her. Oats, berries, a swirl of cream.
"You've got that look," Werrin said as he sat across from her.
"What look?"
"The one people wear when they think they're only passing through."
She looked at him sharply. "I didn't say I was staying."
"You didn't have to."
Reed took a slow bite. The sweetness tasted foreign on her tongue.
It was nothing like the bitter mushroom stew Alex cooked before—
She paused,
Then, she shook her head slightly to brush off that thought.
— —
The morning passed in small tasks.
Auren showed her the stream that ran behind the village and helped her carry buckets of water. He talked too much, but not annoyingly so. His stories were simple—of goats gone missing, of the time he fell from the mill roof and broke his arm, of Werrin's stubborn mule.
He said he doesn't listen much—but he never said he doesn't talk much.
Reed listened with half an ear. Nodding when she can.
The village was average. Maybe around 50-60 homes scattered between fields and orchards. The people were kind, but not curious. That unsettled her more than prying would have. As if they already knew not to ask questions about her.
Or perhaps they saw the gloves. The way she moved. The silence she wore like armor.
Kaiser didn't appear again until late afternoon. He strode into the village with a basket of wild mushrooms in one hand and a grin in the other.
"Miss me?"
Reed didn't answer. Instead, she stared at the basket he was carrying.
"What?" Kaiser asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Nothing. I just—" Reed paused.
"I don't like mushrooms." She said quietly.
The people around her were quiet. They blinked,
Then blinked.
Then suddenly, a chuckle left Kaiser's mouth.
"I didn't know you were such a pickyeater," he grinned. "Another knowledge about you, alright."
Reed frowned, "I'm not." she denied.
Kaiser shrugged his shoulders, "Alright, miss. Anything you say."
Reed did not respond. She simply stared at him—sharply.
Werrin squinted at him, as he changed the subject. "Where'd you really go?"
"Took a walk. Found a shrine half-swallowed by the trees. There was a carving. Looked like a sun, but broken. Have you ever seen something like that?"
Werrin frowned, eyes darkening. "Leave those places alone."
"Curiosity is a sickness," Auren muttered.
"Good thing I'm terminal," Kaiser said cheerfully.
Reed said nothing.
That night, they sat by the fire. Villagers came and went. Someone brought an instrument. Others passed around cups of mulled wine. The laughter was soft. The songs are old.
And one thing was off for Reed—peace.
It was too peaceful, like the calm before the storm.
Reed sat near the edge of it all, nursing a cup she didn't drink. She didn't even know what's inside.
Kaiser joined her after a while, for the girl who always sits far from people, was also a girl who looked like she wanted to be with people.
"Have you ever been around a fire before?" He asked.
Reed stared for a while. A fire, he says.
If it's a fire, then Reed was not just around a fire.
She was 'fire' itself.
"Of course," she simply answered.
"Did you talk back to it? Or just stare at it like you're doing now?"
Both.
She just doesn't talk to it, she begged in front of it, multiple times.
"I don't trust it."
He tilted his head. "Because it burns?"
Yes. Because it burns. It burns everything.
But not her.
"Yeah."
Kaiser was quiet at that. She didn't elaborate—and Kaiser did not feel the need to ask for more.
— —
The next few days settled into a strange rhythm. Reed helped with chores—reluctantly at first, then with a sense of quiet purpose. She mended fences with Auren. Helped Werrin catalog herbs in the shed, and watched the children from a distance.
At times, she caught Kaiser watching her. Not like the others, not with suspicion or admiration. But like someone who was waiting.
Or remembering.
On the seventh night, as twilight draped the village in gold, Reed walked to the cliff's edge behind the fields. The land dropped into a valley where a mist pooled like milk. It was beautiful, it was during times like this that Reed feels so full.
But also lonely.
She sensed him before she heard him.
"Are you always drawn to edges?"
"I don't like walls."
Kaiser sat beside her. For a while, they said nothing. As if breaking that silence was a crime itself, they stayed there as they both looked in the two moons.
Then he said, "You scare them."
"I scare myself, too." she replied, "It's nothing new to me"
Then her gaze dropped to him, stared at his dark-hair that shone as the moon light recognized it. It was darker than the night itself, but somehow, it looked more sad than the vast skies.
"Do I scare you?" she asked, voice low.
He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "As if," he said. "You remind me of a story I once heard. About a girl made of fire who forgot she was burning. Pretty familiar, huh?"
She didn't respond. Her hands just pulled her gloves tighter.
He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. "You still don'ttrust me."
"Should I?"
He shrugged. "Maybe not. But you told me your name. That counts for something."
She looked up. The stars were beginning to bloom.
"Kaiser," she said slowly. "If I asked you to tell me the truth, wouldyou?"
He closed his eyes. "Depends on the question."
"Have we met before?"
A beat passed.
"No."
"Lie."
He opened one eye. "You sure?"
"Yes."
He sat up, brushed dirt from his sleeves. "Then maybe you're not as lost as you think."
Before she could speak again, he was gone.
— —
The days began to take on shape.
They weren't loud shapes, not the kind that demanded notice—but soft, sturdy things. Quiet like roots growing.
Reed no longer moved like a stranger through the village. She didn't belong, not exactly. But the air no longer pressed against her skin like it once had. The people had stopped looking at her with wary glances or too-careful politeness. She was still a mystery, yes—but now, she was their mystery.
The girl with shadowed eyes and a soldier's posture. A girl who never flinched.
She woke with the birdsong and the creak of doors swinging open. The scent of woodsmoke and dew hung in the air as she pulled on worn clothes and tied her boots with quiet fingers.
Work filled her hands. Routine filled the space around her.
There were fences to mend, their old beams bleached and bowed from years of wind. Sometimes the goats got out, and chasing them required boots, patience, and sharp turns down hills littered with loose gravel. Tools rusted, and no one had the luxury to throw things away. Reed took to sharpening blades, binding split handles with twine and sap. It was simple work. Easy and honest.
And she did it all with the same expression, distant, focused, calm as riverstone. She wasn't looking to belong. She simply… was—doing something to be useful.
To be normal.
She didn't complain. She never once asked for rest.
Some mornings, the mist clung to the valley floor like breath caught in a throat. That day was one of those—when Auren found her near the barn, sleeves rolled up, her forearms flecked with sawdust as she straightened a warped gate hinge.
His hair was a mess of sun-burnished curls, and he wore the kind of grin that meant trouble.
He approached with a crooked smile and two wooden staffs under his arm.
"You've got that stance," he said, eyes bright. "Like someone taught you to fight."
Reed didn't turn. "Maybe."
He pointed one of the staff at her. "Wanna show me how you swing?"
She looked at it, then at him. "You want to spar?"
He shrugged. "Unless you're scared."
She narrowed her eyes, slow and unimpressed. "You should be." Reed slowly wiped her hands on her trousers.
They cleared a patch of ground not far from the fence line. The earth was dry and packed, the kind of space that had seen its share of training and scraped knees.
A few curious heads poked out from windows and behind barrels, drawn by the sight of Auren's bright grin and the quiet stranger he was provoking.
He tossed her the second staff. She caught it one-handed, spun it once to feel the balance. It was light, worn smooth—well-used but still solid. He spun his staff with a casual flourish, grinning wide.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
She didn't answer. Just fell into stance.
Auren came at her first. His movements were lighthearted, playful. His feet danced, his strikes measured more to test than to wound. He jabbed once—quick. She deflected with a flick of her wrist.
Then again, he came. Again, she deflected.
And again.
She moved like someone listening to music only she could hear—her body flowing with an unconscious rhythm. She didn't counter. Not yet. She moved like water drawn tight across a blade—still, but dangerous. She let him press the tempo, let him think he had the rhythm. Her eyes tracked his feet, his shoulders, the twitch before each swing.
She was studying him.
Then, with a step that was more glide than movement, she shifted. Pivoted low. Swept his legs clean out from under him with the end of her staff.
Auren landed with a loud 'oof', flat on his back, dust rising around him in a lazy puff.
He blinked at the sky, dazed. "Okay," he wheezed. "You've done this before."
"A little," she said, brushing hair from her eyes.
Well, she was trained by Alex—no less.
"You move like smoke."
Reed extended a hand. He grinned and took it, groaning as she pulled him up with little effort.
"Next time," he muttered, rubbing his ribs, "I'm bringing armor."
A slow clap echoed behind them. Kaiser strolled up, staff resting casually on his shoulder. There was a mischievous glint in his dark eyes, like he'd been watching long enough to see everything.
He leaned lazily against a post, arms crossed, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His dark hair was wind-mussed, and his tunic hung open just enough to hint at a scar running along his collarbone.
"Alright, alright," he said. "Myturn."
Reed turned and narrowed her eyes. "You fight too?"
He pushed off the post and picked up the fallen staff. "With style."
Auren leaned against the barn wall, still winded. "He cheats," he offered helpfully.
Kaiser rolled his shoulders, ignoring that. "I win."
Their sparring match began without fanfare. It was nothing like the first match.
No jokes. No theatrics. Just movement. Kaiser didn't banter. He didn't smile, or wink, or flirt. He moved like water over sharp rocks—fast, unpredictable, precise.
Where Auren had danced, Kaiser struck. He moved like he knew what it meant to bleed and didn't plan on doing it again. There was precision in the way he stepped—controlled, cautious, but never hesitant. He didn't test Reed. He challenged her.
The first time their staff met, the sound cracked through the air like a whip. The small audience that had gathered let out a collective gasp. He was stronger than Auren. Sharper. More… alert. Like he saw the things she didn't say, the memories she didn't speak, and mirrored them in every movement.
Reed's heart beat faster. Not with fear. With recognition.
She met him, swing for swing.
They circled each other like wolves, neither yielding ground. Every time she adjusted, so did he. Every time she advanced, he turned her momentum against her. But she wasn't just reacting—she was remembering. Somewhere beneath the haze of her lost memories, her body remembered.
Her hands moved before she thought. Her feet found balance on uneven dirt without looking. Her breath stayed even, deep. This wasn't learned, not in the way lessons taught. This was lived.
Kaiser struck low.
She leapt.
He turned, ducked her incoming sweep.
But she rotated mid-air, slammed the staff into his side hard enough that it would leave a bruise by morning.
He grunted—but he didn't pause.
They fought until both their chests heaved, sweat beading along their foreheads. Until Reed's arm ached and Kaiser's grip loosened just enough.
Then—silence.
He stepped back and lowered his staff first. Reed did the same.
The villagers broke into claps and whistles, delighted and slightly stunned.
Kaiser ran a hand through his hair, then looked at her, breathless. "Not bad, Reed."
"You held back." Reed replied, not looking at him.
"So did you."
She didn't reply, but there was something like agreement in the faint tilt of her head.
After that, something shifted.
They didn't speak of it—but the air between them changed. Not warm. Not yet. But watchful. Like two people standing near a fire neither of them had built.
After that, they were often seen together—working side by side. Fixing fences on windblown days. Hoisting sacks of grain to the loft. Hauling buckets of rainwater up to the old loft. Sometimes in silence, sometimes with quiet jokes or idle humming.
Kaiser would hum under his breath, soft and unassuming, a lullaby from a coast Reed had never seen. The language was foreign, the melody simple and sad but soft, lilting things in a language thick with sea salt and storm-wind. She never asked about it, but the tune lodged itself somewhere behind her ribs.
One morning, they repaired the fencing around the goat pens. The wind had snapped one post clean off its base, and the goats had taken the opportunity to raid the vegetable garden.
Reed drove new stakes into the ground, muscles tensing with each swing of the mallet. Kaiser held the slats in place, his hands steady. They moved well together. Like clockwork.
"You're quiet today," he remarked.
"I'm always quiet." she replied, his brows narrowed.
"Quieter than usual, then."
She glanced at him. "Don't take it personally."
"I don't." He offered a lopsided smile. "But I'm starting to think I need to go and earn every word you give."
Reed shrugged, but her mouth twitched. Just barely.
"Then earn it." she said, voice firm.
Kaiser didn't know what to feel—his heart beats with excitement.
Was it this interesting to find someone who can match your style?
Later that afternoon, as the air thickened with the coming dusk, Werrin approached with a basket and a folded list.
"Need these herbs by dusk," he said, squinting at the sky. "Storm might roll in later, and we'll need slaves if the older folks start aching. You two know the trails well enough now, but mind this—don't go near the red bark trees. Those bites."
"Delightful," Kaiser murmured, taking the list. He glanced at Reed and grinned. "You hear that, Reed? Danger."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Let's risk death together," he added, already slinging the basket over one shoulder.
Reed didn't smile—nor rolled her eyes. But she followed.
The forest welcomed them with open shadows—the way it always did.
Sunlight filtered through the canopy in gold-dappled pools. Leaves rustled above like whispering silk. It was warm that day, the kind of warmth that softened the earth and called insects to dance in beams of light. The air smelled of damp bark and crushed mint, laced with something faintly electric—like stormlight lingering in the roots.
Reed walked a pace behind Kaiser, her boots moving without sound. She hadn't grown up in these woods—at least not that she remembered—but they didn't frighten her. She knew where to step, what not to touch. How to move like she belonged here.
Kaiser, for all his swagger in town, was quiet in the wild. Careful. Respectful. He crouched every few minutes to inspect a patch of clover or check the texture of a curling vine. He muttered names to himself: "Ghostbell… Starfennel… Hmm. Too early for bloodroot…"
He then knelt beside a mossy stump and brushed away fallen needles to reveal a sprouting herb with pale silver veins and small violet buds, plucking a few stems.
"This one?" he asked, holding up a plant with silver-veined leaves.
"Starfennel," she replied, almost absently. "It's on the list."
He looked up at her, surprised. "You know your plants?"
"Some of them," she said, crouching beside a mossy stump to pluck a bloom of ice-thistle. "Feels like I always have."
"Are you always this resourceful?"
"I just know what's useful." Then, she moved to the next patch of underbrush, her hands practiced. She didn't second-guess which leaves to touch, which stems to avoid. Her fingers moved as if trained—no, as if they remembered. As if the knowledge lived in her bones rather than her mind.
They worked quietly. The forest pulsed around them—warm and slow, alive with hidden rhythms. Reed could feel it. The heartbeat beneath the soil. The hush in the shadows.
"Are you always this quiet in the woods?" Kaiser asked after a while, still not looking up.
"They listen," she said, not looking at him. "So I do too."
He stood and turned to face her, glancing as her hair started touching the grass. "Do you remember anything else? From before?"
She paused, crouched beside a patch of golden-spined herbs. Her hand hovered over the leaves, her breath slow.
"Only feelings. Pieces," she said at last. "It's like trying to hold fire in your hands. You can feel the heat, but it slips through your fingers."
Kaiser watched her carefully. He didn't press. Didn't pity. He simply nodded, then knelt beside her and started gathering rootlets from the dirt.
"Maybe fire's what you are," he said quietly.
Reed hesitated, her hand frozen above the golden-leaved herb. She looked down at it, then slowly plucked it, slipping it into the basket.
"Maybe."
The forest shifted around them.
A gust of wind rustled the canopy. A flock of birds took off in a sudden burst of feathers. Kaiser stood and scanned the trees, something cautious behind his eyes.
"You feel that?" he asked.
Reed nodded.
Something was watching.
Not close. But present.
She didn't fear it, now.
It's the same situation as that time when a stag appeared.
"Let's go back now." Kaiser said as he glanced back to Reed to see if she was okay.
By the time they returned, the sun had dropped low on the horizon. The village was drenched in amber light, roofs and walls glowing like burnished copper. Someone had started music—pipes and soft drums, the rhythm light and infectious. Children ran past them laughing, waving streamers made of dyed cloth.
Preparations had begun.
For the Veil of the Old Gods.
Cloth banners stretched between homes in faded shades of blue and silver, embroidered with symbols of stars, eyes, and spiraling suns. Lanterns were being painted with celestial designs—some with gods' faces, others with motifs of night and flame. Tables were brought out and scrubbed clean, while fire pits were dug and lined with flat stones.
Reed helped hang garlands made of sun-dried marigolds and silver grass. Their scent filled the air, sharp and sweet. She worked with silent precision, her fingers, even when covered with gloves is still nimble. The villagers didn't instruct her anymore. They didn't hover. They trusted her to know what to do.
Auren, high on a rooftop, balanced precariously as he looped a long stretch of crimson cloth around a chimney.
"Don't fall," Reed called up, her tone flat but audible.
"Would it impress you if I did?" he grinned, one hand waving for dramatic effect.
"Depends. Do you bounce?"
Kaiser laughed nearby. He was crouched near the village's central shrine, carving runes into pale river stones with a narrow blade and steady hand. His brow was furrowed in concentration, lips moving faintly as he whispered words with each stroke.
Reed approached, watching the careful motion.
"What are they for?" she asked.
"Protection. Blessings," he replied, glancing up. "Or maybe they're just pretty. Depends on how much you believe."
She didn't answer, but her gaze lingered on the symbols. Some of them sparked something in her chest—a distant echo. Familiarity. Not quite a memory. Like music she once danced to but had forgotten the steps.
Children raced past them, trailing long streamers behind them. Laughter rang out in every direction.
One small girl tugged at Reed's tunic and offered her a daisy crown. Reed blinked at it, uncertain.
"It's for the goddesses," the girl said with a toothless grin. "But you can wear it, too."
Reed took the crown—
Didn't put it on.
Just stared at it for a long moment before quietly tucking it into her satchel.
— —
That night, as they gathered around Werrin's long table, he brought out a second loaf of bread and poured an extra round of berry wine. The fire in the hearth danced tall and bright, casting shifting shadows across the wooden beams overhead.
Werrin cleared his throat and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"There's a celebration next week," he said. "Called the Veil of the Old Gods."
Reed looked up from her stew.
"It marks the day the heavens first touched the earth," Werrin continued, his voice heavier now, richer with memory. "When the veil between the living and the divine thinned. Spirits crossed freely. Gods walked among us."
Reed's brow furrowed. "That sounds ominous."
Werrin chuckled. "It's joyful. A week of fire and light. Of honoring the old ways. Villagers from all over gather here. Some bring offerings. Some bring warriors. There's music, dance, trials of strength and wit. A rite of return, you could say."
"And food," Auren added with a grin. "Don't forget the food. And the wine. God, the wine."
Reed tilted her head. "You invite outsiders?"
"It's tradition," Werrin said. "This valley is ancient. The veil is thinnest here. When the stars align above the shrine, it's said the gods can see us. Some even say they listen."
Kaiser leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. "You'll like it," he said to Reed, watching her from beneath his lashes. "No gloves. No masks. It's time to show who you really are."
"I'm keeping the gloveson," she said as she stared at her gloves.
He said nothing at first then gave a faint smile. "That's a deal then," he paused, "Let's look forward to it."
She said nothing.
But something twisted inside her. Not fear. Not quite.
Anticipation.
Dread.
Both.
A festival meant new faces. Outsiders. Eyes that hadn't seen her before, or eyes that did. Ears that hadn't heard her name, or mouth that spoke sharp words before.
People who might bring answers.
Or people with more questions.
The uncertainty was suffocating. It was something that Reed didn't like the most.
The next morning, the village truly began to transform.
Bakers rose early to knead honey cakes and prepare trays of candied nuts. Cloth-draped tables began to appear along the central road, set with ceramic bowls and herbs for blessing. Lanterns were carefully filled with moon-oil that would burn bright and blue. Children dipped their fingers in pots of paint, leaving handprints on the walls like blessings.
The old widow, Mira, sang to herself as she embroidered sun motifs on long strips of prayer cloth. Reed helped her tie them into long chains, which would be strung across the shrine courtyard.
Kaiser appeared at her side mid-morning, smudged with soot and woodchips.
"Werrin asked me to help light the ceremonial fire," he said. "Which probably means he doesn't trust Auren near fire."
"I don't either," Reed replied. "And you shouldn't trust me either."
Kaiser raised his brows, "I know you'll be better than him though," he said. "You're tolerable."
Reed narrowed her eyes as she saw his smirk.
They worked together stringing lanterns from high branches, the wind fluttering their sleeves and tugging at loose strands of hair.
"Have you ever been to a festival before?" Auren asked her during a break, his voice quiet, almost hopeful.
Reed hesitated. "I don't know,"
"Then we'll make sure it's your first good one."
She said nothing.
But she almost smiled.
Almost.
And somewhere—beyond the warm hum of celebration, beyond the painted lanterns and laughter, beyond the safe circle of the village—something moved.
In the woods, where the veil thinned.
Where old things stirred.
Something had turned its gaze toward the preparations.
And not everything that crossed would be kind.
— —
Arc I: Embers of the Unknown.