The morning light crept through the cracks of the small, weathered house, casting thin beams of gold across the cold, uneven floor.
Reed's father stretched and scratched his stubbled chin as a loud yawn echoed in the room. His bleary eyes wandered before settling on his wife, who was folding a patchwork quilt with practiced, gentle hands.
"Where's Reed?" he asked, another yawn punctuating his words.
"He headed out early," she replied without looking up. "Probably writing those notes again."
"Notes?" His brows furrowed in mild confusion.
By the fireplace, Jade—who had learned the art of carving from their mother—sat cross-legged, diligently polishing a carving knife with a rag.
With Reed's father as the main provider—a hunter whose income was as unpredictable as the seasons—the family relied on the additional trade of utensils and simple trinkets carved by her and their mother.
Glancing up, her dark blue hair, tied back in a loose braid, swayed softly. "Yeah, he's been studying swordsmanship," she piped up. "I think he's too shy to ask you to teach him."
Reed's father blinked in surprise, then broke into a warm grin. "Well, that settles it. I've been meaning to show him a thing or two—might as well start now. He's got the mind for it, even if he doesn't know it yet."
Jade's eyes lit up, and an eager smile spread across her face. "Then I'll prepare a little surprise for him!" With that, she sprang to her feet, enveloped her father in a quick hug, and rushed out the door.
Reed's mother offered a soft smile as she smoothed the quilt in her lap. "It's about time you two bonded over something. Once I return from the shop, I'll make tonight's stew special—something hearty to celebrate. Maybe I'll even add a pinch of thyme. Reed's always liked that."
Her husband chuckled, leaning back against the wall. "Thyme, huh? You're spoiling him. But I suppose it's not every day your boy decides to pick up a sword."
She shot him a playful look. "And it's not every day you decide to teach him. Don't think I haven't noticed how you've been waiting for this."
He shrugged, his grin widening. "Can't blame me. A father's got to pass on what he knows, right? Even if it takes a little nudging."
***
In the bustling market square of Harrowood, Reed moved like a shadow, his hood pulled low to conceal both his thoughts and the brisk determination in his eyes.
The square thrummed with life—merchants loudly hawking their wares, children darting between colorful stalls, and neighbors exchanging hurried greetings. Yet today, a distinct pulse vibrated through the air.
Every few months, a caravan of war merchants rolled into town—a spectacle as rough-hewn as it was fateful.
These caravans, battle-hardened by wars along the southern border of Branwyck, were made up of survivors: veterans from Harrowood, refugees fleeing fallen cities, and itinerants forged in the crucible of conflict.
They stopped here to rest, trade supplies for their next campaign, and offload the spoils of war. In the midst of this transient congregation, the division within Harrowood became impossible to ignore.
On one side, the common folk—farmers, blacksmiths, and itinerant traders—peddled modest wares: rusty tools, hand-carved trinkets, and battered implements forged by hard labor and humble means. These items, practical and unadorned, were the everyday necessities of survival.
In stark contrast, elegantly attired servants of the town's two richest families—the Grace Clan and the Claud Clan—stepped forward with an air of quiet entitlement.
They navigated the market with practiced grace, their refined tastes guiding them as they bartered for exquisite weaponry, meticulously crafted armor, and relics imbued with history and prestige.
This subtle but potent separation between the elite and the commoners was as clear as the light of day. Where the townsfolk traded in the crude and the necessary, the envoys of the Grace and Claud houses sought treasures that spoke of glory and conquest, items that would bolster the status of their masters in a world defined by power and legacy.
Reed, blending into the crowd, watched the interplay of ambition and despair. The caravan—with its clash of rough survival and refined aspirations—mirrored the deep divisions that shaped his world.
***
Later that day, as the sun began its slow descent and cast a warm orange glow through the cracks in the wooden walls of their home, Jade returned.
Clutching a long, straight stick in one hand and carrying her trusted carving knife, she kicked off her boots by the door and settled onto the worn floor.
With careful precision, she began whittling at the stick.
The steady scrape of the knife against wood filled the quiet room—a soft, rhythmic cadence that harmonized with her determined hum.
Her calloused fingers, honed by years of practice, smoothed rough edges and coaxed the shape of a sword from the unyielding wood.
The fire in the hearth crackled gently, its warmth wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. Every so often, she paused to examine her progress, tilting the nascent blade to gauge its balance and form.
Hours slipped by until, at last, she held the makeshift sword up to the light. The blade was smooth and straight, and the handle was carved to fit as if it were made for Reed's grasp.
A small grin spread across her face as she ran her fingers along the edge, imagining the surprise in her brother's eyes.
"Can't wait for Reed to see this," she murmured softly, her voice laced with excitement. With a deft flick, she etched the name "Reed" into the handle—the letters slightly crooked, yet imbued with a charm that reminded her of him.
Satisfied, she glanced toward the corner of the room, where a small pile of hay served as her makeshift bed.
It wasn't much, but it was hers—fashioned from old blankets and a patched-up pillow. Gently, she tucked the wooden sword beneath the hay, hiding it away like a secret promise.
"Perfect," she whispered, brushing a stray strand of dark blue hair from her face. "He'll never see it coming."
Exhaustion finally crept in, and she flopped down onto the hay bed with a contented sigh. The rough texture of the hay was a familiar comfort.
As her eyelids grew heavy, her thoughts drifted to the future—tonight, when her father would finally teach Reed, and perhaps, for the first time, Reed would rise from his quiet studies.
"Dad's gonna teach him, and I'll be there to cheer him on," she mused, a smile playing on her lips. "Maybe he'll finally stop moping over those notes of his."
Pulling a thin blanket over herself, she settled into the gentle warmth of the fire. Just before sleep claimed her, she whispered one last thought into the quiet room: "Reed's gonna love it. I just know it."
***
As dusk deepened into twilight, Reed returned home. The warm glow of the fireplace embraced him as his mother draped a soft blanket over his shoulders.
Jade glanced up from stirring the simmering stew, an eyebrow raised in playful inquiry.
"Back so early?" she asked.
Reed offered a tired smile. "I'm not that hungry today. You can cook a little less for me."
Dinner was a modest affair—crusty bread and a pot of hearty mutton stew shared around a simple wooden crate. At first, the table buzzed with gentle laughter and soft conversation as they awaited their father's return.
Minutes ticked by, and Jade's impatience became palpable. She drummed her fingers lightly on the crate, glancing toward the door.
"I swear, he takes his time every time," she muttered under her breath, a note of exasperation softening her usual playful tone.
At last, the sound of heavy boots shuffled outside. The door creaked open to reveal Reed's father, his coat dusted with snow and his smile warm despite the chill.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, rubbing his hands together as if trying to dispel the cold. "The snow came out of nowhere, and I'm freezing."
Reed, ever responsible, walked up to the doorway and gather his father's gears—a few worn leather straps and a couple of old rusted tools—and set them carefully aside for his father near the door.
Reed's dad then strode into the room and joined the family with a hearty clap on Reed's shoulder. "Let's eat! I'm starving."
As the bread and stew were passed around once more, the room filled with renewed laughter.
Reed's father settled into his chair, his eyes twinkling with the satisfaction of a day's work. "Now, tell me," his wife began with a gentle smile, "how was work today, dear?"
With enthusiasm lighting his features, he launched into an animated description of his day in the woods—the thrill of the hunt, the unexpected encounters, and even a humorous mishap with a wayward boar that had left him chuckling long after the moment had passed.
Amid his cheerful recitation, Jade cleared her throat subtly, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she leaned forward. "Dad," she interjected softly.
Reed's father paused, a curious smile playing on his lips as he met Jade's expectant gaze. "Ah, yes," he said, nodding. "I've been waiting for that moment too."
The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence as the family savored the warmth of the stew and the shared delight in the little promises of the evening. Then, with a measured smile, Reed's father placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"So," he began in a calm, deliberate tone, "I hear you've been interested in learning—"
In that instant, the room froze.
Laughter died. Steam stalled above the stew. His family sat motionless—statues. As if the life in the room was sucked out. There was no movement, no noises. All Reed could feel were a deep sense of loliness.
Reed's breath hitched. Then Reed felt it —a warm, humid gust brushing against the nape of his neck.
It's here
His body stiffened, every instinct screaming to run, yet his legs remained unmoving. Slowly, compelled by an unseen force, he turned his head.
Hovering just inches behind him was a creature unlike any he had ever seen. Its single, massive eye—swollen like a dark, unyielding orb—stared with an intensity that made Reed's blood run cold.
Pulsing veins crisscrossed its translucent skin, glowing faintly in the dim light, while two spindly, insect-like arms extended toward him. Each ended in three delicate, twitching fingers, as if eager to snatch him away.
The creature's mouth twisted into a grotesque smile, revealing uneven, jagged teeth that caught the firelight like shards of broken glass. Saliva dripped from its maw, sizzling softly upon contact with the wooden floor.
Then, as if invading his very thoughts, a voice—a guttural rasp—echoed in Reed's mind, each word laced with ominous finality.
"speak."