The air was crisp and heavy with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. An old man shuffled along the perimeter of the wall, his lantern swinging gently in his hand. His steps were slow and labored, his breath visible in the chill of the night. His left pants leg was torn, revealing a patch of wrinkled skin beneath, but he paid it no mind. The job had to be done. He moved from torch to torch, the soft flare of each new flame lighting his weathered face. His task was thankless, but he performed it with quiet determination.

​

Down by the gates, four guards stood near a roaring fire, their armor dull in the flickering light. The night shift had dragged on, and they huddled close, their laughter mingling with the crackle of burning wood.

​

“I’m telling you,” said the first guard, a stocky man with a thick beard, “I was so drunk last harvest festival, I stumbled into my wife’s sister’s bed. Didn’t realize it until she screamed my name… the wrong way.”

​

The other guards erupted in laughter, one slapping his thigh as tears sprang to his eyes.

​

“Gods above, Garret,” said the second guard, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek. “How are you still breathing?”

​

“She forgave me eventually,” Garret said with a grin. “But only after I spent a week sleeping with the pigs.”

​

The third guard, a tall and lanky youth with a boyish face, chimed in. “That’s nothing. Last winter, I shared a bed with someone I thought was a woman. Turned out to be a man come morning.”

​

The group burst into uproarious laughter again, one of them doubling over as he tried to catch his breath.

​

“And what did you do then?” Garret asked, still chuckling.

​

The young man shrugged, his grin sheepish. “Told him I’d buy him breakfast. Fair’s fair, isn’t it?”

​

“You’re either braver or stupider than I gave you credit for, Thomas,” the scarred man said, shaking his head.

​

A fourth guard, barely more than a boy, fidgeted nervously on the outskirts of the group. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his gaze darting toward the dark expanse beyond the gates.

​

“What’s wrong with you?” Garret asked.

​

“I need to… relieve myself,”

​

“Then go do it,” Garret said with a groan. “Just don’t expect us to hold your hand.”

​

“Off the edge of the wall, lad,” Thomas added. “It’s tradition.”

​

The boy hesitated, but the irritated glances from the others spurred him into motion. He stumbled toward the edge of the wall, his boots scuffing against the stone. As he reached the parapet, he sighed in relief, his head tilting back as he gazed at the stars. The sharp pinpricks of light seemed to shimmer more brightly tonight, and he let his mind wander, tracing imaginary shapes in the constellations.

​

Then he heard it.

​

The faint but unmistakable sound of hoofbeats, distant at first but growing louder with each passing second. His breath caught in his throat, and he scanned the dark landscape below, his heart pounding.

​

A shadow emerged from the mist, galloping toward the gates with alarming speed. The boy’s stomach tightened as he realized the rider was cloaked in darkness, their outline barely discernible.

​

Panic seized him, and he turned on his heel, running back to the fire where the others stood. “Someone’s coming!”

​

The guards exchanged glances before grabbing their torches and rushing to the wall’s edge. They held the flames high, straining to see through the gloom. The hoofbeats grew louder, echoing in the stillness of the night.

​

“Who goes there?” Garret bellowed.

​

The rider gave no response. The guards tensed, their hands drifting to the hilts of their swords as the figure came into view. The horse was gaunt, its ribs visible even in the dim torchlight. Its eyes rolled wildly, foam flecking its mouth as it charged forward, driven by desperation.

​

“Lower the gates!” Thomas shouted, but the scarred man raised a hand.

​

“Wait, let’s see what we’re dealing with first.”

​

The rider slumped forward in the saddle, their movements sluggish and unsteady. As they drew closer, the torchlight revealed the blood-soaked figure of a boy no older than thirteen summers. The guards froze, their expressions shifting from wariness to shock.

​

“Gods have mercy,” Garret muttered.

​

The horse skidded to a halt just before the gates, its legs trembling as though ready to give out. The boy swayed in the saddle, his head lolling to the side. One arm hung limply at his side, and the other…

​

“He’s missing a hand,” Thomas whispered.

​

The boy’s lips moved, but no sound came. The scarred man stepped forward, his torch held high as he called out to the boy. “Who are you? What’s happened?”

​

The boy’s only response was to slide from the saddle, his legs buckling as he collapsed to the ground. His bloodied body lay still, save for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

​

The heavy gates groaned as they swung open, the clamor of iron on iron splitting the stillness of the night. An uproar of voices erupted as villagers spilled into the square, drawn by the sound and the urgency radiating from the guards. The boy, barely clinging to the saddle moments ago, now lay crumpled on the cobblestones, his blood pooling around him in dark, viscous streams. 

​

“Where did he come from?” a voice shouted, sharp and panicked.

​

“Someone get the healer!” another called out.

​

The young guard who had first spotted the boy darted forward. He dropped to his knees beside the child, his hands hovering uncertainly over the boy’s broken body. The jagged stump of the boy’s arm seeped crimson, the crude bandages soaked through. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged gasps.

​

“Hey! Hey, can you hear me?” the guard asked. “Where did you come from? What happened?”

​

The boy’s head sagged to one side, his eyes wide and unfocused. The crowd pressed closer, their murmurs rising into a wave of panic and confusion. Someone’s elbow knocked the torch from a holder, sending it clattering to the ground. The light flickered ominously, casting frantic, shifting patterns over the scene.

​

“Give him room!” a deeper voice commanded, but the words did little to halt the growing chaos.

​

The guard’s voice grew more urgent as he leaned in, his hands gently shaking the boy’s shoulders. “Stay with me, lad. Stay with me. Where are you from? Tell me!”

​

The boy’s gaze darted around the circle of faces, his pupils dilated, wild with fear and pain. His lips moved, forming words that seemed to catch in his throat. Blood flecked his chin as he struggled to speak, his small frame convulsing with each shallow breath.

​

“Help him! For the love of the gods, help him!” someone shouted.

​

The young guard’s hands trembled as he pressed his ear closer to the boy’s lips, desperate to hear something—anything—that could make sense of the nightmare unfolding before him.

​

“Mom,” the boy rasped, the single word weak and fractured.

​

Time seemed to falter. The noise of the crowd dulled to a distant hum, the flickering torchlight dimming in the young guard’s mind as his focus honed in on the boy. The child’s chest hitched once, twice, then fell still. His wide, terrified eyes fixed on the stars above

​

The young guard froze, his hand still lightly gripping the boy’s shoulder. He stared down at the lifeless face, the boy’s final word echoing in his ears like a haunting refrain. Around him, the world began to move again—voices rising, the crowd pressing closer, the cold wind biting at his skin.

​

Yet for the young guard, time itself had stilled. The murmurs of the villagers reached him like sounds through water—soft, distant, unreal. Their whispers rustled like dead leaves beneath the flickering torchlight, which cast long, shifting shadows across the cobbled square, twisting familiar faces into masks of fear and disbelief.

​

A healer, her back bent from years of labor, knelt beside the lifeless child. Her gnarled fingers trembled as they traced the crude bandages around the jagged stump of his arm, then moved to the deep gouges on his torso. She shook her head slowly, her expression grim.

​

“This… this is no raid.” 

​

“This is slaughter.”

​

“Slaughter?” a blacksmith growled, stepping forward.

​

“Who would do such a thing? And why send him here?”

​

The healer’s gaze shifted to the gaunt horse that stood nearby, its legs trembling with exhaustion. She reached for the saddle, her fingers brushing the leather etched with crude markings.

​

“He’s from the shadow of the Mountains,”

​

A woman gasped, clutching her young daughter tightly to her chest. “The Mountains?” she hissed, her eyes darting toward the peaks that loomed on the horizon.

​

“It can’t be,” muttered a merchant with a salt-and-pepper beard. His hands shook as he adjusted the pouch at his belt. “No one’s seen those tribes for generations. They’re gone. Just stories to frighten children.”

​

“Stories,” a farmhand scoffed.

​

“That boy didn’t look like a story to me. What child walks out of the Mountains like that? Missing an arm, bleeding like a stuck pig?”

​

The smith crossed his arms over his chest. “Enough of this nonsense,” he growled. “Fear won’t help us. We need answers.”

​

A horn echoed across the fields, its mournful tone cutting through the conversation like a blade. The sound was low, unfamiliar. The villagers froze, their fear palpable in the tense silence that followed.

​

“Did you hear that?” whispered the merchant. “That wasn’t one of ours.”

​

“It’s them,” a younger woman blurted out, as she clutched at the shawl around her shoulders. “The Lost Ones. The devils of the Mountains.”

​

“Quiet, girl!” the smith barked. “You’ll bring their wrath upon us with talk like that.”

​

But the crowd’s unease was already spiraling. They whispered to one another, their words a mixture of speculation and fear.

​

“I heard they practice blood rituals,” a baker’s apprentice murmured to the man beside him. “They take children and… and turn them into beasts.”

​

“Rubbish,” the man replied, though his eyes darted nervously toward the gate. “Just tales to keep us out of the wilds.”

The healer stood. She raised her hands, her voice firm despite the tremor in her limbs. “Enough. Fear will not protect us. This boy needs a prayer, not your hysteria.”

​

“A prayer?” the farmhand scoffed. “What good is a prayer against devils?”

​

The healer’s sharp glare silenced him, and she knelt once more by the boy’s side. Her lips moved silently, mouthing words of comfort for a soul that had already left this world. She closed his eyes with trembling fingers, her hands lingering for a moment as if to shield him from the cruelty of the world even in death.

​

A young girl broke from her mother’s grasp, stepping closer to the boy. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Why did he come here?” she asked softly.“What did he want?”

​

The smith’s expression softened as he crouched beside her, his large hand resting gently on her shoulder. “To warn us, child. That’s what I think. He came to warn us.”

​

A ripple of agreement passed through the crowd, though it was tinged with dread. They looked to the Mountains, their jagged peaks wreathed in mist that seemed to roll down like a creeping tide. The distant horn sounded again, fainter this time.

​

“If the tribes have returned, what do we do?” The merchant asked.

​

The smith squared his shoulders, his jaw set. “We prepare. Bolt your doors. Gather what you can. And pray the tales are just that—tales.”

​

The healer rose slowly, her knees creaking in protest. She gazed down at the boy’s broken body. “No god will hear us now.”

​

The crowd dispersed reluctantly, their movements slow and deliberate as though they feared turning their backs on the boy’s lifeless body. Only the healer and the smith remained, their gazes fixed on the distant Mountains.

​

“Do you think it’s true?” the smith asked.

​

The healer didn’t answer immediately. She looked at the boy, then back at the peaks that loomed over the horizon. “I think… the Mountains keep their secrets well. But secrets have a way of slipping free.”

​

Far to the west, the mist rolled over the Mountains, curling like the tendrils of a sleeping beast stirring from its slumber.

 

---

 

The chiming of distant bells signaled the boy’s arrival long before the guards carried him into the Great Hall. 

​

The hall was heavy with silence when the doors opened—silence that pressed against the walls and crept into the bones of those gathered. At its center, the boy’s lifeless body lay on a simple wooden table, his small frame pale and motionless.

​

Tharok sat in a high-backed chair near the warming fire, his gaze distant. The faint crackle of the flames was the only sound from him.

​

Maldrek stood over the boy’s body, his fingers stroking his beard as his eyes roved over the wounds. The seasoned general’s large frame seemed even heavier as he carried the weight of his thoughts in silence. From time to time, he glanced toward Tharok, their eyes meeting briefly.

​

In the shadows near the wall, Ronan and Valtor stood side by side among the gathered generals. The men around them spoke softly, as if they feared the boy’s death might somehow be listening.

​

Valtor’s face was pale. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his tunic, and his eyes darted between the body and the others in the room. “I… I think I might be ill,” he whispered to Ronan.

​

Ronan turned his head slowly. “You’re standing in the Great Hall. Pull yourself together, Valtor. You’re not a child.”

​

Valtor swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as he tried to steady himself. His hands gripped the hilt of the dagger at his belt, though it was clear it brought him no comfort.

​

At the table, Maldrek straightened, his voice breaking through the murmurs. “We need to know where he came from. This is no random incident. The boy’s wounds… they’re deliberate. Savage. Whoever did this didn’t just want to kill him. They wanted to send a message.”

​

The generals shifted uneasily, their glances bouncing between Maldrek and Tharok. One of the younger men stepped forward. “What would you have us do, General?”

​

Maldrek’s eyes flicked to him briefly before returning to the map spread across the nearby table. His thick fingers tracing the lines that marked the kingdom’s northern borders. “Send scouts. Start with the villages closest to the Mountains. I want to know who’s missing, who’s seen anything unusual. And I want it done quickly.”

​

At the mention of the northern lands, Ronan’s eyes narrowed. His hand reached out instinctively, tapping Valtor on the arm as if to draw his attention. But when Ronan turned to speak, he froze. Valtor’s face had turned a sickly white, his lips trembling as he clutched his stomach.

​

“Valtor, what are you—” Ronan began, but his words were cut off as Valtor doubled over, spewing the contents of his stomach onto the stone floor. Unfortunately for Ronan, his boots bore the brunt of the incident.

​

The room fell silent, the sound of retching cutting through the tension like a blade. The generals stared, some with expressions of shock, others with poorly concealed amusement. Even Maldrek paused, letting out a heavy sigh.

​

“For the love of the gods, Valtor.” Ronan muttered under his breath, his tone a mix of disgust and frustration.

Valtor straightened slowly, wiping his mouth. His eyes darted nervously around the room, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice weak.

​

Tharok said nothing, but the weight of his disappointment was palpable, conveyed in the hard set of his jaw and the faint tightening of his brow. Valtor shrank under the scrutiny, his hands clenching and unclenching as if trying to find something solid to hold onto.

​

Maldrek, ever the pragmatist, broke the tension. “Clean him up,” he said, waving a hand toward a servant standing at the edge of the hall. The man nodded quickly, hurrying forward with a cloth and bucket.

​

Ronan shook his head, his boots still glistening with Valtor’s misfortune. “Pull yourself together, brother.” 

​

As the servant worked to clean the floor, Maldrek turned back to the table. 

​

“We’ll start here,” he repeated. “And if it is the tribes… we’ll deal with them.”

​

Tharok’s gaze lingered on Maldrek for a moment longer before he leaned back in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests as if bracing himself. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the lines of a man burdened by far more than the boy’s death.