Chapter 2: Whispers on the Wind

The sun had climbed high in the sky by the time Thorne and Aldric reached the edge of the forest. The woodland loomed before them, ancient oaks and towering pines standing sentinel at the border between the familiar fields and the wild unknown.

Thorne hefted his axe, its weight comfortable in his hands. He glanced at his father, noticing again the tightness around Aldric's eyes, the way his gaze constantly scanned the treeline.

"Father," Thorne began hesitantly, "what troubles you? You've been on edge since dawn."

Aldric sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "Sharp eyes, lad. Aye, there's a disquiet in my heart." He lowered his voice, though they were far from any listening ears. "Trader Marten brought news yesterday. Strange happenings in the southern kingdoms. Crops withering for no reason, livestock falling ill. Some whisper of dark magic."

Thorne felt a chill despite the warm summer air. "Surely that's far from here? Our valley has always been safe."

"That it has," Aldric nodded, "and pray it stays so. But a wise man keeps his eyes open, especially when the wind changes." He clapped Thorne on the shoulder. "Enough grave talk. We've work to do."

They set to their task, the rhythmic thunk of their axes filling the air. As they worked, Thorne's mind wandered to the traders' tales he'd heard in the village square. Stories of sprawling cities with spires that touched the clouds, of mages who could call fire with a whisper or turn stone to gold. He'd always dismissed them as fanciful exaggerations, but now he wondered.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the trees, carrying with it a scent Thorne didn't recognize – something acrid and unsettling. He paused, axe mid-swing.

"Father, do you smell that?"

Aldric froze, nostrils flaring. His eyes widened, and in a heartbeat, his entire demeanor changed. Gone was the gentle farmer – in his place stood a warrior, alert and dangerous.

"Back to the village. Now." Aldric's voice brooked no argument. He snatched up their axes, moving with a speed and grace Thorne had never seen in him before.

As they hurried from the forest, a distant sound reached them – screams carried on the wind from the direction of Oakvale.

Thorne's heart hammered in his chest. "Lira," he gasped.

"Run, boy!" Aldric shouted, already sprinting ahead.

They crested the hill overlooking Oakvale, and Thorne's world shattered. Plumes of black smoke rose from burning buildings. Figures darted through the streets – some fleeing, others in pursuit. The peaceful morning had transformed into a nightmare.

Aldric grabbed Thorne's arm, his grip iron. "Listen to me. Get to the house. Find Lira. There's a hidden cellar beneath the root storage – your mother and I prepared it long ago. Take your sister there and bar the door. Do not come out until I come for you. Do you understand?"

Thorne nodded, numb with shock.

Aldric pressed something into Thorne's hand – a dagger, its blade glinting dully. "Use this if you must. Protect your sister." With that, he was gone, charging down the hill towards the chaos.

For a moment, Thorne stood frozen, the idyllic life he'd known crumbling around him. Then Lira's face flashed in his mind, and he ran, faster than he'd ever run before, praying to whatever gods might listen that he wasn't too late.

The wind carried the acrid scent of smoke and something else – the metallic tang of blood. Thorne gripped the unfamiliar dagger and plunged into the inferno that had been his home, desperate to find Lira and salvage what remained of his shattered world.