The Old God

The wind howled through the forest, carrying the biting chill of early winter. Mistress Lera pulled her scarf tighter around her face, her hands trembling as she clutched the lantern. The narrow path was uneven, covered in fallen leaves and the occasional root that threatened to trip her. It was a trail few dared to take—one that led to a place most had long forgotten.

Behind her, Father Greaves followed, his boots crunching against the frost-laden ground. His heavy cloak swayed as he adjusted the bundle of firewood slung over his shoulder, his expression as stern as ever. Though the years had bent his frame and turned his hair white, he still moved with purpose.

Lera muttered a word under her breath, the sound like a whispered song. A faint warmth flickered from her palm, spreading to the lantern's glass. The flame inside danced brighter, pushing back the deep shadows of the forest.

"Can't have it going out again," she said, glancing back at Greaves. "It's bad enough we're out here. I don't want to trip over my own feet too."

He grunted in response, pausing to tap his fingers against the firewood. A soft, reddish glow spread through the bundle, just enough to stave off the worst of the cold. He shifted the weight on his shoulder and picked up his pace.

"You're wasting your energy on small things," Greaves muttered. "Keep your focus for when we need it."

Lera gave him a wry smile. "I'd rather waste it now than find myself blind or frozen when it matters."

The magic they wielded was nothing grand or powerful, nothing like the miracles boasted by the priests of the new gods. It was old, subtle, and practical—meant to ease burdens rather than amaze. They couldn't summon storms or move mountains, but they could light a path through the darkness and keep the frost from biting too deeply. It was a kind of faith in its own right, a quiet connection to the remnants of power that still lingered in the world.

The forest grew denser as they walked, the trees arching overhead to form a canopy that blocked out the moonlight. The air felt heavier here, tinged with something neither of them could quite name. Lera slowed, her hand tightening on the lantern as her eyes scanned the path ahead.

"We're close," she murmured.

Greaves frowned. "You always say that. The altar's been falling apart for decades. It's not like it calls out to us."

She didn't respond, her focus sharpening. The wind had changed, carrying with it a faint hum, like the echo of a bell ringing far in the distance. It was a sound she'd heard before, though only in this part of the forest. Whether it was real or imagined, it always drew her forward.

The clearing appeared suddenly, the thick trees giving way to an open space bathed in moonlight. The altar stood at its center, weathered and worn, its carvings nearly erased by centuries of neglect. Moss clung to its edges, and vines twisted around the base, but the symbol of the sunburst was still visible, etched deeply into the stone.

Lera set the lantern down carefully, her eyes lingering on the altar. "It's beautiful, in its own way," she murmured.

Greaves dropped the firewood near the base with a grunt, dusting off his hands. "It's a pile of stone. Let's make the offering and be done with it before we freeze out here."

She ignored his grumbling, pulling a small pouch from her satchel. Inside were dried herbs, a rare luxury in their struggling orphanage, and a single silver coin—a sacrifice that cost more than she cared to admit. Lera stepped closer to the altar, her fingers brushing the cold stone. She whispered a prayer under her breath, the words familiar yet foreign, passed down from those who still remembered Aelon's name.

The wind shifted, a sudden stillness falling over the clearing. Greaves froze, his hand halfway to the lantern, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkness.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, his voice unusually quiet.

Lera turned, her brow furrowing. "Hear what?"

There it was again—a faint cry, barely audible over the rustling of leaves. It was high-pitched and weak, like the sound of a wounded animal. She turned toward the sound, her heart quickening.

"It's coming from the altar," Greaves said, his tone uneasy.

She stepped closer, her hands trembling as she lifted the lantern higher. The soft light revealed a sight that stole the breath from her lungs.

Five bundles lay atop the altar, each wrapped in simple cloth. They were small, fragile things, and as Lera stepped closer, she realized they were moving.

"By the old gods…" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

Greaves joined her, his mouth set in a grim line. "Who would abandon them here? This far from the village?"

Lera didn't answer. Her hands moved instinctively, reaching for the nearest bundle. As her fingers brushed the cloth, a warmth spread through her palm, and she gasped. The bundle shifted, revealing the face of a tiny infant. His skin was pale, his eyes barely open, and on his chest, faintly visible through the cloth, was a glowing mark—a sunburst.

The light wasn't blinding, but it was unmistakable. It pulsed softly, as though in rhythm with the infant's heartbeat.

"There's more," Greaves said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He pointed to the other bundles, each one glowing with its own distinct mark. A crescent moon. A jagged mountain. A hammer striking lightning. A fox curled around a tree.

The marks glowed in unison, their light casting the clearing in a golden hue. The warmth they emitted seemed to chase away the winter's chill, filling the air with an almost tangible sense of peace.

Lera knelt, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gently cradled the first infant. "This isn't chance," she said, her voice shaking. "This is Aelon's work. It has to be."

Greaves hesitated, his gaze lingering on the glowing marks. "If it is, then why now? Why send them here, to us?"

"I don't know," Lera admitted, her eyes never leaving the infant in her arms. "But we can't leave them here. Not when they've been given to us."

She reached for another bundle, her heart aching at the tiny cries that filled the air. Greaves followed suit, lifting two of the infants as gently as his rough hands allowed. Together, they gathered the five children, their glowing marks lighting the way back through the forest.

Behind them, the altar stood silent once more, bathed in the pale light of the moon.