In the Heart of the Storm

The storm that had been brewing in the skies for days finally descended upon the village with all the fury of a beast awakened. The wind howled through the cracks of the wooden houses, bending the trees until they groaned under the pressure. A tense ambiance filled the air, and the air of the village people was not targeted at their dry stomachs nor at their growling and rumbling internal organs. But this time it was different-a menace that had risen not from below the earth's crust but well beyond the circular horizon.

They arrived as the first heavy drops began to fall, their outlines black against a swirling bank of clouds that closed over like some monstrous predator. They came five: figures of might and menace, huddled in dirty cloaks flung over head and shoulder in protection against driving rain. They were not those kinds of men who were imposing in their size or strength alone but for the darkness following them—the blood spilled, the villages reduced to rubble, and people remaining in the aftermath of their mercilessness.

His clothes were torn and colored from age, with fasteners containing odd ornaments, some sort of trophies from other victories. Bones of beasts, teeth of fallen foes, and pieces of tattered flags from villages forgotten hung off their belts like grotesque ornaments. One of them-a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face-wore a necklace made from human teeth. Victims, his victims, whose grim remains rattled in the wind as if still trying to scream.

An unholy silence enveloped the village as the mercenaries closed in. People locked their doors, huddled in their homes, but the fear radiating through the streets was palpable. Everyone knew there was no hiding from these men, no sanctuary in the shadows. They were here, and nothing would stop them.

"Open the gates!" the leader of the mercenaries yelled, his voice a gravelly bark that cut through the storm. "We know you have food, and we'll take it. You won't fight us. We've already seen what happens to those who try."

First, there was hesitation. The villagers glanced around at each other, faces gaunt with fear, but it was impossible not to recognize what was inevitable: They had nothing left with which to fight. The few weapons they still had were rusty, the bows snapped from years of disuse. They'd been subsisting on the slimmest of margins for months. To fight would mean certain death.

My father, Dacian Varlan, stood in the village square, his hand clutched about a crude sword, a man who knew the weight of the earth beneath him but was never one to take it lying down. "We will not be leaving," he growled in a low yet fierce tone. "These are our people, and these are our lands."

I could hear my mother behind him, her voice shaking as she called out to him. "Dacian, ne! Te rog!"

But my father did not listen. He raised his sword high, the blade catching the fading light of the storm, and charged. The mercenaries laughed as he ran toward them-a lone figure standing against the approaching dark. His bravery was short-lived, his sword a poor match for the cruel blades of the mercenaries.

The battle was short. The mercenaries were well-trained and unduly ruthless in their violence. They met my father with the cold precision of men who had fought in battles far worse than this one. A blow to his side brought him to his knees, and before I could even scream, the leader of the mercenaries raised his sword and brought it down, shearing the air with the finality of death itself.

I watched him fall, crumpled onto the wet ground, the sword falling loose from his fingers. My mother shrieked-a sound that pierced even the heavy veil of rain-and in the sudden way, I could feel grief build upon grief in the air, like even the storm was bemoaning its lot.

The mercenaries did not stop. They moved further, their hands snatching the other villagers and pulling them to the square. I could hear the whimpers of the women and children, and the pounding of feet trying to get away, but there was no place to go. The mercenaries had surrounded them everywhere.

I watched in horror as my mother was grabbed by the apparent leader of the gang, who twisted her arms behind her back and forced her to her knees. Her eyes met mine, full of pain and terror, and in that moment, I knew she was afraid-afraid of what would happen to her, and to me, if we did not comply.

"Get him," the leader said coldly, his breath thick with the stench of blood and sweat. "The boy's the last one."

I ran then, my heart pounding in my chest, like the sound of the storm itself, and not knowing where to, only knowing I had to be away. I did not look back; could not. The village was a blur of smoke, flame licking the sides of houses, and the shadows of men chasing after me.

I didn't know where the forest began but ran until it swallowed me up among its trees.

---

The forest was one of those places I grew up getting warnings against. The old ones, elders who talked of the Shadows of Famine, would always say the forest wasn't for the living. It was a place of darkness, of spirits and forgotten things, where wind howled as if it were the souls of the lost. I have never dared to enter it before, but now, in the wake of all that had happened, it seemed the only place I could hide.

I could hear the mercenaries behind me, shouting, their voices growing fainter the deeper I had stumbled into the woods. It seemed as if the trees closed in around me, their gnarled branches grasping out to me like skeletal hands, and I could feel the chill of the air as it wrapped around me, seeping into my bones.

For a moment, I could have sworn I heard something else out there, distant-something darker. A low murmur, a whisper on the wind, like the voices of the forest itself, urging me forward.

I have no idea how long I had been running. The storm surge worsened: Rain began to fall in sheets, turning visibility into an almost impossible chore. My clothes were soaked, and my feet felt numb from the cold, yet I couldn't stop. The treetop shades pressed against me from everywhere, watching, waiting.

And then, just when I thought I would collapse from exhaustion, I saw something. A figure was standing just beyond the trees. A pale ghostly shape was outlined against the pale light of the storm. It was a woman, or at least it looked like one, but her eyes were empty and hollow.

She watched me, and I felt her gaze as if it would pierce right through me to every single fear, to every weakness that was inside me. Then she spoke; her voice sounded no louder than a soft sigh in the wind.

"Kael," she whispered, "You have come. just as the prophecy said."

My heart stopped. How did she know my name? How would she know anything about me?

Before I could move, the shadows around me deepened further, and something unseen pressed against my chest, weighty, holding me in place; the forest itself seemed to whisper, urging me to listen.

"Come," she said again, her voice like a song from a far-off place. "Come, Kael, for you are not alone in this storm."

But even as her words reached me, I knew, deep in my soul, the storm wasn't outside only; it was inside me, and it was only just beginning.