Storm on the Horizon

The walk back to Windfell was eerily quiet. The encounter with the hooded figure lingered in Tharion's mind, his words repeating like an omen:

"You have awakened something that should have remained buried."

Ceyla kept glancing at him as they moved through the forest, clearly unsettled. Finally, she broke the silence. "I don't like this."

"You're not the only one," Tharion muttered.

She exhaled sharply, gripping the strap of her quiver. "I mean, glowing ruins? Cryptic messengers? And you, apparently being chosen by some ancient warrior?" She shook her head. "This is getting out of control."

Tharion didn't disagree, but he also couldn't ignore the pull inside him—the certainty that everything happening was part of something much bigger.

As they neared the village, Windfell's wooden palisades came into view. The air smelled of smoke and damp earth. It was too quiet. No distant chatter, no children playing.

Ceyla's posture stiffened. "Something's wrong."

They quickened their pace, moving toward the gate. When they stepped inside, their worst fears were confirmed.

Windfell in Ruins

The village had been attacked.

Smoke still lingered in the air from fires that had burned out. Houses were left in shambles, their wooden frames shattered. The central square, where the villagers had gathered just days before, was empty—save for signs of a struggle.

Tharion's chest tightened. "No..."

Ceyla ran ahead, searching desperately for any sign of life. "Edran?! Anyone?!"

Silence.

Then, a faint cough.

Both of them spun toward the sound. Near the remains of the village well, an old man lay against the stone, his breathing shallow. It was Edran. Blood stained his tunic, and his usually sharp eyes were clouded with pain.

Ceyla dropped to her knees beside him. "Edran! What happened?"

He coughed weakly, gripping her arm. "They came... the shadows..." His voice was barely above a whisper. "We tried... we fought... but they were too many."

Tharion knelt beside him. "Who took them? Where?"

Edran's fingers tightened around Tharion's wrist, his voice urgent. "North... They took them north."

His grip slackened, his head tilting to the side.

Ceyla's breath hitched. "No. No, no, no—Edran!"

Tharion placed two fingers to the old man's neck. A pulse—weak, but there. "He's alive," he said. "Barely."

Relief crossed Ceyla's face, but it was short-lived.

"They took them," she whispered. "Everyone."

Tharion looked at the devastation around them. Windfell had been defenseless without them, and now the villagers were gone—captured by the same force that haunted his visions.

He clenched his fists.

This wasn't just about him anymore.

The Hunt Begins

Ceyla wiped at her eyes and stood, her expression turning hard. "We're going after them."

Tharion nodded. "Agreed. But we need a plan."

He looked north, where distant storm clouds gathered on the horizon.

The battle for Windfell was over.

The real war was just beginning.