First Blood

The walk back to the cottage felt colder than the walk to the market. The wind had turned harsh, clawing instead of biting, tugging at their cloaks and whispering things that sounded real enough to freeze the blood. Julius huddled between Roric and Elara, his small hand still clutched tight in his mother's. The words he'd overheard circled in his mind like vultures: Trackers. Soulless. Absence. Dangerous. Attracts the Void.

He was the absence. The quiet place inside him, the stillness he sometimes found, wasn't peace. It was emptiness. It was the thing the Trackers hunted. It was why his parents lived in constant fear.

Roric kept glancing back, his hand resting on something hidden beneath his cloak. Elara's steps were quick, hurried, her eyes scanning the grey, desolate land around them. The air felt brittle, charged with unseen tension. Julius imagined eyes watching from behind the dead bushes and the hill tops, silent and unseen. The feeling from the market hadn't faded; it had followed them, heavy and suffocating.

They were nearly home. The squat shape of their hidden cottage was a smudge against the horizon, a promise of warmth, however fragile. Julius felt a bit of relief, a desperate hope that they could bolt the door and hide, just like always.

Then, Roric stopped dead. He stiffened, his head snapping towards a cluster of jagged rocks fifty paces to their left. Elara gasped softly, pulling Julius tighter against her side.

Two figures detached themselves from the rocks. They didn't rush. They moved with a chilling certainty, their drab cloaks blending with the grey landscape until they were suddenly, terribly, there. They were tall and lean, their faces shadowed by deep hoods, but Julius could feel their gaze lock onto him. Not Roric, not Elara. Him.

"Trackers," Roric said silently. He shoved Elara and Julius behind him, pulling a short, thick knife from his belt. Its blade gleamed dully in the weak light. "Elara, take Julius. Run for the cottage!"

But the Trackers were too fast. They fanned out, cutting off the path home. One moved with an unnatural smoothness, like a predator stalking prey. The other was broader, his presence heavy, oppressive.

"No need for trouble, Roric," the smoother one said. He spoke in a dull, cold tone. "We just want the boy. The absence." He took another step closer, his eyes, cold and pale like a winter sky, fixed on Julius. "He doesn't belong here. He draws… dangerous things."

"He's my son!" Elara cried, her voice trembling but fierce. She stood her ground beside Roric, shielding Julius with her body.

"He is an anomaly," the second Tracker stated, his voice a low rumble. "A danger to us, to everyone. The Divine Council wants him contained immediately."

Roric didn't waste words. He lunged, knife flashing, aiming for the smoother Tracker. The Tracker moved in a flash, raising his armored arm to block the hit. Sparks flew. The second one started heading towards Elara and Julius.

"Run, Julius!" Roric shouted, locked in a desperate struggle.

Elara pushed Julius hard. "Go! Now! Don't look back!"

But Julius was frozen. Terror held him rooted to the spot, watching his father fight, watching the second, larger Tracker advance on his mother. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

The big Tracker hit Elara hard, sending her flying as if she were weightless. She cried out, stumbling back, falling hard onto the rocky ground. He didn't even glance at her. His focus was entirely on Julius.

He reached down, his gloved hand like a cage descending. Julius could smell something strange coming off him – cold metal, dust, and an underlying scent like ozone, sharp and clean.

"Come, little absence," the Tracker murmured, his voice disturbingly calm. "It will be easier if you don't fight."

Julius felt the glove tighten on his arm. The grip was like iron, inescapable. But it wasn't just the strength; it was the cold. The cold from the glove wasn't normal, it sank deep, colder than anything he'd felt. It didn't just touch his skin. It reached into the empty place inside him, like it knew it was there.

Something inside Julius snapped.

It wasn't thought. It wasn't courage. It was pure, blind panic, a cornered animal's instinct. A surge of raw energy, hot and fierce, flooded him, pushing back the cold. He twisted violently, impossibly, tearing his arm partly free. The Tracker grunted in surprise, his grip momentarily loosening.

In that instant, Julius launched himself forward, not away. He opened his mouth and bit down, hard, on the thick leather glove covering the Tracker's hand.

His teeth sank through the leather, meeting resistance, then piercing flesh beneath. A sharp, coppery taste filled his mouth.

The Tracker roared, a sound of genuine pain and shock. He jerked his hand back violently, flinging Julius away. Julius tumbled through the dust and grit, landing painfully on his side, the metallic tang of blood sharp in his throat. It was the Tracker's blood. First blood.

The distraction was enough. Roric, seeing his chance, drove his shoulder into the first Tracker's gut, sending him stumbling back. Elara got up quickly, ignoring her own pain, her eyes wild with terror and fierce love.

"RUN JULIUS, RUN!" she screamed, her voice cracking.

"RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN! HIDE! DON'T LET THEM TAKE YOU!"

Roric met Julius's eyes for a second. There was fear there, yes, but also a desperate command. Live.

This time, Julius moved. Adrenaline surged through him, overriding the pain in his side, the terror in his heart. He got up quickly and ran. He ran away from the fight, away from his parents, away from the only home he had ever known.

He didn't dare look back, but the sounds followed him: the clash of metal, his father's strained grunts, his mother's desperate cries, the Tracker's enraged shouts. He pushed himself harder, legs pumping, lungs burning. The wind hit at him hard, trying to hold him back, but the instinct screamed louder: Run. Survive.

He stumbled over the uneven ground, rocks tearing at his worn clothes, his worn boots. Tears streamed down his face, freezing cold against his skin, blurring his vision. He ran blindly, fueled by terror and the echo of his mother's scream.

He ran until the sounds of the fight faded behind him, replaced by the lonely howl of the wind and the frantic pounding of his own heart. He ran until his legs gave out, collapsing in the shelter of a low, rocky outcrop, miles from the place he'd called home.

He lay there, gasping for breath, trembling violently. Dust and grit coated his face, mingling with the tears and the faint, coppery smear of the Tracker's blood near his lips. He was alone. Truly alone, in the vast, cold emptiness of the world. The quiet pool inside him felt vast and terrifying now, no longer a strange stillness but a gaping wound. The Trackers knew what he was. And they would hunt and kill him.

He curled up tightly, shaking, the sharp taste of blood and fear on his tongue. Where could he run? What could he do? The world around him was grey, cold, and full of danger.