Chapter 1 - The First Glimpse

Trees stood still—weak, bare, stripped by wind and time.

His feet stepped on the damp earth as he proceeded. The long robe draped over his shoulders, absorbing the dew of morning, its borders smeared with mud and desolate leaves. He proceeded without hurry, without concern. Eyes ahead. Face unemotional.

Each step seemed to be disconnected from gravity—like the world chose not to oppose him.

Above, clouds had accumulated, yet the sun broke through in places. Light filtered between twisted branches, illuminating long shadows on the earth. He disregarded them. He passed through them as a ghost passes through memory.

Before him, the forest thinned.

A village awaited.

Beyond the forest, life was already underway. Spirals of smoke rose from low-smoldering chimneys, carts rattled slowly over weathered cobblestones, and distant bells rang from a tower beside the chapel. Their sound vibrated softly across the hills and rooftops.

He stepped out of the fringe of the woods onto the village road. His step was unbroken. No pause. No hesitation. No variation in pace. Just movement, steady and automatic.

The buildings were worn—wood cracked, stone paled, paint flaked in long vertical strips—but the individuals were alive. Some cleaned steps. Others readjusted displays in shopfronts. They moved with the confidence of habit.

He moved through them like fog.

No one saw.

Almost.

---

"It's quiet today," Kraft said.

He wasn't mistaken.

Mist still clung to the streets, whispering low across the ground like over-hold breath. The usual vendor and animal din was muffled. Far away, faintly, mana lamps vibrated against chill.

It's a sort of quiet that isn't so much earned—but borrowed.

Lindsay remained silent. She walked with him, her step upright but vigilant. Her amber eyes scanned the road ahead of them, slow and deliberate. The way you look when you suspect something is wrong, but have not yet observed.

Their boots tapped out a beat on the stone, quiet drumming in the mist.

They had been stationed here for months—a back village, close to the capital but distant from notoriety. Neither desirable nor challenging assignment. Just quiet. Too quiet. Most of the days were spent traversing the same routes, greeting the same people, hearing the same news.

Which is why the figure caught Kraft's attention immediately.

He emerged from the trees as if he were a fragment of them—hood over shoulders, robe billowing, face revealed. Not sneaky. Not aggressive. Just… unflustered.

He walked through the village center without so much as a nod to anyone, his figure a crease in the air—visible only if you noticed.

Kraft squinted. "You know him?"

Lindsay's gaze remained on the boy. "No," she whispered. "He doesn't come from here."

They kept walking, now far enough behind that they could see him without being seen.

The boy never glanced around. He turned a corner. Went into a little provision shop. No stop. Just went in, grabbed bread, some dried fruit, and left. No money. No transaction.

"He didn't pay," Lindsay said.

"You saw that?" Kraft asked, already drawing his gun.

No," she answered. Her hand stroked the small charm knotted at her waist—old habit, half habit, half caution. "I felt it."

Kraft's voice was more muted. "Mana?"

"Something colder."

They followed him a few more paces.

Then Lindsay stepped forward and spoke out.

"Hey. You."

He stopped.

No tension. No panic.

He slowly faced them, as if more out of politeness than alarm. He was a boy—no more than thirteen. But his face showed none of the terror or bewilderment of a boy his age.

His eyes were dry. Not empty. Not broken.

Detached.

She approached him with care, step by step. Her voice deliberate.

"Name?"

Nothing.

"Where are you from?"

Silence.

Behind her, Kraft shifted position. His hand close to the baton at his side.

Lindsay raised a hand to stop him—but failed to take her eyes off the boy.

Then: "How old are you?"

For the first time, the boy gazed into her eyes. Really gazed into them.

Not like a child looks up to an adult. Not like a suspect looks up to a cop.

Like something… else.

"Thirteen," he answered. Nothing more.

His voice was deep, but not shaken.

Then he walked away.

Kraft half-strided forward. "We're just going to let him go?"

Lindsay didn't move. Her eyes stayed fixed on where the boy had stood. The trail was still there, but it felt colder now. A trifle off.

She exhaled through her nose. "He's not one we're supposed to prevent."

Kraft looked at her, bewildered, irked. "What did you see?"

She shrugged. "Something I can't describe."

They lingered there awhile, in silence.

Then turned and resumed their patrol. No more words said.

The boy returned alone to the forest.

Behind him, the village resumed its rhythm. The bells pealed out, the carts creaked along. No alarm was raised. No warnings issued. As if he had never been.

Only the trees remembered.

They closed in on either side of him as he walked through their shadows.

Not to shield him. Not to judge.

Just to observe.

And in silence, the world continued on—while something ancient, something buried, began to move again.