The River Child

That night, the river that split the Middle Trunk roared after a long rain. Its waters carried broken branches and leaves, sweeping against the massive roots that hung from above. Amid the ripples glittering in the moonlight, a small woven basket drifted, tossing helplessly. The baby inside whimpered softly, its hoarse cry nearly drowned out by the current.

Sister Elena, a young nun from the village of Lynden, was drawing water when the basket snagged against a tangle of roots. Her heart skipped as she pulled back the cover and found the baby staring at her with glowing red eyes. For a moment she stepped back—those eyes were unlike any human's. But when the baby grasped the hem of her robe with a tiny, cold hand, her fear melted away. All she saw was a child in need of saving.

Around the baby's neck hung a simple metal pendant, forged from a material she didn't recognize. No clues to its origin, no name—only a child gazing at her with quiet hope. Elena lifted the baby into her arms and carried him back to the small church where she tended to twenty other orphans. That night, she named the child Aren, "child of the river."

Six years passed. Lynden, the village where the church stood, was a small settlement in the Middle Trunk. From afar, the wall of Yggraeth's roots loomed like a fortress, shielding the village from the wild winds. Yet for the villagers, the presence of the Hellroot Seal buried deep underground was an ever-present threat. They lived in fragile peace, as if a single crack could break the chain holding back the darkness below.

Among the twenty orphans at the church, Aren was known as a stubborn child. His black hair was always tangled and unruly, and his red eyes unsettled some of the adults. Yet under Sister Elena's care, he grew into a lively and spirited boy. He often got into minor trouble—climbing the giant roots beyond the village's borders or skipping lessons—but everyone knew Aren had a big heart.

Three children were closest to him: Lyra, a bright, golden-haired girl with a hearty laugh; Finn, a competitive blue-haired boy always trying to outdo Aren; and Marin, a white-haired girl who preferred observing over speaking. Together, they explored every corner of the village—tracing the riverbanks, playing hide-and-seek among the massive roots, and sometimes eavesdropping on hushed adult conversations about "a dark past."

That morning, after prayers, the children were free to play in the churchyard. Aren, Lyra, Finn, and Marin perched on an overhanging root, basking in the warm sunlight.

"I heard there's a secret cave outside the village filled with treasure," Finn said eagerly, swinging his legs.

Aren grinned. "If it's real, I'll be the first to find it. You'd just get lost."

"Liar!" Finn leapt up, his face flushed. "I'm faster than you! Let's race to the river!"

Lyra raised her hand to intervene. "Hey, don't start again, you two. If Sister Elena finds out, we'll all be stuck cleaning the hall for a week."

Aren and Finn locked eyes, then suddenly bolted. Lyra sighed and tugged Marin's hand, urging her to follow. Marin, usually quiet, smiled faintly and murmured, "I'm sure Aren will win. He always knows the shortcuts."

By the time they reached the river, Aren stood triumphantly on a rock, hands on his hips. Finn staggered behind, panting and scowling.

"See? Told you I was the fastest," Aren said with satisfaction.

Finn scowled. "One day I'll beat you, Aren. Just wait."

Lyra laughed heartily. "You two never get tired of bickering, do you?"

Aren shrugged. "Life would be boring if I didn't tease him."

Marin sat at the river's edge, dipping her toes into the water. "I'm glad we're always together like this," she whispered. "I don't want these days to end."

Aren turned to her, momentarily taken aback. He gave a faint smile. "Don't worry, Marin. As long as I'm here, nothing can tear us apart."

But behind their laughter lingered the shadow of old wars. The adults often whispered about the First Demon Invasion and the Hellroot Seal. Aren didn't fully understand, yet the rune on the back of his left hand occasionally pulsed faintly, as if responding to something buried deep underground.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the children gathered in the main hall. Sister Elena sat in a wooden chair, an ancient book resting on her lap. Tonight, she read an old tale: "The Wail Beneath the Roots," a legend passed down from the First Invasion.

"In the deepest depths," Elena began, her gentle voice tinged with history's weight, "the defeated demon legions wail in despair. They await the moment the seal weakens, when they may once again claim this world. Some say the wailing is the cry of the forsaken… others believe it is the promise of vengeance yet to come."

The children whispered among themselves, clutching their blankets tighter. Lyra swallowed hard. "Can they really come back, Sister?"

"No one knows," Elena replied, her voice cautious. "All we can do is live without fear and protect one another."

Aren, sitting quietly in the corner, gazed at the mark on his hand. A warmth pulsed from it, the beat growing stronger each time Elena uttered the word "demon." He clenched his fist, trying to ignore the strange sensation.

When the tale ended, the children shuffled back to their beds. Lyra approached Aren. "Aren, aren't you scared?"

Aren shook his head, offering a faint smile. "It's just a story. Even if they did come back, I wouldn't run, you know?"

Finn snorted. "You always act so brave. But if it happens, don't you dare hide behind me."

From the doorway, Sister Elena overheard their chatter and smiled softly. In her heart, she prayed these peaceful days would last a little longer.

Night deepened. Aren couldn't sleep. He wandered to his window, gazing at the serene village below. Moonlight danced over the colossal roots of Yggraeth, their shifting shadows almost alive.

Aren slipped outside, settling beneath a giant root as he watched the moonlit river. His left hand throbbed faintly, as though something deep beneath the earth was calling to him. He grasped the metal pendant around his neck, trying to steady himself. Why do I always feel… different? he wondered. A chill ran through him as the night wind carried faint whispers. For a fleeting moment, he felt the world he knew was but a thin veil hiding something far darker.

The forest murmured around him—the rustle of leaves, the river's ripple, and… something else. The whispers returned, clearer now. Aren closed his eyes, straining to hear. The mark on his left hand pulsed harder, as if a voice from the depths was reaching out.

"Is that… you?" he whispered. No answer came, only the unsettling tremor that raised goosebumps on his skin.

He returned to his bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere deep inside, he knew the small world he called home would not remain safe forever.

And far below the village, something long imprisoned began to stir once more.