Above the plains of Fallowridge, an ancient darkness carried through the wind. Arvid could feel it. He wrapped the reins of his field ox on the plow and looked up into the day's early sunset. An old feeling this was, something he believed to be forgotten and abandoned in a forgotten life.

The gusts rolled the spent soil between his crop lines and stirred an old dread in his chest. As the harvest star slipped below sharp mountains of the Guardian Ridge, the fields seemed to fall silent, as if the world were holding its breath for some calamity that had been brewing in the days long before his kin ever set foot in the world. He felt unease; he knew this darkness—and the tandem feeling of dread.

The same dread had clung to him rings ago in the smithing halls of Endadstat, far north beyond the coastal ridgeline. There he earned his living under the King's colors, forging weapons of war and shoeing the cavalry's finest horses. On rare quiet days, when the iron halls fell still, the flames of the forge would whisper, drawing strange songs from the coals in a haunting liturgy. The fire spoke in a cadence no one else heard, painting a memory buried deep in Arvid's mind. It was a secret he held close, because he had told himself it was only a nightmare. A terror that few knew possible.

These liturgies followed him home on the cold nights. Dalyn would wake to the sound of Arvid fighting something unseen, his breath ragged, his eyes unfocused. She held him in the dark and listened to him rambling of the visions. Fire without heat. A man encased in burning light. The scent of seared flesh carried on a wind that did not belong to this world. She told herself these were the scars of war. An echo of his time in service of the royal cavalry, perhaps. But the way Arvid shook, as though some truth inside him was trying to claw its way out, left her unsettled.

So they left the capital. Arvid traded the hammer for a plow. They settled on an orphaned plot of land in the kingdom's breadbasket and learned to work the soil with steady, honest labor. Away from the forge, the whispering flames lost their voice. The nights, even the cold ones, grew calm again.

Now three rings away from the forges, Arvid became a capable harvester. On this particular evening, the eve of Ashvir's Respite, he surveyed the day's work with quiet pride. The tilled croplands smelled of damp soil and crushed husks. Their cattle were fed and stabled, under watch by their hound, Goric, and soon they would both retire from the hibernating soil and take refuge in the comfort of their warm home for the approaching winter.

His wife brought him a cup of her own ferment, a reward for the long day. Its warmth settled in his throat as the last light of the harvest star faded behind the ridgeline. Her wheat blond hair caught the glow, and for a moment Arvid saw nothing but her beauty, her quiet strength, and the child she carried beneath her hands that rested on her growing womb.

“Ashvir is pleased, he has blessed us, Arvid.” Dalyn said.

Arvid wasn't convinced in the biddings of minor goblins. He let the comment pass, as he had done before on many occasions. To him, fealty and praise to the underlings of greater, terrible forces never sat well with him. He was a man with tools, who made work of the soil and the land. What offering to the mysterious creatures held real influence, anyway?

But you've seen real power yourself. The whisper spilled into his head. He shook it away and finished the hearty cup of his wife's fine brew.

Night rose quickly. The jeweled, green moon of Enthara climbed above the plains and cast its soft light over the fields. Arvid gathered the last bundle of wood and carried it inside to the hearth. The fire was roaring, pulling up into the chimney by the sharp wind blowing over the ridge. He closed his eyes and let the heat warm his bones. The cracks of the dry wood rose sharply as the flames consumed their fresh fuel. Dalyn's needle could be heard dancing through fresh linen.

And then Goric howled deep into the night. Arvid's eyes snapped open.

The old wolfhound's voice rose from the barn in a long, wavering call that was neither warning nor greeting. Something else—fear. Primal fear. A cold draft slid through the open window and brushed Arvid's neck. He froze. The air held the scent of his old dread, kin to the same phantom shadow that had lived in the corners of his mind for years.

“We have visitors,” he said. He felt someone approaching the edge of the property.

Dalyn's stitching slowed. Her fingers froze around the unfinished newborn tunic. She lifted her eyes to him, sensing the change.

“Who?” she whispered.

Arvid did not answer. His body moved before thought reached it, drawn to the window by instinct. He lifted the curtain with shaking fingers.

Two riders stood on the eastern knoll.

Moonlight washed over one of them, a figure in black. It bent strangely around the edges of their cloak. The horse beneath them stood perfectly still, as though its hooves were planted in something deeper than earth. Beside the figure in black, a bare-headed rider on a white mare held a looking glass to his eye, studying the cabin with unsettling patience.

Dalyn came to Arvid's side, one hand gripping his cloak, the other resting protectively over her womb.

“Arvid... who are they?”

He did not blink.

“Strangers,” he said softly. “Not travelers. Not farmers.”

His breath stilled in his chest.

The rider lowered the glass. Even at that distance, Arvid felt the man's gaze land upon him with weight. A pressure built behind his own eyes. The flames in the hearth cracked and Arvid jolted, turning quickly to the fire. He swore he could hear something in the flame. A hymn. A damned hymn.

The wind shifted again, pulling Arvid back to the window. And then his legs moved; they moved without his command.

He stepped back from the window, unable to break the stare of the men on the knoll. Dalyn tugged at his cloak but her voice seemed to come from a far-off place.

“Arvid, say something. What is it? What do you see?”

Arvid swallowed but the words did not form. Something else formed instead. A whisper. A thought that was not his own.

Meet us... Arvid.

His knees buckled. He caught himself on the doorframe as the pressure surged behind his temples. Dalyn's nails dug into his cloak, a soft cry escaping her lips as the riders descended the slope and disappeared into the shadows.

They were coming.

The whisper pressed deeper.

Meet us at the door.

Arvid felt his own hand reach for the latch.

The world tightened around him, shrinking to a pinprick of light. Dalyn's scream distanced. Goric's sharp growls from the barn faded. The hearth crackled and dimmed.

Then a voice—calm, commanding, ancient—slid beneath his skin.

Relinquish your mind, Arvid.

The world folded inward. Darkness swallowed him whole.

Arvid woke to the smell of spilled ferment and the sound of a faint flame in the hearth. His vision returned in blurred shapes. Dalyn's hand was on his shoulder, trembling. She was seated behind him, with her other hand covering her mouth. Across from him, seated with composed stillness, were the strangers.

The bald man from the knoll sat upright, his posture disciplined. His velvet robe caught the firelight in dull glints, each golden button etched and worn. A simple staff rested against the table beside him, its wood dark and smoothed by years of use.

Beside him sat the figure in black—it was a witch.

She did not move. Her presence filled the room in a quiet, unsettling way.

Black linens draped over her feminine form in layered folds, each piece stitched with faint sigils that shimmered in the moonlight leaking through the window. It too curved around her body in an unnatural way, as if it were falling from the sky and spilling over her like water. Her hood shadowed all but her chin and the dark-painted lips beneath. Her hands rested lightly on her lap, fingers relaxed yet precise, as though ready to weave a spell at a moment's notice.

Arvid realized she had not taken a breath since he opened his eyes.

The man spoke first.

“Arvid Nufandel,” he said. His tone was low, steady. A voice that could command without force. The same that was in his head a few moments prior. “We are not here to harm you.”

Arvid rubbed his temples as his head began to ache. The witch's gaze—or whatever presence she projected—pressed faintly against his skull.

“My name is Cassian,” the man continued, wringing his callused hands once before releasing them. “This is Ravtha, my apprentice.”

Ravtha inclined her head by the smallest margin. It was neither polite nor dismissive. It was the motion of someone who had been taught to show acknowledgment without surrender.

“We are emissaries of The Coven of the Bound Dawn,” Cassian continued.

Dalyn whimpered from beneath the hand that covered her mouth. Arvid forced himself to meet Cassian's gaze. His lips were stale but started to move by his own will.

“What business would the Coven seek with a farmer and his wife?” he asked just above a whisper.

Cassian folded his hands calmly on the table. “We seek answers, Arvid.”

Ravtha's fingers twitched a precise gesture in her lap. A sigil. A reading. Arvid felt the air tighten, as if she were tasting his fear. He pried his eyes away and looked around his home nervously. There were no sigils or devotions to the Coven's creatures here. Nothing that would show allegiance to their ways.

“We are not devout followers,” Arvid said nervously. “We only give blessings during the harvest festivals.”

“Your devotion is not relevant,” Cassian replied. “We are not here to test your faith. Only your memory.” He looked at his apprentice who made quick gestures in front of her head. He nodded and continued, “There is attunement you possess, inherited from an experience long ago. We are interested in the events that took place.”

The table legs creaked beneath Cassian's palms. A thin line of splintering spidered outward along the wood, glowing faintly before fading. Dalyn gasped and covered her mouth now with both hands.

Arvid froze.

Cassian's eyes did not lose their gaze.

“You returned from the Veilrund Caverns years ago,” Cassian said softly. “You spoke to no one of what you witnessed there.”

Arvid shuddered. The name alone sent ice down his spine. He nodded.

“I do not wish to remember that day,” he whispered. The memories were rising from the pang of dread boiling in his stomach.

Ravtha lifted her hand slightly. Her fingers traced a new sigil in the air. Her lips parted just enough to release a breath he could not hear.

⟨He speaks the truth⟩ The gesture conveyed it wordlessly.

Cassian nodded once.

Then he leaned forward, his voice a velvet knife.

“We seek the memory and we will ask you to return there one more time. There were others with you, though, Arvid. Tell me why you were there.”

Arvid's eyes left Cassian's and looked at the witch. Is this it? He wondered. He wanted to run. But his legs were frozen.

The witch's lips moved again but there was no sound, in fact Arvid could not hear anything for only a moment. He turned around and stared at the fire. The limp flames moved in silence. Sound returned as Cassian asked another question.

“Tell me of the Maw, Arvid.”

Cassian's words struck Arvid's chest and nearly sent him tumbling backward. The only time he had heard the chamber's name it had been uttered by something far more sinister.

Dalyn pressed herself into the corner, her breath quickening. Arvid's throat tightened. His vision dimmed around the edges. The smell of burning rock crept into the room as if pulled through the cracks in his memory.

“I... I can't...” Arvid stammered.

“Calm yourself,” Cassian murmured, and the tone was powerful without rising. “No shadow of the Zarathis will reach you here. You are under the protection of the Bound Dawn.”

The air shifted.

The hearth flared.

Ravtha steadied herself, her hood tilting silently.

“Remember these events now and then never again,” Cassian said. “I will guide you so that I may learn more.”

The room folded inward again. The firelight blurred. The scent of sulfur filled his lungs.

Heat crept over the floorboards.

Arvid's mind was no longer in his home. He was back at the mouth of the Maw.

The hearth snapped. The air warped. The smell of sulfur thickened as though the memory itself were seeping through the cracks of Arvid's mind.

Cassian's voice reached him, low and steady.

“Follow the flame. Do not resist.”

Ravtha's hood tilted slightly as she watched him, her hands hovering just above her lap, fingers ready to shape another sigil if he lost control.

The room dissolved.

Heat struck Arvid's face.

The cold floorboards became the broken gravel of a mountain trail.

The cabin vanished, replaced by black stone and burning light.

He was back at the Maw. The same as it was all those years ago.

The mouth of the cavern glowed with a sickly orange, pulsing like a wound in the earth. Hot wind billowed outward, carrying ash and the stench of boiling flesh. The three horses tied to the dead tree thrashed in panic. Leather snapped. Hooves pounded. They fled into the screaming dark of Veilrund's forest.

Arvid crouched behind a jutting rock, arms thrown over his head. Another eruption shook the cavern, belching molten air that seared his lungs even in memory. He tasted sulfur. He felt his skin blister under the memory's heat. He tried to look away but something held him fast.

Cassian's presence pressed at his thoughts, steadying him.

“Remain with the vision,” Cassian murmured. “Observe.”

Arvid forced himself to breathe.

The Maw heaved again, a deeper, darker surge.

The glowing rock around the opening cracked like eggshell.

Then came the scream.

A voice no living man should have.

Raw.

Shredded.

Fused with pain.

Arvid clawed at the rock as the figure crawled into view.

A human shape, charred to bone.

Flesh boiled and reformed in patches.

Tendons pulled taut over exposed muscle.

The eyes burned awake.

They locked onto Arvid through the heat.

“HAL—HALDRAN!”

The voice tore through the cavern, ripped from ruined vocal cords that should not have made sound.

It was no more a declaration than it was a helpless plea.

Arvid staggered backward, heart slamming in his chest.

The figure rose on trembling limbs.

Skin stitched itself across its arms in writhing sheets.

Fingers split, reshaped, matured.

Bone thickened.

A man was forming out of flame and agony. Above him, tearing through the clouds, was a searing bolt of magnificent light that burned the stones on which this man was reborn in flame.

Cassian gasped somewhere beside the memory, his voice carried faintly at the edge of Arvid's awareness.

Ravtha whispered something—a prayer or a curse—as the burning figure staggered toward the light.

“Help me!” it screamed. “Haldran! We are alive!”

Arvid felt the name rip through him.

He felt the man's terror.

He felt his desperation.

He felt his soul clawing for something lost in the dark.

And then the vision shattered.

The molten cavern dissolved.

The scream folded inward.

The heat snapped shut like a clenched fist.

Arvid crashed back into his body with a cry and fell from his chair onto the dirt floor. Dalyn threw herself over him, shielding him as if the memory's heat still burned his skin.

Cassian sat completely still at the table.

Smoke curled off the charred edges of his sleeves.

His palms were scorched into the wood.

He kept his eyes closed for several breaths before finally lifting them.

“It was him,” Cassian said, voice roughened by the power he had exerted. “He truly witnessed the rebirth.”

Ravtha straightened, her usually steady poise shaken. Her hands trembled slightly before she hid them within her sleeves.

“The name,” she whispered. “What was the name it called?”

Cassian turned to her. His gray eyes were rimmed with pain, but also recognition.

“Haldran.”

Ravtha's breath caught.

Cassian rose from his chair and stepped toward Arvid, who lay trembling, his wife clinging to him.

“Arvid,” Cassian said gently, “this man... this creature... where is he now?”

Arvid swallowed, his throat raw. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on some point beyond the room.

“He... he lives,” Arvid whispered. “He rides now as a captain of Windolbane.”

Cassian and Ravtha exchanged a long, silent look.

“This man... this man is a Soldier of the Plateau?” Cassian asked.

Arvid smiled in the moment, “Always has been. Same as me.”

In the room's dim firelight, the truth settled like ash.

The Maw had cast something into the world. And that something now marched in the lines of its most lethal force.