Year 400,
Thalen,
Duskrend
The morning mist clung to the thatched roofs like breath that refused to fade. Takaya moved slowly through the outskirts of Thalen, boots crunching against the frost-hardened earth. The village looked alive only in outline—smoke rose from chimneys, doors stood closed, faint figures shifted behind shutters—but it all felt wrong, like watching a painting pretending to move.
There were no crows on the fences, no dogs barking, no chatter of early work. Only the steady hush of fog. Even the wind seemed to tread lightly here, careful not to disturb whatever held the place together.
Takaya paused at a corner where the road split into two narrow lanes. One led deeper into the cluster of huts, the other curved toward the fields, gray and empty. A faint trail of ash ran between them, so fine it almost looked like dust—until he saw how it branched, looping in deliberate arcs, marking doorways and windows like veins in pale skin.
He crouched, brushing his fingertips across the residue. Cold. Old. Burned from something more ritual than random. The people of Thalen didn't just live in fear—they moved in step with it. Every shutter drawn, every door bolted, every path etched in ash was a motion rehearsed countless times before.
Takaya straightened, the fog curling around him. Somewhere deeper in the village, a bell tolled once—soft, slow, hollow. Not a call to worship, but a reminder. A warning.
And the silence that followed was worse than the sound.
The humming was soft at first, almost blending into the rustle of the trees. Takaya might have ignored it if it hadn't repeated—a strange, tuneless melody, rising and falling like a lullaby sung to no one. He followed it through the thinning woods until he saw the hut.
It stood apart from the rest of Thalen, a hunched shape of warped planks and moss-stained thatch. The air here smelled faintly of iron and smoke. Through a gap in the wall, pale light flickered—candlelight.
Takaya stepped closer, boots whispering against damp leaves. Inside, a child knelt on the dirt floor, their small frame swaying slightly as they hummed. Before them sat a crude altar—bones arranged in a crooked circle, a mound of melted wax at its center, and what looked disturbingly like teeth strung together in loops, glinting faintly in the candle's glow.
The boy—or girl, Takaya couldn't tell—lifted their hands, pressing them together in prayer. The voice was thin, quivering but practiced. "Keep us from her eyes," the child whispered. "Keep us from the dark below."
Takaya froze. The words didn't sound learned; they sounded lived.
He shifted, the floorboard beneath him creaking. The child startled, spinning around. Wide, hollow eyes met his—eyes too tired for their age. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then the child scrambled to shield the altar with their small arms, trembling but defiant.
"Don't," they said, voice breaking. "You'll make her see."
Takaya didn't answer. He took a slow step forward, gaze flicking over the altar again—the teeth, the wax, the faint carvings scratched into the floor. Not random. A ritual. A plea.
The candle wavered, and the air grew colder, as if the hut itself exhaled. Takaya felt the Veyl stir within him, whispering low and distant. "This village prays to its own fear."
Takaya's jaw tightened. Whatever this was, it wasn't superstition—it was survival.
The child's trembling grew worse with every step Takaya took. Their small hands clutched the altar's edge like it was a shield, eyes darting to the corners of the hut as if something might crawl out of the shadows.
"Where did you learn this?" Takaya asked quietly.
The child shook their head, breath hitching. "We all know it. Everyone knows it. We have to—if we don't, she comes. The Covenant—"
The name hung in the air, heavy and wrong. Takaya frowned. "The Covenant?"
The child's lips quivered. "They see everything. The priest said so. You shouldn't be here." Then, as if realizing they had already said too much, they bolted—scrambling past him, bare feet thudding against the packed dirt before vanishing into the trees.
Silence fell. Only the candle's flame flickered, guttering against the draft.
Takaya stood there for a long moment, staring at the altar. Bones, teeth, wax—all arranged with obsessive care. There was no devotion here, no reverence. Just fear carved into habit.
He drew a slow breath and reached out.
The candle's flame bent sideways, resisting the motion as if caught in invisible wind. His hand brushed the altar, and the smallest bones rolled under his fingers, brittle and cold. Then, with one deliberate motion, he struck the structure apart.
The circle broke. Teeth clattered and bounced across the floor. Wax cracked, spilling hardened drops like frozen tears.
The hut breathed. A low groan rattled the walls, and the draft turned into a shrieking gust that tore through the cracks. The candle blew out, leaving only the thin gray light filtering through the warped boards.
For a moment, Takaya felt it—a pressure, heavy and deliberate, pressing against his skin. The Veyl whispered in the hollow that followed, voice almost amused.
"You've poked the hive now, Takaya."
The wind died. The silence that replaced it wasn't empty—it was listening.
The fog clung low over the temple grounds, curling around the crooked spire and damp stone steps. Takaya stepped onto the threshold, boots crunching on loose gravel. The building was older than the village itself, leaning with age and wear, its candles flickering in the wind like wary eyes.
Each step inside made the floorboards groan. Shadows pooled in corners, stretching across carved pillars. The smell of incense was faint but stale, mixed with dust and cold stone. Takaya's eyes swept every detail: the cracked altar, the faint scorch marks along the walls, the prayer mats neatly folded but frayed.
Something about the place felt alive, though it wasn't breathing. It watched. It measured. Takaya's hand itched for Solthar, but he held himself still. If there was someone here, he needed to see them first.
A soft shuffle echoed behind the altar. The priest emerged—thin, stooped, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his robes. He carried nothing. No weapon, no threat. Only a faint scent of incense and resignation.
"If you intend to strike me, do it outside," the priest said softly. "The foundation here won't hold much longer. We'd both be buried before the gods notice."
He gestured toward a small wooden table, set with two steaming cups of tea. Takaya hesitated, noting the lack of fear or aggression in the man's voice. There was no malice—only the weight of years spent between duty and despair.
Takaya's eyes followed every movement: how the priest poured the tea with care, how he paused as if measuring the consequences of each gesture. Even the flickering candles seemed to bow to the silence, shadows trembling over the walls.
Takaya sat on a low bench, hand resting near his sword. He let his eyes drift across the temple: faded murals, splintered beams, the altar lined with tiny offerings, some cracked or long rotted.
The priest placed a cup in front of him, hands brushing lightly over the wood. His voice was low, almost fragile:
"Sit. Drink, if you must. But whatever comes next… know the walls won't hold if you strike inside."
Takaya took a slow sip, feeling the warmth. The air pressed against him, heavy, expectant. Somewhere in the distance, a candle guttered, then steadied. The silence was alive, taut as a drawn bowstring.
For the first time since arriving, Takaya wasn't just watching a place. He was watching a man—someone burdened, broken, yet still standing. And in that observation, the weight of what must come pressed down harder than the fog outside.
The priest's hands trembled as he leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Long ago… the Covenant demanded five children each year," he said quietly, almost to himself. "It was never mercy—it was a law none of us could defy. I begged them, offered prayers, pleaded for fewer… and they allowed one."
Takaya's gaze narrowed. He had seen the village's fear, the hidden children, the hushed whispers. Now the pieces aligned. The sacrifices weren't random—they were ritualized, bound by an agreement meant to appease the Covenant .
The priest's voice cracked.
"My daughter… she was the first I could save no more. I watched her offered, powerless. I swore to reduce the toll, even if it meant living in chains of guilt and blood for the rest of my days."
Every word sank into Takaya like stones in water. The weight of decades, of fear, and compromise pressed in from every shadowed corner. Yet there was no hatred here—only a quiet, desperate resignation.
"I am not a shepherd," the priest murmured, hands clutching the rim of his cup. "I only keep the wolves busy."
Takaya studied him. The man's weakness was evident—not cowardice, but a fragile, exhausted kind of survival. Every day he walked a line between protecting lives and obeying a demand he loathed.
"Strike me inside these walls," he said softly, "and the ceiling will collapse. You'll destroy everything—and them with it."
The priest's words weren't a warning. They were a plea. The air felt dense, heavy with fear, guilt, and the centuries of superstition that had bound this village. Takaya felt a pang of unease. The Covenant wasn't here—yet its influence clung to every stone and whisper.
Takaya finally stood, brushing his cloak against the dusty floor. He glanced once at the candles, flickering weakly as if acknowledging his decision.
"If this is mercy," he whispered, voice low, "then I'll be your heretic."
The priest's head dipped slightly, a slow, almost imperceptible nod. He did not argue. He did not plead further. He had done all he could.
Outside, the fog pressed against Takaya's face, cold and damp. The village's muted streets lay beyond, waiting. Somewhere, unseen, children slept, oblivious to the chains that bound them. Takaya's jaw tightened.
He walked toward the village square, the temple's shadow stretching long behind him. By dawn, he would act. The Covenant's hold would break—or be broken.