Haugstad, Kingdom of Divinium, Eastern region of Rohana Federation, 2046 S.C. 141st day
"There! By the tree line!"
"Take him alive!" A voice commanded, as it shrieked, echoing deeply in the forest. "The master wants this one breathing!"
The forest was a cathedral of shadows, its vaulted canopy swallowing the faint light of dimmed crosses. Haran's breath came in ragged gasps. The sack of wheat slung over his shoulder felt like the weight of a dead world, dragging him deeper into the earth with every step. Behind him, the voices of his pursuers cut through the silence like knives, their words sharp and merciless.
"I see him! He is carrying the child."
"Alive! Bring them both alive, or I'll skin the lot of you!"
Haran's legs burned, his muscles screaming for respite, but he pushed on. The forest was a labyrinth of ancient trees and thorned undergrowth, their gnarled roots reaching up to trip him, their branches clawing at his face. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. He could hear the bandits now, their boots crunching over brittle leaves, their voices growing louder, closer.
He burst through a wall of brambles, the thorns tearing at his skin, and stumbled into open air. For a moment, he was weightless, suspended in the darkness, before the ground fell away beneath him. He tumbled down a slope, the world spinning in a blur of shadows and pain, until he came to a stop at the base of a shallow ravine.
The sound was inhuman. It was a high-pitched shriek that seemed to vibrate in his bones. Haran froze, his blood turning to ice as he looked up. The Moracha loomed before him, its petals unfurling like the jaws of some primordial beast. Teeth glistened in the dim light, rows of them, sharp and serrated, while tendrils writhed like the arms of a drowned thing rising from the depths.
Haran's mind raced, but his body was rooted to the spot. He thought of his son, of the life he had tried to build, of the peace he had fought so hard to protect. I'm sorry, he whispered silently, the words lost in the void. I tried.
The Moracha lunged, its teeth snapping shut like a steel trap, but the killing blow never came.
Two bolts of fire streaked through the darkness, striking the creature. The Moracha writhed, its shrieks piercing the night, as more flames engulfed it, reducing it to ash and embers. Haran shielded his face from the heat, his heart pounding.
When he looked up, the forest was alive with movement. Figures emerged from the shadows, their dark robes blending seamlessly with the night. Their faces were hidden beneath hoods and cloths.
"No, no," one of them said, his voice low and measured. "You're not dying tonight, Haran. Not yet."
Haran's breath caught in his throat. "How do you know my name?"
The man stepped closer, his boots crunching over the charred remains of the Moracha. "Oh, we know far more than your name. But don't worry—you'll remember it all soon enough."
Another figure emerged from the ranks, his robes adorned with glowing red runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. A white braided beard spilled from beneath his hood, while the veil still hid his face.
"Haran," the man said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Playing the doting father in some backwater village—how quaint. I'd have let you keep up the charade a little longer, but time, as they say, is a luxury we no longer have."
The man's gaze fell on the sack of wheat, and he let out a low, mirthless laugh. "Well played, indeed. A clever ruse, though it seems some of my associates were… less observant than they should have been."
He turned to one of the hooded figures, who shrank under his gaze. "You," he said, his voice like a blade. "You claimed you saw him running out of the cottage and that he was running with a child."
The man stammered, his voice trembling. "Yes, but in the fields... It was dark, and he… he had his back to us. But I was certain a child was still with him. I saw him pick something up and pressed it to his chest as he saw us."
The rune-marked man sighed, a sound heavy with disappointment. "Your certainty has cost us dearly."
In one fluid motion, he drew a dagger from beneath his robes and slashed the man's throat. The figure crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pooling in the dirt, as the others looked on in silence.
"Tie him up," the rune-marked man said, gesturing to Haran. "And mark him as a person of interest. I'd hate for him to end up as some laborer in the black markets. He's far too valuable for that."
As they bound his hands, the man leaned in close, his breath hot against Haran's ear. "You've changed, Haran. The man I knew would have torn this forest apart to escape. But then again, the man I knew was… unwell. Do you remember? The crystals, the madness, the blood? Or did the clergy scrub your mind clean?"
Haran met his gaze, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at his insides. "I was sick. I got help. My past has nothing to do with you."
The man chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. "Oh, Haran. Your past is us. And soon, you'll remember everything. And then, you'll give us what we need."
As they dragged him through the forest, the man began to hum, a low, haunting melody that sent shivers down Haran's spine. Then, softly, he began to sing:
♫ To the god of the abyss,
We chant around holy fire,
Grant us peace and bliss,
And strike our foes with ire.
May your horns be our compass,
May your spirit be our guide,
Gods of creation, we digress,
The veil of darkness is at our side. ♫
Haran grimaced. "What a vile song."
The man laughed, the sound echoing through the trees.
"Funny, coming from the man who wrote it."