Part I – The Outskirts
1,000 Years Later.
The mountain slept, and the world forgot its name…
Dawn came softly to the outer farms of Westernlight. Mist hung low over the wheat, turning the fields to rivers of gold and gray. The walls of the city were barely visible from here — vast, pale shapes against the morning sky, half-swallowed by cloud.
To the farmers who lived beyond them, those walls were both comfort and insult. Safety, they said, for those born behind the gate. A reminder for everyone else that they never would be.
Luk woke before the roosters. The thatch above his bed dripped from last night's fog, and the smell of damp hay filled the air. Beside the hearth, his sister Anna was curled around their cat, still snoring softly. She always slept through the morning noise — the grind of the mill, the creak of wagon wheels, the shouts of traders heading toward the city's east road.
He slipped on his boots and stepped outside, careful not to wake her. The air was cool, sharp with dew and chimney smoke. Across the lane, old Taben was already hauling water from the well. He nodded without speaking — out here, people saved words for when they mattered.
Luk grabbed two buckets and took the river path. The wooden bridge groaned beneath him, swollen with rain. Beyond the reeds, the towers of Westernlight gleamed faintly through the mist — tall, unreachable, half-dream.
Sometimes he imagined life inside those walls — paved streets, safe nights, no goblins or blight to worry about. Then he remembered the tax riders who came once a month, their armor gleaming like knives, and the way his father's hands shook counting coins. The dream always soured by the end.
–––
"Luk!"
He turned. Anna was running down the path barefoot, braid undone, clutching a wooden pail almost as big as she was.
"You left without me!"
"You were drooling in your sleep," he said, grinning.
"I was dreaming."
"About what?"
"Flying," she said.
"Then keep dreaming next time. Water doesn't carry itself."
She wrinkled her nose but smiled anyway.
They reached the bend where flat stones made a shelf by the riverbank. Luk knelt to fill the pails while Anna poked at the mud with a stick. Something glimmered there — a small stone, smooth and flat, with a faint spiral cut into its surface.
"Look," she said. "It's pretty."
"Just a rock."
"It looks like scales."
He flicked it into the water. "Then it belongs to the river."
Anna made a face but didn't argue. The pebble vanished downstream, spinning in the current until it was gone. Later, Luk would remember the way the river's surface rippled when it touched — as though something beneath had stirred.
–––
They carried the water home. The village was already waking — smoke curling from chimneys, the smell of bread and wet earth filling the air. A slow flute tune drifted somewhere nearby, lazy and sweet, threading between the sound of chickens and barking dogs.
At the far edge of the square, two men from the Guild's tax office argued with the miller. Their coats bore the crest of the Westernlight army — a sun split by a sword. Once, it had meant protection. Now it mostly meant collection.
Luk's father stood near the barn, wiping his hands on his apron, his expression tight.
"Stay with your mother today," he called as they approached. "Don't go near the walls."
"Why?" Luk asked.
"Rumors," his father said. "Traders from the south talk about skirmishes. Maybe nothing. Maybe not."
Anna tugged his sleeve. "Are ogres coming?"
"No." He forced a smile. "Just stories."
But when he thought they weren't looking, Luk saw him cross himself in the old way — hand to heart, throat, and sky — a prayer older than the Church of Flame.
–––
The day passed in work. The sun climbed high, and the air thickened until every breath felt heavy. By noon, the road from the east shimmered with dust, and a line of wagons rolled toward the city gates — traders from the coast carrying salt fish and woven cloth.
Luk leaned on his hoe, watching. He envied the easy way the guards waved the wagons through.
Anna, crouched nearby pulling weeds, asked, "Do you think they've ever seen a goblin?"
"Traders? Probably not."
"What do you think they look like?"
"Ugly," he said. "Like someone boiled a man and forgot to take him out of the pot."
She laughed — a high, bright sound that seemed too small for the endless fields.
But the sound didn't last. Far off, a crow circled once and vanished into the clouds. The wind shifted, sharp and strange, carrying something acrid.
Luk sniffed the air.
Smoke. Not hearth smoke. Not cooking fire.
Thicker. Oily.
He turned toward the horizon.
A faint haze had risen beyond the ridge — darker than cloud, rising too fast.
"Papa?" he called.
His father looked up from the plow, eyes narrowing. "Get inside."
–––
By mid-afternoon, the haze had grown into a black smudge across the eastern sky.
The air grew uneasy — the kind of quiet that made even the animals restless.
The cows refused to drink. The dog barked at nothing and wouldn't stop.
From the far end of the road came a low rumble, like distant thunder. But the sky was clear.
Anna grabbed Luk's arm. "What's that?"
He listened. The sound didn't fade — it deepened, repeating, irregular.
"Not thunder," he said softly.
Hooves…
The wind changed again, bringing with it the dry taste of ash.
–––
Then came the first bell.
It rang from the walls of Westernlight — one long, heavy note that trembled in the air.
A second answered it, farther away.
Then a third, deeper.
Every man and woman in the fields froze.
Luk's father straightened, scythe motionless in his hands. He didn't look at them when he spoke.
"Inside. Now."
"What is it?" Anna asked.
"City drill," he lied. "When the border scouts send warnings."
But the next sound wasn't a bell.
It was a scream.