Shadowood was a small, neglected village on the outer edge of the vast Crystalon Empire, where the glittering crystal skyscrapers could be seen on the horizon like distant dreams. The village itself was the opposite of that splendor: decaying wooden huts built from ancient tree trunks, muddy dirt roads winding between barren fields, and cracked stone walls standing as fragile protection against the shadowed forests crawling with monsters. At night, thick fog wrapped the village, hiding the stars, while a heavy silence ruled—broken only by the rustling of leaves or the distant howls of wolves.
Under the pale moonlight reflected on the calm surface of the river, Lyria—a ten-year-old girl—washed her face with the icy cold water. Her fiery red hair, flowing like a cascade of flames, swayed with every movement, partially soaked and framing her bright blue eyes, filled with both innocence and determination. Her simple, worn clothes—a gray cotton dress with torn edges—clung to her slender body from the river's spray, while her small hands trembled slightly from the biting cold.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a loud, thunderous sound. The village bells rang violently throughout Shadowood, their frantic rhythm warning of imminent danger, like war drums. Little Lyria frowned, her eyes widening in fear, then quickly began moving toward the house, her small feet sinking into the thin layer of snow.
The Great House was an old, towering structure resembling a small fortress: rough gray stone walls covered in green moss, narrow windows barred with rusted iron, and a slanted roof of worn straw from which snow slowly slid down. Smoke rose from the main chimney, carrying the scent of coarse stew and burning wood, while the heavy wooden doors groaned with every gust of wind.
But Lyria did not enter. She remained lined up with the other children who had quickly gathered at the entrance, their small bodies trembling from cold and tension, their faces pale under the flickering torchlight.
A figure emerged from the main door—a tall man in his forties, wearing a worn black coat and a dirty scarf that hid half of his scarred, rugged face. He appeared to be the house supervisor, though he showed little care for the role. His cold gray eyes scanned the children without emotion, his steps heavy, as if he carried the weight of the world.
The supervisor soon began moving down the line, one child after another, extending his rough hand to collect their bags with irritated expressions, as though each bag were a personal insult. The children gradually began to shake, their breaths forming white vapor in the freezing air—especially Aria, who stood beside Lyria, her hands tightly gripping her shoulders.
Behind them, a small child was crouched on the ground, crying silently, trembling more violently than the rest, his tears freezing on his cheeks. When Lyria noticed him, she let out a deep sigh, her eyes hesitating for a brief moment.
"I have no other choice," she whispered to herself before handing over the bag.
Lyria pulled out her small bag—noticeably light, made of rough cloth tied with a simple string. The supervisor's eyes suddenly lit up as her turn came, as if he had found the treasure he had been searching for all day. He grabbed it quickly, his hands trembling slightly with restrained excitement. The bag was far lighter than the others, which were stuffed with vegetables and heavy stones.
A small, sly smile formed on his thin lips before disappearing just as quickly—but the children saw it, and they let out a collective sigh of relief, their shoulders lowering slightly.
The supervisor continued down the line, the remaining children handing over their bags quickly, avoiding his sharp gaze.
Once he finished, he slowly raised his voice, looking over them all with frozen eyes.
"Alright… everyone may enter."
Suddenly, his gaze stopped on Lyria.
His tone changed completely—calmer, laced with mystery.
"Except you, Lyria."
The little girl's expression did not change. She stood still, as if she had been prepared for this since the very first ring of the village bells. Her blue eyes met his without a flicker of fear, while the wind howled more fiercely around them.