The sun hangs heavy in the afternoon sky, casting warm gold over Brindlehollow’s sloping fields and stone-patched roads. The village, nestled like a secret between the shoulders of gray-green mountains, roars with laughter and song. Today is no wedding, no coronation, no nameday celebration. Yet the joy ringing through the air is no less grand. The villagers are celebrating the harvest—one so bountiful it feels like the gods themselves dipped their fingers into the soil.

  Darion stands near the well at the village’s heart, watching it all unfold. His tunic is plain but freshly washed, sleeves rolled up, boots dusted from the walk between the granary and the main square. Someone has strung up ribbons between the trees, and dried herbs and sunflowers sway gently in the breeze. Smoke drifts from spit-roasted lambs, mingling with the scent of honeycakes and malted beer.

  He lifts a mug to his lips—sweet, earthy, with a sharp bite at the end. Not the finest drink he’s ever had, but it warms his chest just right.

  To his left, old Maegrid spins a tale to a circle of children, her arms waving as wildly as the story demands. To his right, a pair of teenage boys pound a rhythm on carved drums while three girls twirl between them in wide, bright skirts. Someone strikes up a lute. Then another joins in with a wooden flute, and soon, there’s a melody weaving through the crowd like a beckoning spirit.

  Darion moves through the press of bodies, nodding greetings, offering handclasps, exchanging jokes with men and women alike. They welcome him like one of their own, though he has only lived among them for two years. That’s the thing about Brindlehollow—it doesn’t care where you came from, only how you live now.

  And now? They live in abundance.

  Last year, it was different. Grim. Dry. The rains didn’t come, not when they should have. Fields cracked open like wounded skin, and stalks withered before they could seed. Bellies shrank, but not spirits. They endured, drawing from the stockpiles buried deep beneath the village granaries, saved from richer seasons past. They ate less, worked more, and never once turned their backs on each other.

  Darion remembers those days. He remembers the quiet hunger in his gut that never quite left, and the way the elders looked to the sky each dawn, searching for clouds. He remembers helping patch thatch roofs, digging deeper trenches for irrigation, and carrying water until his shoulders ached. But he also remembers being invited to every supper, being given more than his share even when there was little. This village may have once been a refuge for those fleeing war and tyranny, but it had grown into something stronger—something sacred.

  This year, the rain returned, and so did the joy.

  He spots Jern, the blacksmith, hoisting a barrel over one shoulder, grinning like a fool. “Darion! Don’t stand around brooding like a wet dog—come drink with men!”

  Darion grins. “I’ve already had two.”

  “Then you’re behind,” Jern bellows, setting the barrel down with a thump. He pulls out a tap and slams it into place while others cheer.

  Across the fire pit, young Sella dances with abandon, her laughter rising above the beat. Her grandmother claps from a stool, surrounded by neighbors who nod in approval. Music and movement pulse like a heartbeat, steady and wild.

  Darion doesn’t dance—not often, but today, his limbs feel light. There’s something in the air, a kind of magic not written in tomes or bound in scrolls. Not the kind that alters stats or etches abilities into the soul. A real magic, of kinship, of survival, of joy hard-won.

  He steps toward the fire and lets the warmth soak into him. He watches flames lick the air and catch in the polished rims of clay cups. A boy nearby stumbles into him, laughing too hard, cheeks flushed.

  “Sorry, Darion!”

  He steadies the boy, chuckling. “Keep your feet under you, Brann.”

  “I’ll try!” the boy calls, already off again.

  A woman approaches him then, offering a platter of meat skewers and fruit slices. He accepts gratefully, nodding his thanks. The meat is tender, perfectly salted. The fruit, sliced figs and crisp green pears, tastes like sunlight itself.

  A sudden cheer erupts from the edge of the village square. Someone has begun juggling firebrands. Darion watches as the crowd parts for the performer, who dances with the burning torches like they’re extensions of his own limbs. Sparks swirl. Children gasp. Someone begins to chant.

  “More! More!”

  The village answers with their voices. A chorus of shared delight.

  Darion feels it deep in his chest, this belonging. He may not have roots here that stretch back centuries like most do. But roots can still grow, given time.

  He lifts his mug again and drinks.

  And all around him, Brindlehollow burns with joy.

  ***

  The scent of roasted meat still lingers in the air, though the singing has faltered. Darion notices it before anyone else does, the sudden hush, the shift in the wind, the way even the children stop mid-laugh.

  Hooves. Three pairs. Slow and deliberate.

  He turns toward the western road just as the newcomers emerge from between the trees. They ride tall, the way men ride when they’ve never known hunger. Their cloaks are stitched with finer thread than any loom in Brindlehollow could produce. Their boots are polished, not with care, but with coin. One wears a polished cuirass beneath his cloak. Another flaunts rings on every gloved finger.

  These are not men from the mountains.

  Their horses are powerful, bred for war, not plow or pack. Even the animals seem aware they don’t belong here, stepping over hay wreaths and flower garlands without so much as a snort of apology.

  The villagers shrink back, murmuring among themselves. Darion sees old Maegrid pull her grandchildren behind her, shielding them with her shawl. A potter’s apprentice drops a clay bowl that shatters at his feet.

  And still the strangers ride in, unbothered. No attempt to dismount. No greeting. No gesture of peace.

  Darion’s fingers tighten around the hilt of the ironwood blade slung at his side, not drawn, not yet, but ready. He begins walking toward them, his steps slow, measured. He’s not alone. Five others fall in with him, weapons sheathed but hands steady. These are the village watchers. Guardians. They’ve fought off wolves, once a bear, and bandits who thought these slopes would be easy prey.

  None of those threats looked like this.

  Darion doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Not yet.

  The tallest rider, broad shoulders, golden trim on a black coat, tugs his reins and halts near the firepit, in full view of the silent village. The other two rein in beside him, flanking him like trained dogs. They scan the crowd, unimpressed.

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  The tall one speaks. His voice cuts like a whip.

  “Who here commands this place?”

  No introduction. No courtesy. Just demand.

  Darion doesn’t move. He hears the villagers murmuring behind him. Sees the worry settle on faces like mist on a field.

  Kaelric steps forward. Of all the watchers, he’s the oldest, graying at the edges, but solid as stone. His voice carries.

  “And who are you to ask?”

  The rider’s lip curls, like a nobleman finding dirt beneath his boot. “That is none of your concern, mountain man. We are not here to make friends. We are here for the chief.”

  Kaelric doesn’t flinch. “And I asked you who you are. These are peaceful lands. You don’t ride into our village unannounced, on warhorses, and demand the chief like we’re your servants.”

  One of the riders laughs, low and humorless.

  Darion takes a step closer. His hand hovers near his blade, not drawing it, but making the gesture seen. Around him, the villagers grow quieter still, waiting. Watching.

  The tension hangs like a drawn bowstring.

  He studies the strangers carefully now. Their gear is too clean. Their hands too soft for soldiers, too calloused for merchants. Their speech too bold for emissaries. Something doesn’t sit right.

  Kaelric’s voice still hangs in the silence like a sword suspended mid-air, but the tall rider wastes no time in slicing through it.

  “We didn’t come here for small talk, old man,” the stranger says, flicking his reins slightly. His voice is slick, oiled with arrogance. “We came for your chief. That’s it. We don’t care for your customs or your fear.”

  Gasps flutter through the crowd. Several villagers recoil. Others clutch farming tools tighter. Darion feels it, the slow build of fury warming his chest, steady as a forge fire.

  Kaelric steps forward again, shoulders squared. “You’ll mind your tongue when you speak to this village. And to me. We’re not some roadside hovel for you to piss on.”

  The lead rider leans in his saddle, unfazed. “Oh? Will you fight us with your bare fists, village boy?”

  Kaelric doesn’t flinch. Instead, he turns and calls out, “Larris! Hand me that pitchfork.”

  One of the younger men in the crowd doesn’t hesitate. He snatches the tool from where it leans against a barrel and runs it to Kaelric. The old guard grips it tight, holding it like a spear.

  The strangers laugh. Not the good-natured kind. Not even cruel. It’s the hollow, dismissive cackle of men who believe themselves untouchable.

  Darion’s jaw locks. His hand twitches near his blade.

  The laughter dies when a voice, deep and calm, rolls across the square like slow thunder.

  “That’s enough.”

  The crowd parts reverently.

  Chief Brindlehollow rises from his seat, an elegantly carved oaken chair draped with ceremonial linen. He steps forward slowly, the weight of his mantle trailing behind him. No crown sits on his head, no sigils blaze on his chest, only the knowing eyes of a man who’s led his people for decades.

  He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

  “You ride into our village uninvited, during our harvest feast, and speak of our people like cattle. I ought to have you beaten and tied to the pines for a night.”

  The strangers don’t answer.

  The chief stops a safe distance from the horses, lifting his chin ever so slightly. “And yet, I won’t. Not today. Not while my people are still singing and their bellies are full. So say what you came to say, and say it plainly.”

  The three riders exchange glances. Their silence is another insult, lingering just long enough to sting.

  Then, the one in the lead leans forward again. His voice is cool now, dangerously casual.

  “We’re looking for someone. A man by the name of Darion.”

  A flicker moves through the crowd. Heads turn, eyes dart.

  Darion doesn’t move.

  He stands near enough that a single step would place him directly in their line of sight. His pulse picks up. Muscles tighten. He feels the weight of a hundred stares brushing past him like wind through a field.

  Why are they asking for him?

  The villagers hold their breath.

  Chief Brindlehollow doesn’t react with surprise. He simply folds his hands in front of him.

  “And why are you looking for Darion?”

  The reply comes with venom.

  “Because if he’s not handed over to us, ” the rider’s mouth curls, “we’ll burn this pretty little village to the ground.”

  A hushed fury explodes in every villager’s face.

  Three men. Just three.

  Arrogant. Unarmed. Threatening to destroy a village of nearly two hundred, most of them able-bodied, battle-seasoned folk with axes and spears stacked not far from the grain houses. Every watcher, including Darion, feels the surge of bloodrise. The insult alone is worth a fight.

  Darion’s hand curls into a fist.

  He doesn’t understand who these men are, or why they speak his name with such certainty. He has never seen them before. Never heard their voices. Yet they carry themselves like they own his fate. Like his life is a coin to be flipped.

  All it would take is a word.

  Just one.

  A single command from his chief, and Darion would unsheathe his blade and knock one of them to the dirt.

  But the chief remains still.

  And the men on horses wait.

  The silence that follows the threat is brief, too brief.

  Chief Brindlehollow steps forward, eyes locked on the arrogant rider as if daring him to strike first. His voice cuts through the tension like a drawn blade. “I will not hand over a single one of my people to you. Not for gold. Not for fear. Not even for the fires of death. So if you mean to burn Brindlehollow… then go ahead and try.”

  For a beat, the entire world stills.

  Then the strangers laugh.

  It’s louder this time. Meaner. A sound without any hint of humanity. The villagers flinch at the sound, and Darion’s gut twists.

  Kaelric shifts beside him. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters.

  Darion nods. Too late.

  The riders lift their hands in eerie unison.

  Flames burst into being, tight, controlled circles of glowing orange hovering over each of their palms. Magic. Old, powerful, and angry. Runic patterns dance across their forearms, glowing with the same molten hue. The ground beneath their horses shivers with raw force.

  No one moves. Not until the magic starts to change shape.

  The glowing rings stretch, elongate, harden. In seconds, they transform into weapons of living flame, sickles, blades, spears, each one pulsing like it breathes.

  A single flick of the wrist.

  Three heads hit the dirt.

  Blood sprays across the cobbled square as the lifeless bodies of three guards crumple like broken dolls.

  Screams tear through the air. Mothers gather children. Elders cry out for aid. Chaos erupts.

  Darion doesn’t flinch.

  Someone throws him a spear. He catches it mid-run and hurls himself forward with a bellow. Around him, village warriors arm themselves with whatever they can find, axes, swords, farming tools honed sharper than they were ever meant to be. Metal clashes with cobblestone as boots pound toward death.

  The strangers don’t dismount.

  They don’t need to.

  Their horses move with impossible precision, sidestepping, rearing, kicking in perfect tandem with the riders’ deadly blows. Magic slashes downward, cleaving through shields like paper. One villager raises a halberd; it melts mid-swing, and a fire spear punches through his chest.

  Still, they fight.

  Kaelric lands a blow, dragging a short sword across one horseman’s thigh. Blood. Real blood.

  The man roars and retaliates, his weapon reshaping in the air into a jagged whip of molten steel. It wraps around Kaelric’s waist and pulls tight. Darion can’t look away in time.

  Kaelric screams.

  Darion pushes forward, rage screaming in his veins. He dodges a fiery spike, leaps over a burning corpse, and drives his spear at the rider who killed Kaelric. It clangs against a magical shield, deflecting upward. The rider counters with a sweeping arc that forces Darion to dive and roll.

  He lands beside one of the fallen guards. Blood slicks his palms as he grabs the dead man’s sword and rises again.

  A second warrior falls behind him. Then another.

  The horses circle the square like wolves herding prey. The magic flickers but never fades. Each blow from the strangers is merciless, sharp and fluid, always just one step ahead.

  A fire-forged hammer caves in a villager’s chest.

  A whip slices through another’s throat.

  Darion keeps moving. Keeps fighting.

  He doesn’t feel the burn across his ribs until blood dampens his tunic. A shallow cut, for now. He blocks a spear of flame, spins, and plunges his sword into the shoulder of one of the riders. The man grunts, surprised. It’s deep. Not enough to kill, but enough to hurt.

  One of the horses kicks out, sending Darion sprawling.

  He rolls. Just in time to avoid a burning blade that slams into the ground where his head had been. He scrambles up, breathing hard. Smoke chokes the air. Screams echo from every direction. The village square is a graveyard painted in flame.

  Somewhere behind him, he hears the chief’s voice shouting. Then hooves gallop away, someone has pulled Chief Brindlehollow from the square, retreating into safety. Good. That’s something. One thing saved.

  Darion slashes at a rider’s leg. Misses.

  Another villager tries to tackle one of the horses. He’s thrown back in a burst of flame, his body blackened before it hits the ground.

  And still, Darion fights.

  Even when he knows they’re losing. Even when hope begins to shrivel inside him. Even when the bodies around him pile higher and the smoke makes it hard to breathe.

  A flicker of movement catches his eye.

  He turns, too slow.

  A flaming hammer crashes into his side.

  He flies backward. Hits the ground hard.

  Vision swims. Ears ring.

  He coughs, tastes copper. His sword is gone.

  One of the riders looms above him now. Horse stamping the earth. Weapon in hand, reshaped into a curved flame axe.

  Darion tries to rise. Fails.

  The axe lifts.

  And he’s certain his life ended moments ago.