The crackling fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows on the walls of the cozy living room. My six brothers and I huddled on the worn rug, our eyes glued to our grandmother, Gwenhwyfar, who sat in her armchair, a tapestry of vibrant colors clutched in her hands.
"So did the Scarecrow listen to the queen and come to our aid, Grandma?" Llewellyn asked, his voice full of wonder.
Llewellyn, my third brother with his wild, unruly hair and eyes that sparkled with curiosity, was the most bookish of my brothers, his mind a swirling vortex of knowledge. He was always eager to learn and, like me, his thirst for information was insatiable.
Grandma Gwen smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Seven days after Feyona's meeting with the Keeper was the seventh night of the attack." She paused, her gaze sweeping over us. "The Royal Family had allowed all the civilians inside the inner castle walls. It was a full moon night."
She looked at me, her eyes twinkling. "Ash dear, what's so important about a full moon?"
I felt a blush creep up my cheeks. "Grandma, it's in the Ancient History of the West Kingdom Magic Codex," I stammered. "Creatures of the underworld become more powerful when the moon is full."
The other boys chuckled at my answer. I hated being wrong, especially about something I thought I knew.
Grandma Gwen shook her head, her smile a little sad. "The moon doesn't give power to the creatures of the underworld, dear. It gives power to the high-ranking creatures of the underworld to control their minions. The moonlight represents a kind of authority, a magical power to command within the Underworld."
Lucian, my oldest brother and the leader of our small gang, leaned forward, his keen eyes focused on Grandma Gwen. "Grandma, is that why our queen avoided engaging with the undead army for six nights while only protecting the inner walls? Because she knew the truth about the full moon? "
Grandma Gwen smiled, her eyes sparkling with approval. "Lucian, you have a natural understanding of war. You think strategically."
A pang of envy stabbed me. I was the youngest of seven, twelve at the beginning of the coming winter and always overshadowed by my brothers. They were all so talented, so capable. My brothers were strong, skilled, and fearless. Lucian was already seventeen and soon to become a novice under the royal Cadets. Eamon the craftsman, Llewellyn the alchemist, Alistair the businessman, Gareth the farmer, and Cadogan the physician. They will all find apprenticeships in their desired field when the time comes, but I, on the other hand, was the bookish one, the dreamer. I spent my days lost in tales of ancient battles and forgotten magic, but it all felt so useless. Why didn't I have a talent like my brothers?
I glanced at Llewellyn. He was the closest to me, a kindred spirit in his love for books and knowledge, even if our interests were vastly different. We shared a secret language, a look that communicated understanding and support. He always stood up for me, especially against Cadogan, who saw me as an easy target. Even though I knew I couldn't match his strength or skill, I looked up to him, admired his intelligence and his kind heart.
Grandma Gwen's voice cut through my thoughts. "That night, from the outskirts of the kingdom, where the men and women had abandoned their homes, seeking refuge within the inner walls, the Scarecrow appeared."
"He was a legend, wasn't he?" Gareth, my fifth brother, asked with a hint of awe in his voice.
"Indeed," Grandma Gwen said, her voice low and thrilling. "His electro-blue eyes absorbed the moonlight, making them glow with an unearthly light. The chains that had once bound him to the wooden cross burned in hellfire, devouring the souls of the undead that trailed behind him. They say he moved with a kind of grace, like a phantom, his form a swirling mass of shadows and flames. The moonlight gave him full authority, making him as powerful as the God of Death."
"The stories say that he overrode the commands of the East Kingdom's necromancer, bringing all the undead under his control. And then, he turned back to the Whispering Vale, leading an army of the dead," Grandma Gwen continued, her voice filled with a kind of hushed reverence.
Suddenly, a spark flew from the chimney, scattering a shower of embers on the rug. The kettle on the hearth began to whistle, signaling tea time.
The boys, who had been listening with rapt attention, scrambled to their feet, their eyes shining with excitement. "Roast bread!" they shouted, their voices a chorus of anticipation.
Llewellyn patted my shoulder. "Come on, Ash, let's get some tea and roast bread."
As I stood up, I turned to Grandma Gwen. "Grandma, what happened to the Keeper afterward?"
She smiled, a mysterious glint in her eyes. "No one knows, dear, except the Queen. Legend says she visited the Scarecrow one more time as the Princess before becoming the queen, then she sealed The Whispering Vale, making it a forbidden ground to every man and woman. It's a place of secrets, a place where the living and the dead meet, and no one knows what mysteries lie hidden within its borders."
And with that, she went back to her knitting, leaving the rest of us to our own devices. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and the scent of warm bread and steaming tea filled the air. We were all gathered in this cozy house, but our minds were far away, each lost in the world of legend and mystery, a world that felt as real as the warm bread we were about to devour.