"Victore!"
The frantic wail tore through the quiet afternoon air as Ysara stumbled out of her cottage, her dark hair disheveled, her shawl slipping off one shoulder.
Her wide eyes darted about the clearing, searching desperately.
Sam, who had been leaning casually against the doorframe of her own home nearby, straightened immediately. Her sharp gaze fixed on her friend, noting the tremor in Ysara's voice.
"What happened?" Sam asked, her tone edged with concern.
"It's Victore," Ysara gasped, clutching the edge of her shawl as if to steady herself. Her breath hitched. "He's gone."
Sam frowned, stepping closer. "Gone? Gone where?"
"I don't know," Ysara replied, her voice cracking. "It's been hours."
Sam's frown deepened as she scanned the clearing and then the treetops, as if Victore might suddenly appear from one of his usual sulking spots. "Hours? How long, exactly?"
"Since noon," Ysara whispered, glancing at the dimming sky. The sun was already sinking, casting long shadows over the village. "I thought he'd come back on his own, but now… now I'm worried."
Sam sighed, placing a steadying hand on Ysara's shoulder. "He's probably somewhere sulking," she said, though even she didn't sound entirely convinced. "You know how he gets when you stop him from joining the others to train."
Ysara's lips trembled. Today had been particularly bad. She'd banned anyone from ever teaching Victore, her fear for his safety outweighing the boy's growing resentment. She could still see the anger in his eyes when she made the announcement.
"I told him he couldn't train," Ysara whispered, her voice raw with guilt. "But it's going to be dark soon, Sam. And he's not back."
Sam hesitated before sighing deeply. "Maybe we could have Agatha scout for him," she suggested.
"She's busy preparing for her marriage to the prince of Critic-Ishire," Ysara said distractedly. Her hands wrung together, her thoughts spiraling.
As if to underscore Sam's point, the sound of laughter and music swelled from the other end of the village.
It was supposed to be a day of celebration, but Ysara couldn't feel even a flicker of joy.
"We should be celebrating!" someone called out, jogging toward Agatha's family bungalow.
Ysara didn't even turn to look. Her heart was pounding too hard, her worry clawing at her chest. Sam guided her to sit on a nearby bench, but it took effort to make her stay there.
"Relax," Sam urged gently, though her own gaze kept flicking toward the forest. "He'll come back, Ysara. He always does."
But when the sun dipped below the horizon and the village began to glow with the light of torches and lanterns, Victore still hadn't returned.
Ysara couldn't bear it any longer. She threw her shawl around her shoulders and rushed out of the cottage.
The village was alive with noise, the sound of villagers laughing and chatting as they celebrated Agatha's upcoming marriage.
But Ysara's heart was elsewhere. She moved toward the edge of the clearing, her sharp gaze fixed on the dark forest.
Then, a sudden rustling from the south side of Egasrae stilled the air.
The laughter and chatter died away as everyone turned toward the forest, their faces illuminated by torchlight. Ysara froze, her breath caught in her throat.
Emerging from the south shadows of Egasrae was Victore.
They freeze, where is he coming from?
The south side of Egasrae was a path shrouded in shadows, leading to the ominous mountains. Trees stood like towering sentinels, their twisted branches entangled with creeping vines.
Bushes and wild grass blanketed the trail, growing thick and wild as if trying to conceal the dark secret of the place known as Life Hill.
Life there wasn't just fleeting—it was expendable. The hill was a deadly realm where no one ventured lightly.
Whispers told of forces that could snatch the breath from your lungs before you even made it far.
Deceptive creatures lurked there—malevolent, cunning beings that even powerful witches feared.
To step foot on Life Hill required meticulous preparation, rituals, and the strength of many.
Yet now, as the village celebrated Agatha's marriage, the air was pierced by the rustling of leaves.
A figure had emerged from the shadows of the south path, his small frame illuminated by the soft glow of the village torches.
It was Victore.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. He was walking out of Life Hill—alone and unharmed. His black hair was disheveled, his simple clothes torn and dirtied, but he looked composed, almost indifferent.
In his green eyes burned a quiet intensity, a calm that unnerved the onlookers.
All at once, the laughter and music died. The festive spirit vanished, replaced by an oppressive silence.
Even Agatha's marriage celebration seemed to fade into irrelevance.
The villagers froze where they stood, their faces a mix of shock and fear.
"How?" they whispered. "What is he?"
No one spoke aloud, but the questions hung in the air. How had a boy—one everyone thought of as fragile and untrained—entered the perilous Life Hill and returned alive?
Victore, however, appeared oblivious to the tension, the awe, and the apprehension surrounding him. His gaze cut through the crowd, seeking one person.
"Mother," he called, his voice steady as he hurried toward Ysara.
Ysara's heart dropped. She had been watching from a distance, her fear growing with every step he took closer. The sight of him emerging from Life Hill churned her stomach with dread.
"What?… Where… how… Victore, how did you get there? Where are you coming from?" she stammered, her voice rising with each question.
"The mountains," he answered casually, as though he had just taken a stroll.
Her face drained of color. "What do you mean? Why? How?!" she cried, clutching her shawl as if it could anchor her in the face of this impossible revelation.
Victore glanced around at the crowd, their frozen expressions finally registering. His brow furrowed in irritation. "Let's go inside, Mother. It's too crowded here."
Ysara hesitated, her heart pounding painfully. She didn't understand what was happening. Victore was only human—only human—and yet here he stood, defying everything she thought she knew.
Without a word, she followed him into the cottage, her mind racing with questions, her face etched with worry.
The villagers remained rooted in place, staring after them. Agatha's impending marriage was forgotten.
"Who is Victore?" someone finally whispered, echoing the unspoken thoughts of all.
How had a boy, fragile and untrained, walked into the most perilous place near Egasrae—and returned unscathed?
The whole of Egasrae wondered.
Meanwhile, Inside the cottage, the tension was suffocating. Victore dropped the object he had brought from Life Hill onto the wooden table with a dull thud. It gleamed faintly in the candlelight, a strange and unearthly artifact.
Victore turned to his mother, a tentative smile pulling at his lips. "Mother, I found—"
But Ysara didn't let him finish. Her voice cut through the room like a blade.
"What were you doing there?" she demanded, her tone sharp with fear and anger.
"I just went there," Victore said with a shrug, his nonchalance only inflaming her emotions.