The village of Dawnwatch basked in soft morning light as residents gathered in the central square for the annual Harvest Day festivities. Stalls lined the perimeter—some brimming with fresh bread and aromatic pastries, others offering spiced meats or sweet jams. Children laughed and darted between the booths, chasing each other beneath rows of colorful bunting that fluttered in the gentle breeze. Overhead, wispy clouds glowed with the promise of a clear day, and everything seemed painted in autumn hues of gold and rust.
Elias Dawnrider stood near a stone well, the worn bucket rope creaking as villagers hauled water for cooking and cleaning. He was in his early twenties, tall but unassuming, and the restlessness in his hazel eyes hinted at a world beyond the confines of their small settlement. His hands were calloused from daily chores and the minor blacksmithing tasks he helped with whenever the local smith needed an extra pair of hands, but they also bore a subtler sign—small scars on his fingertips, a faint residue of magic's unpredictable touch. For most of his life, he had carefully hidden any indication that he was... different.
He sighed as he surveyed the bustle around him. Dawnwatch rarely hosted gatherings this large, and the Harvest Day festival was the one time of year when families from neighboring hamlets visited. Fresh harvest, shared songs, and dancing around the bonfire after sundown—it was a tradition that reconnected friends and neighbors after the long summer's work. While the day's excitement filled nearly everyone with cheer, Elias felt a curious knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He chalked it up to simple nerves—this was the first Harvest Day since his father, Jonas, had grown ill.
A shout rang out from across the square. "Elias! Over here!"
He turned to see a group of his friends gathered near a fruit vendor, beckoning him over. Smiling at their enthusiasm, he carefully threaded his way past a gaggle of giggling children and came to stand with them. There was Marlin, the baker's son, grinning broadly with flour still dusted on his sleeves; Lena, the carpenter's daughter with a lively wit; and Ilan, an apprentice huntsman who had traded his usual muddy boots for sandals out of respect for the festival.
"You look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders," Marlin teased, punching Elias lightly on the arm. "Relax—it's Harvest Day!"
Elias smiled wanly. "I'm fine, honestly. Just checking on my father soon. He said he'd try to come to the square for the feast."
"Let Jonas rest," Lena chimed in. "He's been pushing himself too hard." She leaned in, lowering her voice so that only Elias could hear. "You know we all care about him. If he's not feeling well, he shouldn't force himself out here for appearances. No one in Dawnwatch doubts his strength or his kindness."
Elias nodded, grateful for Lena's earnestness. "I'll see how he's doing. Maybe he'll at least come out to see the dancing tonight."
With a round of supportive nods, his friends moved on to sample the warm fruit pies cooling on a vendor's table. Elias lingered, the knot in his stomach continuing to twist. More than anything, he dreaded the future—what would happen if his father's condition worsened? Jonas was all he had. He had never known his mother, and Dawnwatch was the only home he'd ever truly experienced. Leaving felt inevitable, given the restlessness in his soul and the strange powers he possessed. But the thought of leaving his father alone cut deep.
He forced himself into a lighter mood, walking toward the largest tent pitched near the center of the square. Inside were tables crammed with fresh produce—turnips, carrots, cabbages, potatoes, and more—the best from the year's harvest. Elders supervised the arrangement, deciding which portion would be stored for winter and which would be eaten at that day's communal feast.
As Elias helped rearrange a few baskets, he overheard whispers about strange happenings in the region. A traveling merchant had arrived the previous day, sharing rumors of odd sightings at the edges of the forest. Some spoke of a black-clad wanderer with an unsettling presence; others claimed unexplained storms had battered outlying villages. The rumors prickled at Elias's mind. Dawnwatch was peaceful, but it was not immune to the world's troubles—and something about the talk of storms and shadowy figures made his skin crawl.
"Focus, Elias… no use scaring yourself with rumors," he silently chided.
He exited the tent, blinking at the bright sunlight, and made his way down a dirt path to a small stone cottage on the edge of the village—his home. The door was ajar, allowing a warm breeze to stir the curtains. Inside, Jonas Dawnrider sat by the hearth, trying to shift from his chair to a standing position. He was a man in his mid-fifties, though he appeared older after enduring bouts of sickness over the past year. Despite his ashen pallor, his eyes still held that fierce determination Elias had grown up admiring.
"Father," Elias said gently, rushing to Jonas's side. "I told you I'd come to get you if you felt well enough. You shouldn't force yourself."
Jonas exhaled slowly, his breath rattling slightly in his chest. "A man doesn't hide away on Harvest Day," he replied, voice rough but resolute. "Besides, I promised you we'd share a meal in the square."
Elias crouched to help his father, offering his shoulder as support. Jonas gripped his son's arm, trying not to rely on him too heavily, but the younger man could feel how frail his father had become. Step by step, they moved out of the cottage and onto the well-worn path leading back to the village center.
They arrived just as midday sun kissed the rooftops. Villagers paused to greet Jonas warmly, though with pity veiled behind polite smiles. Jonas was, after all, a respected figure in Dawnwatch—a former soldier who had seen conflict in border skirmishes long ago, and a single father who had raised Elias despite great odds. Jonas nodded at each greeting, his pride and dignity intact.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd near the center of the square. A swirl of dust rose in the air, catching everyone's attention. It might have been a simple gust of wind, but the breeze felt… wrong. A metallic tang assaulted Elias's senses, and the hair on his arms stood on end. It felt as though the air itself crackled with energy.
Then came a flash—a jagged streak of darkness arcing across the midday sky, so abrupt that many villagers yelled in alarm. This wasn't lightning, nor was it a normal cloud. It was more like a rift, a dark wound tearing across the heavens for the briefest moment. The colors of the festival flags dimmed, as though a shadow had draped itself over them.
Elias's vision blurred. His heart pounded as an inexplicable force pulled at him, calling to something deep in his core. Instinctively, he squeezed Jonas's arm, and his father glanced at him with alarm.
"Elias—what's happening?" Jonas managed, his voice subdued with concern.
"I… I don't know," Elias whispered. He felt a stirring in his chest, a half-familiar sensation: a faint flicker of the magic he'd tried so hard to suppress.
The swirling dust advanced like a short-lived sandstorm. Cries of confusion turned to fear as the gloom overhead intensified for a few heartbeats. Children clung to their parents, and the stalls rattled as if an invisible hand shook them. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the strange phenomenon passed. The sunlight returned, revealing the villagers in varying states of shock.
All eyes turned to the sky, yet now there was no sign of any rift or darkness—just the same blue expanse with a handful of white clouds. An uneasy silence settled, broken only by the murmur of uneasy speculation.
Jonas's grip on Elias's shoulder tightened. "Help me sit, son," he said quietly. "I'm feeling light-headed."
Elias carefully guided Jonas to a nearby bench. Around them, people whispered about what they had just seen.
"Was it an eclipse?" someone murmured.
"No, it couldn't be… an eclipse doesn't look like that," another responded.
"A bad omen, that's what it is," the elderly seamstress said grimly, wringing her hands. "We can't ignore it. Something is very wrong."
Elias felt an ache in his chest. The talk of omens and dread stoked the anxiety he'd been feeling all morning. He studied the sky and found only bright, untroubled sunshine. He wanted to believe it had been some trick of the light—perhaps a bizarre natural phenomenon. But deep down, he sensed there was more to it.
"Get ahold of yourself," he thought. "Panicking won't help."
He kneeled next to his father. "Are you alright?"
Jonas nodded weakly. "I'll manage. Just… that was unlike anything I've seen. And I've seen plenty."
As the crowd began to recover, the village elder, a wizened man named Darius Pinebrook, stepped up onto a wooden crate in the center of the square. He was thin but stood with notable poise, his white beard meticulously groomed.
"Everyone, remain calm," Darius called out, projecting his voice so that villagers huddled around him. "Whatever we just witnessed, let us not succumb to panic. The day is still bright, and the festival is not over." He forced a reassuring tone, though his eyes shone with worry. "Let's carry on. Harvest Day is an occasion to give thanks, to celebrate. We will address this… incident if it persists."
The announcement helped quell immediate alarm, though the undercurrent of unease lingered. People resumed milling about, but their chatter was subdued. Children who had been merrily playing moments before now looked around wide-eyed, clutching parents' hands.
Elias exhaled slowly, turning his gaze from the sky to meet his father's. "Father, maybe we should get you home," he said softly. "You need to rest."
Jonas's jaw clenched. "I'll rest soon enough. But let's at least see the opening ceremony. Darius is about to lead the blessing of the harvest. I don't want you missing it."
"Alright," Elias relented, though he couldn't shake the creeping dread.
They moved to the outskirts of the crowd gathered near a makeshift dais. Darius Pinebrook stood with several other village elders, each preparing to speak. As tradition dictated, they would recite blessings, call upon the memory of their ancestors, and pay tribute to the hard work of the harvest season. Normally, it was a highlight of the festival—something uplifting, symbolic of Dawnwatch's unity.
But this time, the villagers' attention was divided. Many glanced warily at the sky, as if expecting the darkness to return. Some whispered about heading home before nightfall. Others tried to salvage the jovial atmosphere by passing out mugs of spiced cider.
Darius cleared his throat. "Good people of Dawnwatch and visitors from afar—welcome to our Harvest Day. We gather in fellowship to celebrate our abundance and—"
A scream rang out from the southwestern edge of the square. Heads snapped in that direction. Two children had been running, and one stumbled into a thick wooden stall post, hitting his head. The child cried out, disoriented by the earlier confusion, but it was the abruptness of the scream that jolted the crowd. People rushed over to help him.
But Elias felt something else—a ripple of energy, like a static shock along his arms and chest. His instincts flared. He turned, scanning the perimeter for something amiss. Past the line of stalls, down a narrow cobbled lane, a tall figure stood cloaked in black, face obscured beneath a wide hood. They were too far away to see clearly, yet Elias sensed an uncanny presence emanating from them.
"Do you see that?" he whispered to Jonas, pointing.
Jonas's brow furrowed. "I see… someone," he muttered. "Dressed in black. Strange. Likely just a traveler."
Yet the figure seemed to stare directly at Elias. The faint hum of the crowd faded in Elias's ears, replaced by a low ringing. Something pulled at him—an unspoken challenge or recognition. The figure shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, and in that moment, Elias's heart slammed in his chest. A jolt of invisible energy crackled in the air.
"Elias, come on," Jonas urged, tugging Elias's sleeve. "Let's check on that child."
Reluctantly, Elias tore his gaze away, turning his attention to the commotion at the southwestern edge of the square. By the time he looked back moments later, the cloaked stranger was gone.
They reached the injured child—a boy no older than seven. A trickle of blood ran down the boy's temple, and he winced, half-conscious. Several villagers crowded around, offering help. The local herbalist rummaged through a satchel for medicinal supplies. The boy's mother knelt beside him, tears streaming down her face.
Elias also knelt, heart pounding with concern. He placed a steadying hand near the child's shoulder, recalling herbal first aid lessons Jonas had taught him. "Let me see."
"Who are—?" the child's mother began, but recognized him after a moment. "Oh, Elias. Please, can you help?"
Elias nodded. He folded a clean cloth from a nearby basket to press gently against the wound, applying light pressure to stop the bleeding. The child let out a whimper.
"Don't worry, I've got you," Elias soothed. "Just keep your eyes open, alright?"
A swirl of that curious, tingling sensation flickered in Elias's mind. It was faint, like a whisper on the edge of hearing. For a second, he was tempted to channel it—to do more than just apply first aid. To use that hidden power to heal. He caught himself. Jonas had always warned him: Practice caution. Don't reveal your gift.
But the child was in pain. The wound wasn't terribly deep, but head injuries could be deceptive. If infection set in, or if there was swelling…
Against his better judgment, Elias focused on the cloth, imagining warmth and health flowing through his palm. He hardly dared to think of it as magic—Aether—but the sensation built in his core, then traveled down his arm.
He felt the faintest trickle of that power, like a drop of water easing through a crack in a dam. A golden glow momentarily lit his palm, so faint it would be missed by anyone not looking directly at it. He barely breathed, hoping no one would notice.
The child's eyelids fluttered, and his breathing slowed. Though the cut remained, the bleeding lessened. Elias retracted his hand as quickly as he could, pressing the cloth again like a mundane bandage.
"Stay still," he whispered. "The herbalist will take care of the rest."
The mother nodded, her eyes full of gratitude, unaware of the subtle phenomenon that had just occurred. Jonas stood behind Elias, watching closely. Although no one else seemed to notice, Jonas's sharp gaze told Elias that his father had seen something.
"Thank you," the woman whispered, tears still glistening in her eyes. The herbalist slipped in, applying a salve to the wound.
Elias slipped back to allow them space, heart racing. He glanced around, paranoid that others might have witnessed the tiny spark of healing. But most villagers were too busy murmuring about the earlier shadow in the sky, or comforting one another, or deciding whether to continue the festival.
"You did well," Jonas said quietly.
Elias gave a trembling nod, unsure if his father was proud or worried—or both. "I didn't want to see him suffer," he managed.
Jonas placed a hand on Elias's shoulder. "I know. But be careful, son."
The unspoken words hung in the air: if your abilities are discovered by the wrong people…
Moments later, Elder Darius arrived, leading a small group of concerned neighbors. "How is the boy?" Darius asked.
"The wound's not too serious," the herbalist replied, relief evident. "He should be alright, given some rest."
The child's mother let out a shaky breath, hugging him close. A subdued sense of relief rippled through the surrounding villagers.
Darius exhaled. "We should bring him to the infirmary for a thorough check," he suggested. Then, softening his tone, he gazed around at the crowd. "Everyone else, let's not forget the reason for today's gathering. The Harvest is still worth celebrating. But let us remain vigilant. Whatever that sky phenomenon was, we can't ignore it."
As the cluster of people dispersed, Elias felt a presence behind him—a subtle brush of air and the faint clink of metal. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with a stranger in travel-worn leathers. He had sharp, watchful eyes and bore a sword at his hip. Though not tall, he carried himself with a focused confidence that spoke of martial training.
"Mind if I sit for a moment?" the newcomer asked, inclining his head toward the bench where Jonas now rested.
Jonas shrugged, shifting slightly. "By all means."
The man lowered himself onto the bench, letting out a long breath. "I arrived in Dawnwatch this morning. Not the welcome I expected."
Elias studied him warily, noting the subtle calluses on his hands and a faint scar across one cheek. "We don't usually have ominous sky rifts during Harvest Day," he replied with a tentative smile.
A corner of the stranger's mouth twitched. "I gather as much. Strange times…" He paused, glancing at Jonas. "I'm Cyran Moorwind. Traveling sellsword of sorts, though I prefer to say I'm between duties."
"Jonas Dawnrider," Jonas said with a nod, "and this is my son, Elias."
Cyran's attention flicked to Elias, assessing him. "Pleasure. I was supposed to meet an old friend around these parts, but I'm guessing he might've been delayed by… whatever that was in the sky." He straightened. "Pardon me if I'm direct, but do occurrences like that happen here often?"
Jonas gave a bitter laugh. "Never. Dawnwatch is a peaceful place, overshadowed by little more than gossip and the occasional farmland squabble."
Cyran grunted. "Well, I'm no scholar, but I know enough to say that such phenomena don't appear without cause. If you hear of anything unusual—people wandering about in black cloaks, animals acting strangely, anything—best keep your eyes open."
The mention of a black cloak made Elias's heart skip. He recalled the figure he'd spotted only moments before the child's accident. "Actually, I—" he began, but stopped. Something told him to tread carefully.
Cyran raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
Elias pressed his lips together. "I saw someone. A tall figure in black, standing down that lane. They vanished right after the commotion."
Jonas frowned. "Could they be behind the strange sky event?"
"I don't know," Elias said, voice quiet. "But it felt… off."
Cyran's gaze darkened. "Keep your guard up, both of you. These are uncertain days."
Before Elias could respond, Darius's voice cut through the square once more, this time calmer. "Villagers of Dawnwatch," he announced, "please gather near the dais for our Harvest Day blessing. Though our hearts are heavy with unanswered questions, let us honor tradition and the bounty of our land."
The crowd, subdued but dutiful, started filing toward the dais. The musicians, a group of fiddlers and drummers, assembled to play a somber tune that gradually built into a lighter melody—an attempt to restore a semblance of festivity.
Jonas rose from the bench with effort, leaning on Elias's arm. "I'll stand with you, at least for the blessing," Jonas said, voice strained but determined. "After that, I'll return home to rest."
Cyran also rose, crossing his arms. "I'll watch from the sidelines, if you don't mind. Might learn something about local customs. Could be useful to know who's who if my friend shows up."
Elias nodded. "Sure. Thank you… for the warning."
Cyran's lips quirked in a faint smirk. "Something tells me you're going to need more than a warning."
Puzzled, Elias helped his father walk closer to the dais, where Darius and two other elders held woven baskets of grain. According to Dawnwatch custom, the day's first offering would be scattered across the square to symbolize sharing abundance with the land and warding off hunger in the winter. Darius lifted a handful of golden wheat, letting it slip through his wrinkled fingers in a gentle cascade.
"By our labors, by our unity, and by the grace of a peaceful season, may we give thanks," Darius intoned. "May this harvest sustain us in body and spirit. May our fellowship guide us in troubled times. And may the coming days bring clarity and courage to Dawnwatch." He paused, glancing around at the uneasy faces. "We will endure any trials that may come."
He scattered the wheat, and his fellow elders followed suit. Usually, applause or a cheer would erupt, but this time only a smattering of claps followed. Concern still lingered in every expression. Elias shared a solemn look with his father, who nodded in shared understanding. They all felt it: the festival had been tainted by the dark omen, and no amount of tradition could pretend otherwise.
As if reading the mood, the musicians began a more spirited tune. A handful of villagers attempted to start a dance, spinning hesitantly in the open space near the dais. Children, always resilient, took cues from the bright notes and started to skip around, drawn to the mesmerizing rhythms. Little by little, pockets of laughter surfaced. People seemed determined to reclaim the day from dread.
Jonas leaned close to Elias. "Perhaps some music is precisely what we need. At least it will soothe your old man's soul for a bit." He offered a faint smile.
Elias returned the smile, though a part of him remained tightly wound, scanning the crowd for any signs of that cloaked figure. Nearby, he spotted Cyran leaning against a post, observing everything with sharp focus. Their eyes briefly met, and Cyran gave him a curt nod, as if acknowledging their unspoken alliance in suspicion.
A gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh bread and the sound of flutes. Villagers gradually coaxed themselves into small dances or quiet chatter, and the tension seemed to recede—though not vanish entirely. Elias helped his father to a table where they could sit and watch, the elder man's breaths a bit labored.
For a few minutes, Elias allowed himself to enjoy the music and the vibrant autumn colors swirling in the air. Perhaps the rest of the day would pass uneventfully. Perhaps the dark sign was just a freak occurrence, and all would be well.
But deep inside, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. The strange rift in the sky, the hooded stranger, that unsettling energy he felt in his very bones—everything pointed to something far greater than an isolated village festival. It was as though a door had cracked open to let in a sliver of darkness, foreshadowing a destiny Elias couldn't yet fathom.
He watched as children ran once more, albeit more cautiously, through the square. The festival might persist for now, but the ominous undercurrent remained. And Elias knew that sooner or later, his hidden powers—the ones Jonas had tried so hard to keep him from using—would no longer be secrets he could afford to hide.
A single ripple can herald a looming storm.
Elias glanced at the sky again, half-expecting to see that slash of darkness reappear. But the heavens remained deceptively clear and bright.
Yet somewhere in the crowd—or perhaps beyond it—the echo of that dark omen lingered, silently calling to him.