A thin silver of daylight edged the horizon when Elias Dawnrider woke with a start. He had fallen asleep in a wooden chair by the hearth, worried about his father, Jonas, who was resting fitfully in their small cottage. After yesterday's unsettling festival—dark omens, swirling dust, and fleeting glimpses of a hooded stranger—unease weighed heavily on the village of Dawnwatch. Yet no one could have foreseen that this early morning would bring a far more tangible threat.
Elias rubbed the weariness from his eyes and turned to check on his father. Jonas lay propped against tattered pillows, eyes closed, his breathing shallow. For months, an illness had chipped away at his vigor, but he was still determined to present a strong front whenever the villagers needed him.
The cottage door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air. Elias turned in alarm—only to see Cyran Moorwind, the traveling swordsman he had met the previous day, stepping inside with cautious urgency.
"Elias!" Cyran hissed under his breath, shutting the door behind him. "We have trouble."
"What is it?" Elias asked, heart pounding at the look on Cyran's face.
"Come see for yourself. But keep quiet—I don't want to panic your father."
Elias spared a quick glance at Jonas, who stirred but didn't fully wake. Quietly, Elias draped a blanket over him and followed Cyran out. The early dawn cast an eerie glow across the village. Orange lamplight still flickered from a few windows, but all was hushed—too hushed. Dawnwatch typically woke gradually, with roosters crowing and farmers beginning their chores. Instead, Elias heard only a strained silence, broken occasionally by distant shouts.
A frigid wind tugged at his cloak as they stepped into the lane. "What's happening?" Elias whispered, scanning the shadowed outlines of neighboring cottages.
Cyran's eyes narrowed. "There are figures moving around the outskirts. Could be brigands. I saw them not ten minutes ago, skulking near the western fields."
"Brigands? But Dawnwatch is off the main trade routes… We rarely see bandits."
"Exactly. Which means this may be no ordinary robbery." Cyran's voice was grim. "I fear it's tied to what we witnessed yesterday. The Veiled One's disciples, perhaps."
The name alone sent a chill racing down Elias's spine. He'd heard rumors from travelers and old legends about a shadowy threat looming in faraway lands, but never imagined it would reach Dawnwatch.
Before Elias could reply, a scream tore through the silence. It came from the center of the village—the same square where the Harvest Day festival had taken place. Elias exchanged a panicked look with Cyran, and both broke into a sprint.
They rushed along the cobblestone path, the dawn light revealing flickers of movement ahead. As they neared the square, Elias's heart sank at the sight: four cloaked assailants, each garbed in dark, nondescript outfits, faces concealed by hoods or masks. One brandished a curved blade. Another seemed to hold a small crossbow. They were cornering a group of villagers—mostly older men and women who had risen early to tend to chores—forcing them toward a makeshift barricade of overturned carts.
"Quiet, and we might spare you," one of the attackers growled, pressing his blade to a terrified villager's throat.
Elias's pulse hammered. He felt the stirring of Aether in his chest, a danger-laced adrenaline that beckoned him to act. But fear kept him pinned in place for a moment. He'd rarely used his gifts, and never in a direct confrontation like this.
Cyran moved first. In a swift, well-practiced motion, he drew his sword—the ring of steel startlingly loud in the hush of dawn. "Release them," he demanded, stepping into the square. "Now."
All four attackers whirled, tension coiling in their postures. The one with the curved blade barked a laugh. "Another hero? You'll meet the same fate as anyone who stands in our way."
Elias swallowed hard. His mind raced with indecision. He had a sense that if these were indeed agents of the Veiled One—or any organized force beyond petty thieves—they were dangerous. Yet the meager population of Dawnwatch had no real militia, and Jonas was in no condition to fight. He and Cyran might be the only ones who could protect the villagers.
The crossbow wielder lifted his weapon. A sudden dread seized Elias, and a flicker of energy pulsed in his hand. No, he thought. I can't do it here, in front of everyone. If they see my powers…
But there was no time for caution. The crossbowman fired. An arrow streaked through the air. Reflex took over; Elias lunged to the side, pushing a villager out of the arrow's path. Pain flared in his shoulder as the arrow grazed him, tearing through the edge of his tunic.
Chaos exploded. Villagers screamed and scattered, some dashing for cover behind crates, others frozen in shock. Cyran launched himself at the attacker who'd fired the crossbow, steel clashing with steel as another assailant darted in to intercept. Sparks flew as Cyran's sword met the curved blade.
Elias's shoulder stung, but the wound was superficial. Fighting past the surge of pain, he scrambled to help an elderly woman, lifting her away from the melee. Then he heard a strangled cry from behind him.
He spun around: a villager lay prone on the ground, pinned by an assailant's foot, the tip of a dagger pressed against his neck. Time seemed to slow. Elias knew that if he didn't do something, the man would be killed in seconds.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He extended a trembling hand toward the attacker, focusing on the roiling energy in his chest. The Aether simmered, responding to his fear and desperation. He imagined an invisible force throwing the assailant back—just enough for the villager to escape.
A soft glow sparked around Elias's fingers, fleeting but real. The air seemed to ripple between him and the attacker. Then, with a grunt of surprise, the cloaked figure staggered backward, as though struck by a powerful gust. The villager rolled out of harm's way.
"Magic," the attacker hissed, dark eyes narrowing beneath his hood. "The rumors were true—there's a Channeler here."
Elias's stomach tightened. He had just revealed more than a simple defensive move: he'd displayed his Channeling powers. Any hope of secrecy was gone. But there was no turning back now.
He rushed to the villager's side, ushering him behind the shelter of a toppled cart. Across the square, Cyran parried a savage blow and deftly struck back, dispatching one attacker. Another lunged at him, but the swordsman sidestepped, using his assailant's momentum to cut him down.
In the confusion, the crossbowman reloaded and aimed again—this time at Elias. A surge of terror threatened to freeze him in place. Then he felt a presence brush past: it was Jonas.
"Father!" Elias exclaimed, shocked to see Jonas hobbling forward on unsteady legs, armed with a rusted old sword.
Jonas's face was pale but resolute. "I can still wield a blade, boy," he said through ragged breaths.
Before Elias could protest, Jonas swung at the crossbowman, forcing the attacker to dodge and spoil his aim. The arrow fired off course, burying itself in a wooden post instead. However, the crossbowman swiftly drew a short sword, blocking Jonas's next strike. Jonas was breathing hard, clearly straining beyond his limits.
Elias darted in to assist, grabbing a fallen staff from the ground. His father had engaged the crossbowman, but Jonas's endurance faltered. The assailant twisted his blade, slashing Jonas's side. Jonas gasped, staggering backward. Fury and panic ignited in Elias. With a yell, he swung the staff, striking the attacker's wrist. The man cried out, dropping his sword.
Cyran appeared at Elias's side, finishing off the wounded attacker with a single, decisive blow. Blood spattered the cobblestones, and the crossbowman collapsed. Elias fought the urge to vomit, focusing instead on his father, who sank to his knees clutching his side.
"Jonas!" Elias cried, kneeling beside him. Warm, red blood seeped through the older man's fingers.
Jonas's breathing was labored. "I'm… I'll be fine," he rasped. But the wound looked serious—too deep for a quick bandage.
By now, only one attacker remained standing, pinned in combat with two brave villagers who had joined the fray. Realizing he was outnumbered, the last assailant hurled a smoke bomb at the ground, enveloping the area in a choking grey cloud. Coughs and shouts rang out as the attacker fled.
When the smoke cleared, the village square was a scene of confusion and fear. A couple of injured villagers lay groaning in pain; others huddled behind makeshift barricades. Two of the attackers were dead, one unconscious, and one had escaped. The confrontation was over as quickly as it began.
Elias cradled Jonas, who was trembling in shock and pain. His father's face had gone ashen, sweat beading on his brow. "Stay with me," Elias pleaded, pressing a hand against the wound to stanch the bleeding.
Cyran knelt on Jonas's other side, expression grim. "We need to get him somewhere safer. There could be more of these raiders."
A cluster of villagers gathered, offering cloth and supplies. One insisted they take Jonas to the herbalist's hut on the far end of the village, which had the best stock of healing herbs and salves. Elias and Cyran carefully lifted Jonas, who groaned but stayed conscious.
As they carried him, Elias couldn't stop trembling. He'd known the day might come when he would have to use his powers openly. But he'd never imagined the cost would be his father's blood spilling on the ground.
They reached the herbalist's small stone house, nestled under an ancient oak tree. The interior smelled of rosemary, thyme, and pungent medicinal concoctions. Serafine, the village herbalist, was already treating another wounded villager inside, but she immediately directed them to set Jonas down on a straw-filled cot.
Elias hovered anxiously as Serafine inspected the gash across Jonas's torso. "Too deep for simple herbs," she muttered. "I can slow infection, maybe help him with the pain, but… this needs a skilled physician or magic beyond my means."
Elias's heart pounded. He knelt by the cot, tears threatening. "Please, do what you can. I'll… help however possible."
Cyran's features were drawn tight, his hand resting on Elias's shoulder. "If we had a royal physician from Aldenheim—" he began, but let the thought trail off, as Aldenheim was days away by carriage.
Elias bowed his head, recalling the faint healing trick he'd performed yesterday on the child who hit his head. The thought both comforted and terrified him. Could he do something similar for his father?
He took a steadying breath and reached for Jonas's hand. "Father," he murmured, "I'm going to try… something. Don't be alarmed."
Jonas's eyelids fluttered open. He managed a weak nod. "Son, you—"
"Let me." Elias gently pressed his palm against the blood-soaked bandage. He closed his eyes, summoning the memory of how he had eased that child's suffering. The sense of Aether rose from deep within his core, flickering with anxiety but also determination.
Serafine and Cyran exchanged a concerned glance, but neither spoke. A faint warmth spread through Elias's arm. He focused on Jonas's life force, imagining the flow of blood slowing, the torn flesh knitting together, the pain diminishing. Light—so soft it might have been a trick of the lantern—glimmered across Elias's fingers.
Jonas sucked in a sharp breath as the warmth suffused his wound, then let out a ragged exhale. After several heartbeats, Elias withdrew his hand, panting from the exertion. The bleeding had subsided somewhat, but the wound remained severe, and Jonas's face was still pale.
Serafine's eyes widened at the sight. "You're a Channeler," she whispered in awe.
Elias grimaced. "It's not enough. I'm not trained. I don't even know how to do proper healing." He glanced at Serafine, voice trembling. "Please, do what you can. I—I think I've slowed the bleeding."
She nodded, carefully removing the soaked bandage to reapply fresh ones. Jonas's breathing steadied a fraction, but the danger remained.
Meanwhile, Cyran's jaw tightened as he scanned the small window. "We can't stay here," he said, keeping his voice low. "Those attackers were organized. If they regroup, they'll come for you, Elias. They were clearly after something—or someone."
Elias wiped sweat from his brow. "What do you mean?"
Cyran's tone grew grim. "They mentioned a Channeler. You displayed your powers. If they were searching for a rumored Channeler in Dawnwatch, they'll know you're real. They won't stop until they capture or kill you."
Elias swallowed hard. The rational part of him knew Cyran was right. But leaving his father—wounded like this—seemed unimaginable.
Jonas stirred, his eyes half-opening. "Elias… you must go," he whispered, voice hoarse.
Tears stung Elias's eyes. "I can't abandon you."
Jonas mustered a faint, wry smile. "Son, I'm… not helpless. I can't fight, but I'll recover… with Serafine's help." He let out a shuddering breath. "You've been chosen by a power bigger than this village. It's time to… find answers… about who you are."
Elias's voice wavered. "I won't leave if it means losing you."
A cough racked Jonas, leaving him weaker. "You're strong, Elias. Stronger than I ever was. That's why… that's why I hid your gifts for so long. But now that the threat has found us, you have no choice."
A moment of silence weighed heavy in the stuffy room. Cyran gently placed a hand on Elias's shoulder again. "We can find help in Aldenheim—Princess Anaris might listen if we warn her of these attacks. Rumors about the Veiled One's cult have reached the capital, I'm sure. And we might secure real healing for your father."
Elias's tears spilled freely now, but a spark of resolve flared in his eyes. He bent over his father, placing a hand gently on Jonas's brow. "I promise I'll come back for you."
Jonas attempted a nod, exhaustion pulling him into unconsciousness. Serafine moved closer, mixing herbs in a mortar. "I'll do my best for him," she assured Elias softly. "He's stable for the moment. But if you can find advanced healing or royal physicians, that could be his best chance."
Elias squeezed Jonas's hand one last time. Then he rose, wiping his face. "Let's go," he murmured, turning to Cyran.
They stepped outside into a day that should have been bright with dawn but felt veiled in sorrow. The aftermath of the attack was visible in the square: wounded villagers, shattered carts, spilled produce. A few people spotted Elias and Cyran, looking at them with a mixture of relief and fear. The rumor of Elias's Aether channeling had already spread—murmured glances followed him wherever he went.
Elder Darius Pinebrook approached, his face creased with worry. "Elias, what madness has befallen us? We never had trouble like this."
Elias took a breath, trying to steady himself. "We don't know yet. They called themselves brigands, but… they seemed more organized. Possibly cult followers of the Veiled One."
Darius's gaze flickered. "The same darkness that spawns omens in the sky? This is ill news indeed. And Jonas?"
"Gravely hurt," Elias said, voice tight. "Serafine is tending to him. But…" He hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal.
Darius sighed. "I see. My boy, some of the villagers saw what you did." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I knew your father once had secrets, but never pressed him. Now I see those rumors of Channelers must be true. Dawnwatch owes you thanks for defending us."
Elias looked away, shame and relief mingling in his chest. "I only did what I had to. I'm leaving to get help. This village can't stand against more attacks alone."
Darius pressed a hand to Elias's shoulder. "Go, and may the ancestors guide you. We'll do our best to hold the village together. And if your father recovers enough to travel, we'll see he's taken safely to Aldenheim."
Elias nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude. "Thank you, Elder."
Cyran gestured for them to make haste. "We should gather any supplies we can carry. There's a horse or two in the stables, if they haven't been stolen."
Elias quickly ducked into his cottage to grab essentials—an extra cloak, a waterskin, and a small pouch of coins Jonas had saved. He cast one last glance around his childhood home, noting the well-worn table where he and his father used to share meals, the soot-stained hearth that had always felt so comforting on cold nights. It felt surreal to leave it all behind.
Outside, the stable near the eastern edge of Dawnwatch was in disarray. One horse had been slain by the attackers, but another, a sturdy bay mare named Ember, remained trembling in her stall. Elias approached her gently, stroking her mane. "Easy, girl," he whispered, heart aching at the sight of the fallen animal in the adjacent stall.
Cyran found a battered but serviceable gray stallion, checking its hooves and tack. "We'll ride hard for Aldenheim," he said, voice steeled with resolve. "Time is of the essence."
The two of them led the horses out into the morning sun, which now shone on Dawnwatch with deceptive warmth. Smoke still curled from a few smoldering stalls in the marketplace. Villagers were gathering their dead, comforting one another, and trying to salvage what they could. The sight tore at Elias, a pang of guilt stabbing him: I should be here, helping rebuild. But the memory of Jonas's pale face fueled his determination. I have to do this. For him. For all of us.
He mounted Ember, clinging to the reins as she shifted nervously under him. Cyran climbed onto the gray stallion. They shared a quick nod before turning their horses toward the main road—a dusty route that wound through rolling farmland and low hills, eventually leading to Aldenheim's gates days away.
The hooves clattered on cobblestones as they left Dawnwatch behind. A few villagers watched them depart, some raising hands in farewell or silent prayers for their success.
As they passed the last cottage, Elias spotted a familiar face—a young boy he'd saved the previous day at the festival, the same one he'd helped bandage with that faint healing glow. The boy stood with his mother on their porch, a bruised bandage on his head, gazing at Elias with wide eyes. Elias lifted a hand in a gentle wave. The boy waved back, a flicker of hope in his innocent expression.
Then the village was behind them, replaced by open fields and the quiet hush of the countryside. The early morning light revealed scattered patches of mist rising from the dew, a soft gloom that gave way to a new day. Yet Elias felt none of the morning's promise. Grief weighed on him for his father, for the villagers harmed or killed, and for the uncertain path ahead.
Cyran rode beside him, eyes scanning the horizon. His posture remained tense, as though expecting more ambushes. "You mentioned you've never traveled far from Dawnwatch?"
"No," Elias admitted. "I've only heard stories. My father always said Aldenheim was a marvel—large stone walls, countless spires, libraries, grand halls. But he avoided going back. Something about his past, I never fully understood."
Cyran nodded, gaze distant. "Aldenheim can be both magnificent and treacherous. I served there, once. Spent time among knights and royalty. But… things changed."
Elias studied him. "Is that why you left?"
Cyran's jaw tightened. "Yes. That's a story for another time. What matters now is that we get you to the capital safely, and we alert the throne about these cultists. If Princess Anaris is half the leader her father was, she'll listen."
They rode in uneasy silence for a time, the only sounds the rhythmic fall of hooves and the occasional rustle of wind in the wheat fields. Elias tried to calm his racing thoughts, focusing on each breath. Guilt nagged at him—he'd left Jonas behind, though he knew there was no choice.
Eventually, Cyran spoke again. "You used your powers in the village square. How did it feel?"
Elias inhaled sharply, recalling the surge of Aether coursing through his veins. "Terrifying. I—" He hesitated. "It's like drawing from a well of energy deep inside me, but it has a mind of its own. I didn't know if I'd hurt or help people."
Cyran's voice softened. "You saved lives. That's what matters. But your father was right—you need training. Using the Aether without guidance could destroy you."
Elias nodded, remembering the horror stories Jonas once told him: Channelers who went mad, or who unwittingly caused destruction. "High Scholar Marienna is said to be an expert in Aldenheim. Maybe she can help me."
"Yes, Marienna. I've heard that name," Cyran mused. "If we can secure an audience with her or the princess, you might learn to control your gifts… and perhaps save your father."
They pressed on, following a worn dirt path that merged with the broader trade road. The morning sun climbed higher, gradually warming the chill from Elias's bones. Passing travelers—mostly merchant carts heading to different provinces—eyed them warily, but offered cordial nods when Cyran raised a hand in greeting. There was no sign of immediate pursuit from the cloaked attackers, but Elias remained on edge.
Around midday, they reined their horses near a small stream to let them drink and to snatch a quick rest. Elias splashed water on his face, the coolness bringing a fleeting moment of clarity. He took a bite from a piece of dry bread, though his stomach churned too much to appreciate it. Memories of the morning's carnage replayed in his mind: the crossbow bolt whizzing past, the slash that nearly killed his father, the smoldering fear in the villagers' eyes.
"How far to Aldenheim?" Elias asked, breaking the heavy silence.
Cyran wiped sweat from his brow. "Three days, if we push hard and nothing goes wrong. Faster if we ride day and night, but the horses need rest, and we're not exactly swimming in supplies."
Elias nodded, gazing at the horizon. "I just hope my father can hold on until we can send help."
A shadow flickered across Cyran's face, sympathy mingling with grim resolve. "We'll do everything in our power to save him. You have my word."
There was a finality in his tone that Elias found oddly comforting—an unspoken oath between them. Perhaps neither had planned to become entwined in each other's fates, but circumstances demanded it now.
They mounted again, pressing onward, the sun climbing to its zenith. The farmland gradually gave way to gentle hills, and they saw a distant outline of a watchtower that likely marked the boundary of Aldenheim's outer territories. The day felt relentlessly long, each mile a reminder of the race against time.
Late in the afternoon, dark clouds gathered unexpectedly in the east. The air grew electric, reminiscent of the ominous energy Elias had felt during the Harvest Day festival. Cyran slowed his horse, peering at the forming storm.
"This doesn't look natural," he muttered. "We may be dealing with more than normal weather patterns."
Elias's mouth went dry, remembering the swirling dust and that sinister rift in the sky. "Do you think it's them? The cultists?"
"Could be. Or it could be a coincidence. Either way, let's try to find shelter before it breaks."
They urged their mounts faster, spotting a small roadside inn nestled where the hills rolled into a shallow valley. Smoke curled from its chimney—a welcoming sight. Neither Elias nor Cyran had many coins, but hopefully enough for a modest meal and stable space.
As they neared the inn, the first droplets of rain pattered against the dirt. A sign swinging above the door read The Old Falcon. They dismounted, guiding their horses into a dimly lit stable. A stable-hand—a boy of about twelve—emerged to greet them with uncertain eyes.
"Are you lodging?" he asked, glancing at the sky.
Cyran handed the boy a few copper coins. "Yes. Take good care of our horses. They've had a hard day."
The boy bobbed his head and led Ember and the gray stallion to empty stalls. Elias patted Ember's flank gently before turning to follow Cyran inside.
The common room was sparsely furnished: a few rickety tables, a bar counter with a single half-drunk patron, and the innkeeper polishing a mug. The storm intensifying outside cast an ominous gloom through the single window.
Cyran approached the innkeeper, producing another small handful of coins. "Room for two, if you've got it, and some bread and stew?"
The innkeeper eyed them. "Plenty of space tonight. Not many travelers in these parts after the troubles we've been hearing about." He gestured toward a hallway. "Last door on the left."
Elias exhaled, grateful for any respite. They took their small bowls of stew at one of the tables. While it was watery and bland, the warmth was a relief. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning briefly illuminated the window, revealing curtains of rain lashing the inn's yard.
Despite the day's exhaustion, Elias's mind refused to settle. Every muscle still felt coiled, as if expecting a surprise attack. He could barely taste the stew. Instead, he replayed the moment Jonas was stabbed, the fear in his father's eyes, the helplessness…
Cyran seemed to sense Elias's inner turmoil. "You did well, given the odds," he said quietly, voice devoid of his usual sarcastic edge. "You saved lives, Elias."
Elias stared at the swirls of broth in his bowl. "But I couldn't save him… not fully."
"Sometimes, all we can do is fight for another chance."
They lapsed into silence. Upstairs, the lone inn-room offered two small cots with straw mattresses. The night pressed in, wind howling as the storm battered the shutters. Elias tried to rest, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of violence, heard the echo of his father's pained groan.
Eventually, exhaustion overcame him. He drifted into a fitful sleep, dreams filled with swirling shadows and faint voices chanting in an unknown language. At one point, he jolted awake, heart pounding. Cyran remained asleep on the other cot, one hand near the hilt of his sword even in slumber. Lightning illuminated the room briefly, casting ghostly shadows on the walls.
Elias wiped sweat from his brow. What have I gotten into? he wondered. Is this only the beginning of something far worse?
Unable to find answers, he forced his eyes shut again, determined to muster enough strength for the trials to come.