The Standing Stones did not scream with sound, but with silence—a vacuum that pulled at Lyra's ears until her skull throbbed. She pressed her hands over them, crouched in the pitch-black cottage, as the village outside erupted into chaos. Shouts. Running footsteps. The metallic tang of fear sharpened the air.
When the silence finally broke, it was replaced by a low, resonant hum. Lyra peered through a crack in the shutters. The villagers were dragging something massive through the square: a slab of obsidian veined with gold, its surface etched with symbols that bled like ink. Elder Cael walked ahead, his bone-white horn now hanging from a chain around his neck. Behind him, four hooded figures carried a shrouded shape on a litter. The cloth slipped, revealing a pale hand. A *child's* hand.
Lyra's stomach lurched. She recognized the embroidered edge of the shroud—it belonged to Kellen, the miller's youngest son. He'd been missing since the last moon.
"No," she whispered.
The wind slithered through the shutters, carrying the scent of wet ash. *"The pact demands a price,"* it murmured. *"Flesh for silence. Blood for chains."*
Lyra grabbed her cloak. Rules be damned.
---
The village archives were buried beneath the granary, a maze of mildewed scrolls and crumbling codices kept under lock and rust. Lyra had stolen the key years ago, though she'd never found anything worth reading—until tonight.
She lit a stolen tallow candle, its greasy smoke curling into the low ceiling beams. The elders' logs were written in cipher, but the margins… the margins were littered with sketches. A figure bound in thorns. A crown of stormclouds. And words, half-scratched out: *…Scourge's prison weakens… only the Vessel can…*
"Vessel?" Lyra muttered.
*"You.*"
She spun, nearly knocking over the candle. The flame steadied itself, bending toward a shadowed corner. There, in a pool of wax and rot, lay a book bound in what looked like human skin. Its title, embossed in tarnished silver: *The Hollowed Pact: A History of Sacrifice.*
Lyra opened it. The first page bore a familiar name.
*Elmshadow, Year 312 of the Pact*
*Tonight, we renew the bond. The Sentinel accepts our offering: a soul unmarked by the wind's whispers. May the Scourge sleep another century.*
The next entry was dated exactly 100 years later. Another child's name. Another offering. Lyra flipped faster, her pulse roaring. Every century. Every time, a child.
"Kellen," she breathed.
*"Not the first,"* said the wind. *"Not the last. Unless you stop them."*
Lyra slammed the book shut. "How?"
A draft flickered the candle. When the light steadied, a single sentence glowed on the wall, written in cobwebs and dust:
*BREAK THE STONES.*
---
The ritual site blazed with witchfire.
Lyra crouched in the ferns beyond the Standing Stones, her fingers digging into the soil. The obsidian slab now lay at the center of the circle, Kellen's small body strapped to it with iron chains. Elder Cael stood at its head, chanting words that made the ground tremble. The other villagers formed a ring, their faces hollow in the greenish light.
"We give this flesh," Cael intoned, "to feed the Sentinel. We spill this blood to keep the Scourge chained."
He raised a dagger carved from a stag's antler. Lyra moved without thinking.
"Stop!" She lunged into the circle, her voice raw. "You're not saving anyone—you're *feeding* it! The Scourge isn't some monster under the bed. It's the thing the Sentinel's using to control us!"
The villagers stirred, uneasy. Mara stepped forward, her face a mask of fury. "You fool. The Sentinel *protects* us. Without the pact—"
"Without the pact, maybe we'd stop living in fear!" Lyra turned to the crowd, desperation clawing her throat. "How many children have we buried for this lie? The Scourge isn't our enemy—it's theirs!" She pointed at the elders.
Cael's milky eyes narrowed. "The wind has poisoned you, girl." He nodded to Mara. "Restrain her."
Lyra ducked as the blacksmith's widow lunged, but the wind surged suddenly, howling through the clearing. It knocked Mara sideways and snuffed the witchfire, plunging the circle into darkness.
*"Now,"* the wind urged. *"Break the Stones!"*
Lyra sprinted to the nearest monolith, her blistered hand outstretched. The runes flared as she touched them, searing her skin. She screamed but didn't let go.
"What are you doing?!" Cael roared.
"Ending this!"
With a crack like splitting bone, the runestone shattered.
---
The world unraveled.
The earth heaved. The remaining Stones exploded one by one, their shards slicing the air. Villagers fled, screaming, as the ground beneath the obsidian slab split open. Kellen's chains snapped, and Lyra grabbed the boy, dragging him back as the void yawned wider.
From the pit rose a figure.
Tall as ancient oak, its body woven from thorns and storm, its face a shifting void where stars flickered and died. The Scourge of Thorns tilted its head, and the wind—Lyra's wind—bowed to it like a lover.
*"Little Vessel,"* it spoke, its voice the rumble of distant thunder. *"You have done well."*
Elder Cael fell to his knees. "Merciful Sentinel, we—"
The Scourge flicked a hand. Thorned vines erupted from the earth, silencing Cael with a strangled gurgle.
"No!" Lyra clutched Kellen tighter. "You said they were the enemy!"
*"They are,"* said the Scourge. *"But so are you."*
It reached for her, thorns curling like claws. Lyra stumbled back, but the wind pinned her in place.
*"You carry my mark, Vessel. Your blood will finish what the Stones began."*
As the thorns closed around her throat, the last thing Lyra heard was the wind laughing.
---
**Chapter 2 Word Count**: 1,502
---
**Preview of Chapter 3: Crown of Howls**
Lyra awakens in a realm between shadows and storms, her fate entwined with the Scourge's cryptic designs. Meanwhile, the liberated Hollowing spreads across Elmshadow, and a mysterious stranger arrives—claiming to know the true history of the Sentinel and the Vessel's role in destroying it…
Let me know if you'd like to tweak any elements or dive deeper into specific lore! The plot thickens... 🌪️