Raven

Vallabrada || 1

THEO Thorne wrapped his arms tighter around himself. He shivered, the chilling, biting wind hissing through the city rattling his bones; it howled like starving wolves. The powdered ice was freezing through his weathered deerskin boots.

The spires of the Aegremont rose high in the distance, the twinkling lights of the city of Vallabrada like dancing fireflies in the midst of the harsh winter. The night's watchman stepped out into the darkness, standing guard by the main gates, on the palace's battlements and patrolling the dead streets.

The lights of the city slowly died away, the firefly lights disappearing into the night. The silhouettes of buildings and the Aegremont towered dauntingly, regal and tall, against the dark sky.

Theo approached the gates. He lowered his head further to negate the bitter wind, and slipped through mere minutes before they thundered close for the night.

The streets were empty. There was nothing but the lonely lamp posts holding up their small flames flickering uneasily before the wrath of the cold. The citizens of Vallabrada were no strangers to winter—guarded, shuttered windows and doors and the imported Solærian fur coats worn by the watchmen were a good indication of that.

Theo trudged down the street, his boots crunching under the fine layer of ice adorning the cobblestone footpaths.

He breathed warmth into his bare hands as the cold song sung by the wind echoed through the city. He rubbed his palms in agitation; they were cold and tired and refused to get warm.

Four days.

It had taken Theo four days to walk from his family's farm in Seca to the brilliant city of Vallabrada. He'd heard stories about the glorious metropolis. Never in his life did he ever foresee himself walking the streets of the capital of Florain, a place where farm boys like him stuck out in the worst of ways.

But when people like Theo had nowhere to go—no destination to pave a path towards—everyone set course for Vallabrada.

Theo wrapped a frozen hand around the hilt of the sword at his hip. His father had given it to him. His final words continued to ring out in his head.

"R-Run," his father had stuttered through blood-soaked teeth and lips, hand to the hole in his chest as if the mere pressure of his palm would keep his insides in. "T-Take the sword. Take it and r-run."

And that's what he did. Theo had ripped the sword from his father's dead hands and took off, sprinting from the farm and out of the valley towards the main road, heading in any direction that would take him far from his home that went up in a lick of flame behind him.

Shadows crept past Theo's peripherals. He ignored them. They were probably nothing, just contours of the night.

And then he saw them again.

More than one.

A rustle pricked Theo's hearing, sinister whisperings that sent his senses into overdrive.

Danger, they said, you're in danger.

Before Theo could even think about running, he was surrounded.

They were dirty and straggly with wiry, wild hair. Filthy hands folded over and over each other hungrily as hollow, starving eyes watched Theo eagerly. They were all probably no older than Theo, sixteen or seventeen-year-old boys and girls who looked far too haggard for their age.

Theo resisted the urge to draw his sword.

Despite their appearance, they were probably friendly; he didn't want any trouble because he was brash enough to wave around a blade as he followed an assumption.