The Gloomcatcher

PROLOGUE

    As the cacophonous uproar outside intensified, Narhorion's frail legs gave way, and he sank to the cold floor. It seemed as though the entire city had descended upon his home, on these buzzing streets of Perth, a horde of merciless Tohanians driven by bloodlust.

    "Silence, all of you!" commanded Sire Taro, a voice of domination amidst the bedlam. "We are ordered to transport them to Nucleus City, where they shall meet their ultimate judgment."

    "And what if they escape, Sire?" anxiously inquired another voice.

    "Commonfolks and peasants," the knight snarled, "have no right to question my loyalty or issue orders. Meddle at your peril, dirtrags."

    "The Nightwinds are deceivers, living among us, concealing their true nature!"

    "We want the Magicborns dead!"

    The frenzied horde outside cursed and shrieked, bellowing; the small group of knights of the Crownwatch with Sire Taro Wierhook was subjugated by the hundreds of agitated Tohanians as they rushed in madness, locking the doors from the outside and miring them in. The baby mewled again, frightened by the unrest.

    "Servants of the devil they are! Spawn of evil Primals! Kill them all!"

    "Burn the house to the ground!"

    His blood ran cold like solid ice coursing through his vein and his tongue went parched, a fish out of its pond. His mind was in a distant place, imagining a world with his wife and children, a house in the desolate, virgin lands, away from people. A rather dreamlike garden full of Pansies and Daffodils, not solely just two unsatisfying jars that they had here—Avaline loved them. He would teach his children how to survive. For lunch and dinner, they would feast on animals he would bring from the hunt. With a stomach full of food, his family would have contented smiles on their faces. They would not be disappointed in him.

    Voices echoed in his head—shrill and undying, his senses shaken.

    His trance broke and he was back in the chaos. "Narhorion? Are you listening?" It was Avaline, her hands trembling as she held him by the shoulders.

    Coming to his senses, he scampered to the small bed chamber on wonky legs and dug out the metals from under the bouncy mattress. Two thin chains, a double coin, a medallion, and a small pipe, emerged from beneath.

    "Avaline, gather in the center of the house with the children!"

    They huddled in a circle on the floor of the kitchen when the paneled glass of the living room window shattered to pieces, and a sulfurous flamed torch was thrown inside. It started engulfing and licking the wooden pieces of furniture fiercely—the whiny chair, the four-legged table, the baby's cradle—leaving behind only black charcoal. The furious heat could be felt from beyond the brick walls as the Tohanians set the house afire. It burnt like an inextinguishable furnace. The thirsty, serpentine flames, a farrago of yellow and orange, devoured everything on their paths. Parts of the wooden ceiling, charred now, began to fall.

    "Father, are we going to die?" coughed his daughter, her lovely dark eyes barely open.

    Narhorion knew the end was near, but he lied to reassure her, "No, my love, none of us will die."

    He glanced at his wife, who still held the fragile life in her arms, squalling weakly. Tears fell from her eyes as she clung to the baby—to both her children, she held them to her bosom. He embraced his family—his blood, an unbreakable nestle, and kissed the forehead of his wife, his way of telling her that he loved her and was sorry for everything: for living in Tohan, for always giving less and never enough, for putting their lives in never-ending misery and, at last, for being born as a Gloomcatcher. Indeed, he truly was sorry.

    But tonight, we live.

    Trapped within their burning home with the relentlessly angry and uncontrollable mob outside, Narhorion's mind raced for a way to save his family. Smoke billowed into the room as the flames closed in—dark soot settling everywhere.

    "Cover your mouths and noses!" he shouted to his wife and children, handing them pieces of cloth torn from a scorched curtain. They obeyed, though tears welled in their eyes from the acrid smoke.

    Desperation fueled Narhorion's determination. He grabbed a heavy wooden cabinet and, with his wife's help, shoved it against the door, reinforcing the barrier against the tumultuous fanatics' attempts to break in. He then pulled out the medallion—this he had gotten as a token of thanks from a lost traveler whom he had shown the right path to Vernia—and held it in both of his hands as he closed his eyes. Guard this door. In one swift motion, he swept the medallion across the four corners and the hinges and silent grey light, dull and yet bright sparked as a mist and settled into the wood as though seeping inside its very core.

    The frenzied throng outside continued to pound on the doors violently but it didn't give away. He had some time before an Arcanist would be called to knock it down. As the flames crept closer, dancing towards him, he noticed a skylight window at the far end of the room that would lead them to a narrow alleyway in the backside of the house. It was their only chance. With a fierce resolution, he smashed the window, sending shards of glass cascading outside as he placed a high stool below it.

    "Climb out from here!" he urged his family, gesturing toward the broken window. His wife climbed out first, clutching their baby tightly, while Narhorion helped their daughter through as she clung to her doll, eyes filled with fear.

    He was the last to escape through the shattered window and tumbled into the narrow, squalid alley, landing amidst discarded crates and foul debris. Gasping for breath, for fresh air he didn't look back at their burning home, crumbling into charcoaled timbers. Instead, he sprinted under the moonlight with his family through the winding alleyways, guided by the fading cries of the senselessly capricious men. Tonight they lived, tomorrow they would survive.