Veiled Ember

Chapter 1: The Last Normal Day

Chapter 1: The Last Normal Day

The rain had been falling for three straight days, the kind that turned the dirt paths of Willowmere into slick ribbons of mud and made every roof leak in exactly the places you'd patched the week before. Elena Voss wiped her hands on her apron, the rough linen already stained with yarrow and mud, and stepped back from old Mrs. Harlan's bedside. The woman's breathing had finally evened out, the fever breaking after two nights of Elena forcing broth and cool cloths between her cracked lips.

"You're going to be all right," Elena said quietly, more to herself than the sleeping woman. She'd said those words so many times they felt worn smooth, like river stones. Some days she believed them. Today, with the wind howling through the cracks in the walls and the distant rumble that might have been thunder or something worse, she wasn't so sure.

She gathered her satchel—dried herbs bundled tight, a few precious vials of tincture, her mother's old bone-handled knife—and pulled her hood up. The village was quiet in that heavy way it got before trouble. A few lanterns flickered in windows, but most families had already barred their doors. Elena's own cottage sat at the edge, half-hidden by the ancient oak that had stood there longer than any of them. 

It wasn't much: one room, a hearth that smoked when the wind shifted, a narrow bed she usually fell into too exhausted to dream.

But it was hers. The only thing that still felt like home after the raids five years ago took her parents and left her with nothing but scars and the stubborn need to keep going.She trudged through the mud, boots sucking at the ground with every step. The air smelled of wet pine and smoke from chimneys, and underneath it, something metallic she couldn't quite place. Her shoulders ached. Her mind kept drifting to the rumors—shadow riders from the north, the Nyxaran bastards pushing the border again. The king's soldiers had passed through last month, taking what little grain and able bodies they could, promising protection that never came.

"Idiots," she muttered, kicking a stone into a puddle. It splashed cold water up her leg. She was twenty-six, too old for daydreams, too young to feel this tired. Some nights she wondered what it would be like to leave Willowmere behind, to walk until the road ended and start over somewhere the past couldn't find her. But then someone like Mrs. Harlan would cough, or a child would burn their hand on the hearth, and she'd stay. Healing was the one thing that still made sense.

The first scream cut through the rain like a blade.Elena froze mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs. Another scream followed—sharp, terrified—then the clash of steel. Torchlight flared at the far end of the village, too many lights, moving too fast. Horses. Men shouting orders in a clipped accent that didn't belong here.She ran.

Not toward the noise—toward her cottage, satchel banging against her hip. If she could grab her stores, the knife, maybe slip into the woods behind the oak... Her boots slipped in the mud and she went down hard on one knee, cursing as pain shot up her leg. She pushed up, breath ragged, and made it to her door just as shadows spilled into the lane.They moved like the stories said. Cloaked figures melting out of the rain, blades catching the firelight. Not the king's men. These were Nyxaran. Shadows clung to them unnaturally, shifting even when the torches guttered.

Elena slammed the door and barred it, heart pounding so hard she tasted copper. She grabbed the knife from her satchel and pressed her back to the wall, listening. Boots thudded past. A woman wailed. Wood splintered somewhere close.The door shuddered under a heavy kick. Once. Twice. On the third, it burst inward, rain and wind rushing in with the intruder. He was tall, broad, rain streaming off a dark cloak. His face was half-hidden by shadow, but she caught the hard line of his jaw and eyes that seemed to drink the light.