Ash & Light: A Veilbound Chronicle

By Andrew Robertson

In a mist-shrouded village at the edge of a forgotten world, a quiet boy named August stumbles upon a blade pulsing with ancient magic-a sword that remembers a time before darkness bled into the land. Chosen by Heartseeker but haunted by doubt, August is thrust into a battle he never asked for, against a ris

• Language: English
• Publisher: Published by Andrew Robertson
• Release date: Aug 28, 2025
• ISBN: 9798218748616

Andrew Robertson

Dr Andrew Robertson is a Senior Research Scientist at the International Research Institute for Climate and Society, part of the Earth Institute at Columbia University. He heads the IRI Climate Group and teaches as an adjunct professor at Columbia. Graduating with a PhD in atmospheric dynamics, he has over 30 years of experience in topics ranging from midlatitude meteorology, coupled ocean-atmosphere climate dynamics, sub-seasonal and seasonal forecasting, downscaling, and tailoring of climate information for use in conjunction with sectoral models for climate adaptation and risk management. He has taught in capacity building training courses around the world.

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Andrew Robertson

Ash & Light

A Veilbound Chronicle

First published by Andrew Robertson 2025

Copyright © 2025 by Andrew Robertson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Andrew Robertson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

I. PART ONE

1. The Weight of the Mist

2. Echoes Beneath the Well

3. The Blade Chose Me

4. Flickers in the Fog

5. The Unseen Flames

6. The Riftmarked Return

7. The Flame that Stayed

8. The Listening Flame

9. Trial of Strength

10. Shadows at the Edge

11. After the Storm

12. Gathering Clouds

13. Into the Vale

14. Veins of Shadow

15. The Path Twists

16. The Heart of the Mist

17. The Hidden Truth

18. Breath of the Forgotten

19. The Vigil

20. The Trial of Flame

21. What Burns Must Choose

22. Ash and Embers

23. The Hall of the Frozen Flame

24. The Three Flames

25. The Temple Below

26. Ashes of the First Flame

II. PART TWO

27. The Watchers Fade

28. The Lost Archives

29. The Binding Mark

30. The Breaking Seal

31. What Remains of Us

32. The March Begins

33. The Edge of Dusk

34. The Siege of Hollowvale

35. The Flames Divide

36. Deeper into the Shadows

37. Ashfall

38. The Fall of the Warlord

39. The Light Beyond

40. The Choice and the Flame

41. Echoes of the Order

42. The Whispering Vale

43. Where Fire Once Dwelled

44. The Last Gate

45. When the Light Flickers

46. The Kindling Future

47. The Quiet Flame

48. The Letter Unread

49. The Sword and the Flame

50. Ash and Light

Epilogue

Meet the Author

For Ell

who believes in every story I carry,

stands beside me in every chapter,

and loves me through every rewrite.

Your support is the quiet fire behind it all.

Always, this is for you.

Acknowledgments

Writing Ash and Light has been a journey marked by late nights, endless rewrites, and more coffee than I care to admit, but I didn’t walk it alone.

To my beta readers Andrea Leon, Carl Koch, Devlan Brantley, Emily Kelly, Reid Jarrell, and Sophia Lagerquist—thank you for stepping into this world with fresh eyes, honest feedback, and unwavering encouragement. Your insights helped shape this story into what it is, and your belief in these characters gave me the courage to keep refining until it felt right.

To my best friend Grant, who patiently listened to every meandering thought on every run we took together—thank you. And to everyone who read early drafts, asked the hard questions, or simply said, Keep going you reminded me that storytelling is never a solo act. It’s a shared fire, passed hand to hand, kept alive by others who choose to join in.

And finally, to you, the reader holding this book now, thank you for giving Ash and Light a place in your hands and heart.

Prologue

The Vale was not always a wound upon the world.

Before shadow took root, it was fire that shaped the earth—light older than language, burning in the hearts of those chosen to wield it. The ancients called it Vel’kaan, the Flame Unbound. And with it, they carved truth into the bones of mountains and sealed the dark with breath and ash.

But nothing sealed forever stays shut.

There are records, now faded, etched in broken stone and whispered through the dreams of dying seers. They speak of a blade forged in sacrifice, of a name erased from the annals of the Order, and of a child who would be born not into power, but into silence.

They do not name him. Only the fire he would carry.

The Chronicles call it the flickering age—a time between endings and beginnings, where light forgets itself and darkness remembers. In this age, the seals will tremble. The mist will thicken. And a choice must be made.

Not by kings.

Not by warriors.

But by those who never asked to be chosen.

I

Part One

"Before the flame, we walk in shadow—

not blind, but waiting for the light to choose us."

- Elder Chronicle, Fragment 3

1

The Weight of the Mist

The mist never left Alder’s Hollow.

It clung to the crooked wooden homes, coiled around the weathered stone well in the village square, and drifted like ghostly fingers through the narrow paths that wound their way between the houses. Even at midday, when the rest of the kingdom would have basked in the full glow of the sun, Alder’s Hollow remained shrouded in a pall of cold, damp air. The mist was always there, pressing in from the dark woods that circled the village, swirling like a living thing over the ground. People said it came from the Vale—the cursed, shadowy mountains that loomed beyond the forest.

The villagers called it the Sleeping Breath. A name whispered more than spoken, like giving it shape would somehow make it stronger. They claimed it could soak into your bones if you stayed outside too long, leaving your limbs aching and your dreams strange. Even the animals had grown uneasy in it. Birds no longer nested near the edge of the woods. Dogs refused to go near the trees after sundown.

August had once asked his father why the mist never lifted. His father’s answer had been simple, but grave. Because the Vale doesn’t forget.

August hefted the water bucket in his hands, feeling the cold metal biting into his fingers. He walked slowly, mindful of the slick cobblestones beneath his feet. The village had always been quiet, but lately, it had felt more than quiet—it had felt empty. The mist muffled the sounds of life, turning even the busiest days into something still, muted. August knew these streets well; he had grown up here, played here when he was younger. But now, everything felt different, as if the village itself were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Even the houses looked unfamiliar lately—warped, somehow. Like the mist had leaned too close and whispered things to the wood, and now the beams creaked in reply.

He missed how it used to feel walking these roads. The familiarity had been a comfort. Now it was a trap. He wasn’t sure when that shift had happened—only that it had, and the village hadn’t felt like home since.

He passed the village square, where the old stone well stood at the center like a forgotten relic. A few figures were moving through the mist—Old Bertram among them, his stooped back and hunched shoulders making him seem part of the landscape. He was muttering to himself again, his cane tapping against the ground as he shuffled forward. August could hear snatches of his words.

Shadows…thicker every day…never used to be like this…

Bertram had always muttered about the shadows. It was hard to tell how much was truth and how much was the ramblings of an old man who had seen too much. But lately, people had stopped laughing at him. The shadows in the Vale had become more than just a tale to frighten children—they were real. And every year, it seemed, the mist crept closer, darker, as if the forest were closing in on the village.

August glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see something moving in the fog. He had learned long ago that it was better not to look too hard. The mist had a way of playing tricks on the eyes, and once you started seeing shapes in the shadows, it was hard to stop. His father had told him that, back when he still spoke. The Vale’s close enough to see but far enough to leave alone, he used to say. Some places are meant to be forgotten.

But people hadn’t forgotten. Not really. The Vale was always there, looming just beyond the trees. It was impossible to ignore the stories, the disappearances, the way the mist seemed thicker every year. August’s hand tightened around the handle of the bucket as he walked, his thoughts drifting to his father. He used to be the one everyone turned to, the one who had answers, the one who had faced down the darkness beyond the village walls.

Now, he barely spoke at all.

August pushed open the door of their small cottage, the familiar creak of the wood welcoming him home. Inside, the warmth from the fire greeted him, a sharp contrast to the cold outside. His sister, Lila, sat by the hearth, carefully stitching a tear in one of Emmett’s tunics. Her small fingers moved with precision, the frown of concentration on her face making her look older than her ten years. Emmett, meanwhile, was sprawled on the floor, his wooden knight in hand, muttering some imaginary battle between good and evil.

Did you see anything strange? Lila asked without looking up, her voice calm but with a slight edge to it, like she was always waiting for bad news.

She always asked him like that—quietly, but with an edge, like she already knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it. She was too young to carry that kind of worry, but August had seen the same expression on their mother’s face before she passed. He hated how much Lila reminded him of it.

Nothing’s wrong, he wanted to say. But even the lie wouldn’t come.

No, just Old Bertram talking about the Vale again, August replied, setting the bucket down beside the fire. The village is quiet. Too quiet.

Lila’s needle paused mid-stitch. Do you think he’s right? About the shadows?

August didn’t answer right away. He didn’t want to lie to his sister, but the truth was more unsettling than silence. He crouched down beside the fire, holding his hands to the warmth, feeling the cold from the mist still clinging to his skin.

People are scared, he said finally. Sometimes when people are scared, they see things that aren’t there.

But he wasn’t sure he believed that anymore. Lately, it had been hard to shake the feeling that the shadows were watching, waiting for something. The village felt smaller, more fragile. The mist had become a living thing, creeping closer to the edges of their lives.

Dad’s been sitting like that all morning, Lila said quietly, glancing toward the corner of the room where their father sat, unmoving, staring out the window.

August followed her gaze. Their father hadn’t spoken to them that day. He hadn’t spoken much at all since… well, since the night everything changed. His once strong frame seemed to have shrunk, and the fire that used to burn in his eyes had long since dimmed. Now, he just sat by the window, staring out into the mist as if waiting for something that would never come.

Some days, August thought he could see something flicker behind his father’s eyes—like a memory, or a name just out of reach—but it always slipped away before it reached the surface.

He still ate. Still moved. But it wasn’t living. It was waiting. For what, August didn’t know.

Maybe for the mist to take him too.

He’ll come around, August said, more to reassure himself than Lila. He just… needs time.

But how much time? August had stopped counting the days since his father had retreated into himself. The weight of responsibility had fallen on him, whether he was ready for it or not. Lila and Emmett needed him. They relied on him to keep things going, to make sure they were safe, fed, and cared for. Every morning, he woke up with the same knot of anxiety in his chest, the fear that one day he wouldn’t be able to do it all.

He moved to the window, looking out at the mist-covered village. It was hard to see more than a few feet ahead, the world reduced to shifting shadows and the faint outlines of houses. Beyond the village, the trees rose like black spires, their branches twisting together like gnarled hands reaching for the sky. And beyond that, somewhere hidden in the gloom, was the Vale.

The stories about the Vale had always been there, even before the mist thickened. It was said to be a place where ancient, forgotten things still lingered—things that fed on fear and despair. No one from the village had ventured there in years, not since the disappearances started. Livestock went missing first, then a few villagers, their bodies never found.

August had always thought the stories were just that—stories. But now, even he wasn’t so sure.

Outside, the wind had died completely. Not even the usual rustle of branches scraped against the roof. The silence pressed harder than any storm.

August found himself staring into the fire, the light flickering across the blade of Emmett’s wooden knight. It cast long, stretched shadows on the floor—shadows that moved too slowly.

Something was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

A sudden sound broke the stillness. A low, eerie howl echoed through the mist, faint but unmistakable. August froze, his heart leaping into his throat. Lila looked up, her needle still in her hand, her eyes wide with fear.

Did you hear that? she whispered.

August nodded slowly. The sound came again, closer this time, a deep, mournful wail that seemed to rise from the very earth itself. It wasn’t an animal—at least, not any animal August had ever heard. He grabbed his father’s old cloak from where it hung by the door, the thick wool heavy in his hands. His fingers trembled slightly as he wrapped it around his shoulders.

I’ll go check it out, he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Lila’s eyes widened. Don’t go too far.

I won’t, he promised, though he wasn’t sure how he would keep that promise if something dangerous waited out there.

Stepping outside, August was swallowed by the mist. The village square, which had been familiar moments ago, now felt strange, otherworldly. The mist hung thick, turning the world into a haze of shifting shadows. He took a deep breath and moved toward the edge of the village, where the trees loomed like silent sentinels.

The howl came again. He paused, looking back toward the village square, half-hoping someone would be there, someone he could call for help. But there was no one. Only the mist.

He turned back toward the trees. Something stirred in the shadows just beyond the first row of trunks. A flicker of movement, too quick to see clearly. August took a step closer, his breath catching in his throat.

The mist shifted, parting for just a moment, and there, standing at the edge of the woods, was a figure.

It was tall, its body draped in tattered black robes that billowed in the wind, though no wind blew. Its face was obscured, hidden beneath a hood, but August could feel its gaze on him—cold, piercing, like the weight of the entire Vale had settled on his chest.

The figure raised its head slightly, and for a moment, August thought he saw eyes glowing, burning with some ancient, terrible light.

The air grew colder. Not a gradual shift, but instant, like stepping into the memory of winter. August’s breath fogged in front of him, and every instinct in his body screamed to run.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. The figure wasn’t just watching, was recognizing him.

Like it had been waiting.

He stumbled back, his heart pounding in his ears. The figure didn’t move, but the air around it seemed to ripple, the mist growing thicker, darker. August turned and ran, the cold air stinging his lungs as he fled back toward the safety of the village.

When he reached the door of his cottage, he stopped, breathless, glancing back toward the trees. The figure was gone, swallowed by the mist once more.

He stood there, frozen, for what felt like minutes. The cold had followed him, threading beneath his skin and settling deep in his bones.

The village was silent again. But not empty.

Something had seen him. Something that did not blink or breathe. And somehow, it had known his name without speaking it.

But the feeling remained like something had watched him, measured him, and found him wanting.

Inside, Lila looked at him with wide, fearful eyes. What was it? she asked.

August shook his head, his hands still trembling. I don’t know, he whispered.

But he did know. Something was out there. Something dark. And whatever it was, it was getting closer.

2

Echoes Beneath the Well

The night after August saw the figure in the woods, he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the weight of that gaze, like the dark itself had eyes, and they were watching him. His bed, which usually provided some semblance of comfort, felt like a cage now, trapping him with his racing thoughts. Lila and Emmett slept soundly in the same room, their soft breaths filling the space with an even rhythm. August envied them. Their world, for now, remained simple.

He stared at the ceiling, the faint outline of the wooden beams just visible in the moonlight. The air in the cottage was still, but thick—heavy with the smoke of last night’s fire, the sour scent of damp wool, and something else he couldn’t name. A cold that wasn’t from outside.

His fingers clenched the blanket. He wanted to be asleep like them, lost in dreams. But something had changed in him. The kind of change that didn’t let you go back.

But August had crossed a threshold, though he couldn’t say how or why. He kept replaying the image in his mind: the hooded figure, the unnatural stillness of the mist around it, the way the shadows seemed to shift in its presence. Something about it had felt wrong, like it wasn’t of this world. And yet, it hadn’t chased him. It had simply stood there, watching.

It knew him.

His father had once warned him about things like this, back when August had been young enough to believe that there were no real monsters in the world. There are things, August, his father had said, his voice low and serious, things in the dark that aren’t meant to be understood. When they look at you, you don’t look back.

But he had looked back. And now he couldn’t shake the feeling that the mist had changed, that something was drawing closer. He had to know what it was.

The moon hung low in the sky, half-obscured by the mist that curled around the village like a serpent. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves outside their small cottage. August slipped from his bed, careful not to wake his siblings. He moved quietly, grabbing his cloak and boots, heart hammering in his chest. His father still sat in his chair by the window, unmoving, his eyes fixed on some faraway point in the distance.

August hesitated, his hand on the door. I’ll be back, he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if his father even heard him.

Stepping outside, the cold mist enveloped him immediately, clinging to his skin like a second layer. The village was deserted, its narrow streets empty beneath the pale light of the moon. August pulled his cloak tighter around him and made his way toward the woods, toward the place where he had seen the figure.

Each step felt heavier, as though the ground itself resisted him. The ground beneath his boots felt soft, like the earth had turned into a sponge. Every step made a faint sucking noise, as if the forest didn’t want to let him go. The scent of rotting leaves and wet bark filled his lungs, thick enough to taste. It clung to the inside of his mouth, metallic and bitter.

The mist wasn’t just cold— it felt oily now, sliding against his skin like breath from something living. The air was thick with tension, and the mist seemed to pulse, almost alive, as if it were aware of his presence. The closer he got to the trees, the darker the mist became, thickening like smoke until it was almost impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. But August pressed on, driven by a force he couldn’t quite explain.

He reached the edge of the forest, where the trees stood like ancient sentinels, their branches twisted together above him. The place where he had seen the figure was just ahead, but now there was no sign of it— only the quiet, oppressive mist and the shadows that danced between the trees.

August’s breath came in short, shallow bursts. The feeling of being watched had returned, stronger now, like a pair of invisible eyes were tracking his every movement. He scanned the area, his heart racing. Come on, he muttered under his breath, his voice barely more than a whisper. Show yourself.

For a long moment, there was nothing— just the mist, thick and still. Then, something shifted.

A low, distant sound, like a whisper carried on the wind, reached his ears. August froze, straining to listen. The whisper came again, closer this time, though he couldn’t make out the words. His eyes darted through the darkness, searching for the source of the sound.

And then he saw it.

At the base of a large oak tree, half-hidden by roots and moss, something glinted in the moonlight. It was subtle at first, like the flicker of a candle flame, but as August approached, the light grew stronger. His breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside the tree, brushing away the dirt and leaves to reveal a long, narrow object buried beneath the earth.

A sword.

It was unlike any sword August had ever seen. The hilt was silver, carved with intricate symbols that seemed to shift and shimmer in the faint light. The blade, though partially buried, was flawless—smooth and gleaming, as if untouched by time. But what struck August most was the feeling that radiated from it. It wasn’t just an object— it was alive. The sword pulsed with a quiet energy, a soft hum that resonated in his bones.

The glow from the sword wasn’t harsh— it was soft, golden, like candlelight under glass. But it moved. The symbols etched into the hilt seemed to ripple as if breathing, and August swore he could feel them shifting beneath his fingertips.

The air around him smelled sharper now, tinged with ozone and iron. His skin prickled, the hairs on his arms rising. Not from fear. From something older. Reverence.

Heartseeker.

The name whispered itself into his mind, though he didn’t know where it came from. He reached out, hesitating for just a moment before his fingers closed around the hilt. As soon as he touched it, a shock of warmth shot up his arm, and the world around him seemed to shift. The mist pulsed, rippling outward from the sword as if reacting to its presence.

In that moment, something clicked inside August, a sense of recognition, as if the sword had been waiting for him. He wasn’t sure how or why, but he knew, deep down, that this weapon was meant for him. It felt right in his hand, like it belonged there.

But before he could fully process what was happening, the sound of footsteps echoed through the trees.

August spun around, heart pounding in his chest. The mist parted, and a figure stepped into view—tall, draped in dark robes, its face hidden beneath a hood. It was the same figure he had seen the night before, and now, standing so close, August could feel the cold emanating from it, like the chill of the grave.

The figure didn’t speak, but August could feel its presence pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The sword in his hand felt like a lifeline, the only thing anchoring him to reality.

The figure raised its hand slowly, and for the first time, August could see its fingers—long, bony, and twisted, like claws. It pointed at him, and in the stillness of the night, a voice, low and terrible, filled the air.

You are not ready.

The voice wasn’t loud, but it reverberated inside his skull like a bell struck underwater. Cold swept through him, a wave of it, starting at the back of his neck and rolling down his spine. His knees nearly gave out.

He tried to speak again, but no sound came. Just breath—white, ghostly, vanishing into the air like it didn’t belong.

The words echoed in August’s mind, filling him with a cold dread. He wanted to run, to flee back to the safety of the village, but something kept him rooted in place. The sword hummed in his hand, a steady, comforting presence amidst the rising fear.

I don’t… I don’t understand, August whispered, his voice shaking.

The figure didn’t respond. Instead, it turned and began to fade into the mist, its dark robes billowing behind it like smoke. In moments, it was gone, leaving August alone with the sword and the pulsing silence of the woods.

For a long time, he stood there, his mind racing, the weight of the sword heavy in his hand. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, or why the figure had spoken to him. The weight in his chest wasn’t just fear. It was a responsibility. The sword had called to him. Chosen him. And that meant it expected something in return.

But how was he supposed to protect anyone when he barely understood what he’d seen? He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t his father. He was just a boy trying not to break.

August couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed the moment he touched the sword. The night air clung to him as he made his way back through the village, Heartseeker wrapped in the tattered cloak he had draped over it. His steps were quicker now, though he wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or fear. The sword’s presence pulsed at his side, a constant hum he couldn’t ignore.

He could feel it, thrumming in his hand as though the blade were alive, and with every pulse came a flicker of something deep inside him—a warmth, like courage stirring awake after a long sleep. But beneath that warmth, there was a cold, gnawing fear. The figure in the woods had spoken to him. It had known him. And it had said he wasn’t ready.

As he neared his cottage, the mist swirled in thicker waves, obscuring the path ahead. He was tired, his mind spinning, but his heart raced with an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wanted to believe that the sword, this Heartseeker, had chosen him for a reason. But why? Why him, of all people? He was just a boy, barely holding his family together, not some hero out of the old stories.

The weight of that responsibility pressed down on him like a stone as he stepped through the door. The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Lila was still curled up in her blanket by the hearth, and Emmett lay fast asleep beside her, his toy knight resting on his chest.

August set Heartseeker gently on the table, making sure to keep it hidden beneath the cloak. He didn’t want Lila or Emmett to see it yet—not until he understood what it meant. He stared at the blade for a long moment, the faint glow of its symbols visible even through the fabric. It was almost as if it was calling to him, whispering secrets just beyond his reach.

It wasn’t just a hum— it was like a heartbeat now, matching his own. And it itched. Not on the skin, but inside. In his chest, in his teeth, behind his eyes. Like the sword was speaking in a language his body hadn’t learned to translate.

He gritted his teeth and reached for it anyway.

With a heavy sigh, he collapsed into the chair by the fire, rubbing his temples. His father hadn’t moved. The man remained frozen in his seat, staring out the window at nothing, his eyes distant and unfocused. August wondered, not for the first time, what his father would say if he could speak again. Would he know what the sword was? Would he have answers?

Dad, August whispered into the quiet room, hoping for something—anything from his father. But the man remained silent, as he always did. August clenched his fists, frustration building up inside him. How long had he been waiting for his father to come back to him? And now, when things were beginning to spiral, he needed his father more than ever.

But August was alone. He had always been alone, hadn’t he?

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, staring into the dying embers of the fire. The village was restless could feel it in the way the mist moved outside the windows, in the growing tension among the villagers. People were afraid. Maybe it was Old Bertram’s mutterings, maybe it was the thickening fog, or maybe it was the way animals had been going missing more frequently in recent weeks.

Something was coming. He could feel it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft rustling of fabric behind him. His heart leapt into his throat, and for a moment, he thought it was the figure from the woods again. He spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for Heartseeker, but there was nothing there. Only the cloak that covered the sword shifted slightly in the flickering firelight.

The blade called to him again, stronger now.

August hesitated, his hand hovering just above the cloak. He hadn’t wanted to touch it again. Not yet. But something about it pulled at him, an irresistible force that made his heart race and his breath catch in his throat. It was as though the sword wanted to be held, wanted to be understood.

With trembling fingers, he pulled back the edge of the cloak, revealing the gleaming hilt of Heartseeker. The symbols etched into the metal seemed to shift in the light, glowing faintly, like embers waiting to ignite.

He reached for it, wrapping his fingers around the hilt once more. The warmth surged through him again, stronger this time, spreading from his hand to his chest, filling him with a strange sense of purpose. But as he lifted the sword, something else stirred in the room voice, low and echoing, not from outside but within his mind.

You are not ready.

The words echoed through his skull, the same voice as before. August’s grip on the sword faltered, but he didn’t let go. The warmth from the blade battled against the cold fear that seized him, the two forces fighting for control.

I will be ready, he whispered, though the words felt hollow.

The voice didn’t respond. Instead, it faded into the background, leaving August with nothing but the pulsing hum of the sword and the silence of the night. He stared at the blade, trying to understand what it wanted from him, what it expected. He felt as though there was a secret hidden within it, something he wasn’t seeing, but every time he reached for it, it slipped away.

Just as he was about to lower the sword, there was a sharp knock on the door.

August jumped, nearly dropping Heartseeker in his surprise. His heart raced, and he quickly wrapped the sword back in the cloak, glancing toward the door. Who would come this late at night?

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

August moved toward the door cautiously, his fingers brushing the hilt of the sword as he passed it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever was on the other side of the door knew about Heartseeker.

His mind spun through possibilities. Was it someone from the village? No one ever came by after nightfall, not anymore. And if they did, they never knocked like that— like they already knew what waited on the other side. Could it be the figure from the woods? Come to finish whatever it had started? But why knock? Why not simply take the door from its hinges?

And then there was the sword. Had it somehow drawn this person to him? Was it calling out, the same way it whispered to him in flickers and pulses? Was this man part of it? A guardian? A thief? Something worse?

He opened the door a crack, peering out into the mist-filled night.

A man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, cloaked in a heavy black robe that dripped with moisture from the mist. His face was shadowed beneath a hood, but August could see the faint glint of sharp, weathered eyes watching him closely. The man’s presence was unsettling, like a storm that hadn’t quite broken.

August, the man said in a low, gravelly voice, his words cutting through the silence like a blade.

August blinked in surprise. How do you know my name?

The man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, and August instinctively opened the door wider, though something inside him screamed to close it, to shut this stranger out. There was something about the man—something dangerous, yet familiar.

You’ve found it, haven’t you? the man asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried a weight that made August’s chest tighten. The sword.

August’s hand twitched at his side, hovering near where Heartseeker lay hidden under the cloak. He didn’t respond, unsure of how to answer.

The man chuckled, the sound low and humorless. Don’t bother lying to me, boy. I can feel it. The sword… it calls to those who are meant to wield it. And you’ve been chosen.

Chosen? August’s voice cracked slightly, the weight of the word pressing down on him. I don’t understand. Why me?

The man stepped fully into the room, his presence filling the small space. He reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing a face lined with age and battle scars, but his eyes were sharp and fierce. He was older than August had first thought, his silver hair tied back in a loose knot, but there was something about him that radiated strength.

I’m not here to explain everything to you, boy, the man said, his tone gruff. But I will tell you this— Heartseeker doesn’t choose lightly. And neither do the forces that oppose it.

August’s stomach twisted at the words. Who are you?

The man’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and something else—something darker. The name’s Thorne, he said, his voice steady and sure. And I’m here to teach you how to survive.

Before August could respond, the door suddenly slammed shut behind him with a gust of wind, the mist swirling around the edges of the room. The fire flickered wildly, casting eerie shadows on the walls, and the hum of Heartseeker grew louder, more insistent.

Thorne’s gaze locked onto August’s, his expression deadly serious. And if you don’t learn quickly, boy… You won’t survive what’s coming next.

The room was still for a long moment after that—just the low crackle of the fire and the slow, steady hum of Heartseeker beneath the cloak.

Thorne didn’t say anything more. He crossed to the opposite side of the room, sat with a warrior’s weariness, and closed his eyes—not like a guest, but like someone who knew they’d be staying.

The fire cracked sharply. A log shifted, sending a spray of sparks into the air before dying back to embers. Thorne didn’t flinch.

Outside, something creaked. Not wood. Not wind. Just a sound that didn’t belong.

August’s eyes drifted to the window. The mist was still out there. Thick. Pressed up against the glass like it was listening.

August remained standing. The weight of everything pressed in on him: the sword, the figure, the voice in his head, and now this stranger who knew far too much. His father hadn’t stirred. Emmett snored softly. Lila shifted in her sleep and curled tighter beneath the blanket.

He wanted to ask Thorne a thousand questions, but none of them felt ready to be spoken. Not yet.

With a quiet breath, he slid down into the chair by the fire and pulled the woolen blanket around his shoulders. Heartseeker’s pulse had faded to a whisper now, steady and slow. Outside, the mist curled against the windows, watching. Waiting.

Sleep didn’t come easily. But eventually, it came.

3

The Blade Chose Me

The mist still clung to the windows as the early morning light filtered into the small cottage. August could barely sleep after Thorne’s arrival, his mind buzzing with a thousand questions. The room smelled faintly of smoke and iron— the remnants of last night’s fire and the lingering presence of Heartseeker. August had tried to rest, but every creak of the floorboards and sigh of the wind outside set his nerves on edge.

He felt stretched thin, like the hours between night and morning had scraped something raw inside him.

He sat at the table, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the sword hidden beneath the cloak. Heartseeker’s presence was constant, a pulsing energy that he couldn’t ignore.

Thorne was standing by the window, his gaze fixed on the thick fog outside. He had barely spoken since the firelight revealed his scarred face the night before. But now, as the sun struggled to break through the mist, August felt the weight of what was coming.

Get up, boy, Thorne’s gravelly voice broke the silence. We don’t have time to waste.

August stood there for a moment, unmoving.

Why was Thorne here? Why had he shown up at August’s doorstep with answers wrapped in riddles and a training sword in hand, expecting him to fall in line? Just days ago, August had been gathering water, trying to keep Emmett entertained and Lila from worrying herself sick. Now he was being told he needed to fight, to learn an ancient language, to prepare for something none of them understood.

It all felt like a story someone else should be living.

He looked down at Heartseeker, still wrapped in the cloak. Was this truly his path? What if this was all a mistake? What if the sword had chosen wrong?

Now, boy, Thorne said again, more forcefully this time, his eyes narrowing. You may not understand why yet, but delay will cost you more than time.

August swallowed hard, a dozen questions rising to his lips— but none of them made it out. What if this were the only way forward? What if ignoring it made things worse?

Reluctantly, he stepped forward and unwrapped Heartseeker.

August hesitated, still groggy from the few hours of restless sleep he had managed to steal. He blinked at Thorne, who had turned away from the window, his eyes sharp and filled with an intensity that made August feel like a child under his gaze.

Grab the sword, Thorne said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

August stood and unwrapped Heartseeker from the cloak. The moment his hand touched the hilt, that familiar warmth filled him again, but it wasn’t comforting this time. It was heavy, like a responsibility he didn’t know if he could bear.

Thorne nodded toward the door. We’re going outside. You’ll learn better with room to move.

August followed reluctantly, his boots crunching on the frost-hardened earth. The air outside was colder than before—sharper, and laced with the scent of damp leaves and wood smoke. Mist clung to everything: the eaves of rooftops, the tips of the grass, even the bare branches that stretched toward the sky like skeletal fingers.

The village was silent, but not asleep. It felt like it was listening.

Outside, the morning mist was thick, swirling around them as they stepped onto the dew-covered grass. The village was quiet—too quiet, as if the mist had swallowed the world whole. The silence pressed in on August, making his pulse quicken.

Draw the sword, Thorne commanded.

August did as he was told, the sound of the blade sliding from its sheath crisp in the cool air. As soon as Heartseeker was free, the symbols on the blade shimmered faintly, catching the pale light. August couldn’t help but stare at them. The patterns looked like writing, but not any language he had ever seen.

They danced when he