The village swelled around Tefta, pushing him into Jaret as the people clamored around the square. Falderfell had been packed with more than the regular villagers since the news of the attack, and the Mycellians had spread over the safewood. Farmers, tree cutters, and quarrymen all had been flocking to the village during the morning. The square was full to bursting, people talking over each other and yelling. The stones had been washed and scrubbed clean, but Tefta could still smell the hint of blood and ash.

  Jaret stood beside him, the tower of a man laying a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. The blacksmith had been with the first men to take up arms against the Rot Walker. His face was bruised and covered in a web of scrapes, his arm wrapped in a makeshift sling. He had been thrown through the town hall’s door in the fight. The men said he had pushed his shoulder back into its socket and grabbed a spear from the fallen before charging back into battle. Tefta believed them. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and hard as he stared forward through the crowd.

  The events of that night wouldn’t quite stick in Tefta’s head. He would grasp them briefly, but the other parts would slip from him. It was like trying to hold water in his palm. The light, the voices, the screaming. It all blended into a pale wash, leaving an ashy taste in his throat. Fey had barely left his side since, whispering what had happened to the Mother’s and Rangers.

  A wisp wight, she had told him. They never come this far into the safewood, but neither do Rot Walkers. One like that isn’t much to deal with. You can mostly ignore them. It’s only in wight country, where they appear in great clumps, that they're truly dangerous. You mustn’t listen to them, Tef. They speak only lies. And Ioleth’s mercy, don’t ever touch them.

  For all his forgetfulness, Tefta could remember the voices. Those horrid whispers. Promises burning his ears. A woman screaming for him to run. He rubbed the raised brand on the back of his neck, the memories of that burning agony still fresh on his mind. There was something he was supposed to remember, something so vital to everything. It lay right beyond the reach of his mind, and the anticipation made him feel as if he was going mad. He came close when he slept, fragments falling into place while he dreamt, only to slip away again when he woke. It made him want to scream, but what good would that do?

  The square began to fall silent as they watched a man walk to the front of the crowd. Captain Gareth, his green and black cloak rippling softly in the afternoon breeze, stood in front of the burnt ruin of the town hall. No one could give a straight answer as to how the building caught fire. The best guess was that a lantern had been knocked over in the chaos. The Captain was a striking figure, tall and muscled with age. His black hair stopped just above his shoulders, streaked with white like his beard. His face was stern and unwavering, his jaw set firmly. Tefta could still see the dried blood of the fallen Ranger on his brow.

  The air grew still and silent, the chirping of birds serving as the only break in the monotony. The Captain stood tall, a spear grasped in his left hand. His voice boomed out, projecting throughout the square.

  “My Rangers and I have met with the Mother’s council. Last night was strange, but it offered us insight into what needs to be done. There will be another attack.”

  A wave of worried murmurs fell over the crowd. Jaret’s hand tightened around Tefta’s shoulder.

  Gareth held up a hand towards the crowd, attempting to regain control. “We do not know when it will happen, but it will happen. More will come, and here you are vulnerable.”

  “What would you have us do, Captain?” A voice yelled out from the crowd. “You and your Rangers are supposed to protect us!” Shouts of agreement rang out through the square

  “The Mother’s Council has convened,” Mother Reila called out, standing beside Gareth, her dress still stained with brown blood. “The Captain is right. Falderfell is vulnerable. We rely on the Rangers to fight for us and have never been openly attacked before. We have decided that the best course of action is to relocate to the old fort.”

  Yelling crashed over Tefta, the tide of bodies swelling around him. Jaret grabbed his arm in a vice grip as people pushed and squeezed around them. “Stay beside me, Tef.” Men and women all began shouting at once, their voices filled with disbelief and anger.

  “This village has been ours for generations!” An old tree cutter bellowed beside Tefta, waving a wooden cane.

  “You expect us to up and go, march our families into your fort from the words of a half-mad toadstool?” A woman’s voice called out from farther in the crowd, receiving calls of support from throughout the crowd.

  Gareth stood up taller. Tefta was beginning to have to stand on his tiptoes to see over the men who had pushed in front of him and Jaret. The blacksmith was quiet, his hand still firm on the boy’s shoulder as he stared at the captain. The captain’s voice boomed out over the square. “I will not force any man or woman to leave their home. Anyone who wishes to stay is free to do so.” He gestured behind him to the ruins of the town hall. “The village has never been directly attacked before and doesn’t have the defenses to hold it long-term against repeated attacks. And I doubt we’ll have time to prepare it for that.”

  The old tree cutter spoke up again beside Tefta. He rested his weighted cane, which he had undoubtedly carved himself. His sun-browned, leathery face held the aura of someone who demanded respect as he addressed the captain with a deep voice like grinding gravel. “And you could promise us safety at your fort, Captain? News gets around the safewood. Rioth’s dead. His family with him. Slaughtered in their barn.” The village grew deadly silent as the man spoke.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Rioth’s father was a friend of mine before he passed. A good man with a good son. Now, that son is dead, along with nigh twenty other sons and daughters. The safewood has never been truly safe, we who make our living amongst it know it the most. Oak shades, wolves, even roxies can kill you if you’re not careful.

  “But we rest easy knowing that the worst is kept out by your Rangers. You patrol and you fight and you die so that the rot walkers and all the other horrors of the deepwood stay where they belong. We rested easy because of that. And the good people of the village should be the ones to rest easiest. If you and your Rangers failed us, how do we know it won’t happen again? I would rather die defending my home than cowering in your fort.”

  The square was silent save for the chirping of birds. Gareth’s gaze softened and fell as he stared at the crowd. Tefta watched him in between the bodies that shifted and swayed. The next voice startled him, as it came from directly beside him.

  “I fought the beast.” Jaret’s voice was deep and commanded attention as the people turned to watch the blacksmith. “When I heard the screaming and the chanting, I was among the first to stand and fight.” He took his hand from Tefta’s shoulder and gestured to his sling. “I was fortunate to walk away with this, but many good men weren’t so lucky.

  “You all stand here and cry that the Captain failed us, that his Rangers failed us. But I saw that monster and fought it. It was nothing like we’ve ever seen. It was only the grace of Ioleth herself that the village stands. Jeorge was a good man, as good a Ranger as I’ve ever met. He died for us, and sacrificed for us, and all of you stand here and say he could have done more? That he failed us?

  “Whatever is happening, it is beyond anything we have faced before. Something is changing. I can feel it, Fey can feel it. The Captain is right. If we stay here and pretend that everything is the same as before, we will die. More of the rot walkers are coming. We have to stop bickering and passing the blame and do what will keep our children alive.”

  There were a few murmurs as the crowd turned to Gareth, anticipation in the air as they watched the Captain. He propped the spear in his hand, the exhaustion washing away from him as he addressed the people. “We are Rangers. We fight and die. Our hands in service, our hearts in honor, our lives in vigil. I cannot promise to know what is coming. What I can promise is that my Rangers will lay down everything before we allow harm to come to this village.”

  As he spoke, Tefta could feel the atmosphere shift around him from anger to anticipation as the people whispered amongst themselves. The image of the floating, screaming mass of light crept into the corners of his mind like fog washing over water. He tugged at the corners of his memories, trying to fish out whatever hid just beyond the peripherals, but came short.

  Mother Reila had begun to speak again, her demeanor back to that of the town matriarch as she began to call out orders to the crowd. “The other Mothers will assist in making sure we have what we need. Runners will be sent to any farms that haven’t received word. We need a concise count of…” Her voice trailed into the background as Jaret turned, guiding Tefta by the shoulder.

  “Come Tef, the Rangers will need plenty of steel, and I won’t be caught dead in another man’s shop without my tools.”

  “Don’t the Rangers have their own blacksmith?” Tefta asked as they wove through the crowd to the open stone overhang of the forge.

  “Sure they do, decent enough fellow. But there’s a reason they send all their broken steel to us.”

  Soon the day became an endless frenzy of checking, and double checking, and loading ingots of steel and raw ore onto a wagon outside of the forge. Fey ran to and fro with one of the Mothers, collecting tools and bits of furniture and various pots and plates from the long wooden house that would all have to be meticulously cataloged and assigned once the entire village was confined to a walled fort that was not designed to hold the number of people crammed into it.

  As Tefta worked, hauling heavy tools for Jaret and then crates of clothes and provisions for Fey, the emptiness of his mind became more and more apparent. There was nothing. Beyond burning pain and running through dark trees, he was nothing. Everything he was, everything he had, had been given to him in the last week or so by the people of the village. All he had was a brand he didn’t remember getting and a sword he didn’t remember carrying. We’ll show you what was stolen from you. The words ran through his head, echoing around the void where his memories should lay.

  Tefta loaded a crate of dried fruit onto a cart in the center of the square where the Mothers were sorting through all of the village’s provisions. As he turned, scratching at the rough raised scar on the back of his neck, he saw Fey talking to Jaret in front of the forge. Their mouths moved silently, the words unheard over the bustle of the square.

  Fey, smaller than Jaret by more than a foot, laid her arm gently on Jaret’s sling, her face brimming with concern. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, pulling her husband into a tight embrace, the massive man taking her gently into arms that could crush stones.

  As Tefta watched them, a new feeling began to fill his head. Guilt. None of this happened until I showed up. It called me the Child of Mist. Tefta walked to the couple that had taken him in without question, and as Fey pulled away and began to shout out orders at a tree cutter who was carrying the wrong tool to the wrong cart, Tefta began to think that whatever was happening to Falderfell, it all must be his fault.

  The Child of Mist found. An Earthsinger awakened. One has not spoken with Will in centuries. The old ways are forgotten, deemed as myth and sin. The Fae have disappeared from my sight and heart. What say you, Firstborn? Should the gods once again wipe out men, scatter them across the wind?

  No mother. Let us save such wrath for a day in which it is due. The Earthsinger has only just awakened, her Will minute. Was it not her people who sought to stop the sins of the old kings? Your wrath is not with her kind. The Moonseers are gone, wiped out with the Fae. There is no one else who stands for us. And we will need allies. The old kings are waking, and if they wake fully…

  Very well, child. We will forestall our wrath, but the Child must be accounted for. The kings have made their mark on him and already breached the sigils. If only your brother would return from his exile. Then perhaps they would balk at this blasphemy.

  Jarek will return when he deems it fit. Only I stand now. The Child and the Earthsinger will be accounted for. The sigils must be restored. Though I fear it may be too late. Things are waking in the deep forest. I fear that we must face what cannot be undone.