The old woman stirred from a restless sleep, her body betraying the wear of centuries, though time had long since lost meaning for her. Her single, cloudy white eye snapped open, wide and alert despite its blindness. She felt it immediately—something had changed in the night, something ancient and powerful, carried on the heavy air that pressed against her skin like the weight of a storm about to break.

  A faint hum filled the room, almost imperceptible, yet it vibrated deep within her bones. Her breath came in shallow rasps, catching in her throat. It had been so long since she had felt anything stir in this place. The Wyrdwood, usually filled with the low groans of its ancient trees and the rustle of creatures in the underbrush, was unnervingly silent tonight. It was as though the forest itself had stopped to listen.

  "It cannot be," she whispered, her voice a hoarse rasp barely audible in the stillness. She struggled to her feet, her joints creaking like dry wood about to snap. Every movement was a labor, each breath a reminder of the endless years that had worn her body down. Yet, urgency stirred her to action, something she hadn’t felt in lifetimes.

  Her hovel, a sunken structure of ancient stones and wood, was dimly lit by the faint glow of runes that had been carved into its walls long before she had made this place her sanctuary. The runes flickered to life—each one a symbol of long-dead gods, now pulsing with a faint, throbbing light that seemed to grow stronger with each passing second.

  The room smelled of damp earth, mildew, and rot—scents so ingrained in the stones and the woman’s own bones that she no longer noticed them. But tonight, there was something different in the air. A crispness, almost metallic, like the scent of blood just before it spills. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her gnarled fingers twitched as she reached for a crumbling wall to steady herself.

  "After all this time?" she muttered to herself, her mind racing. Her thoughts were sluggish, weighed down by the eons she had lived, but deep inside, something began to stir, something old and familiar.

  The runes had been dead for centuries—remnants of a time long forgotten by all but a few. And now, they were glowing with life, each one thrumming with the pulse of something vast and terrible. She reached out, brushing her fingertips over one of the symbols etched into the wall. The stone was cool beneath her touch, but the power within it was hot, almost burning her skin.

  Her eyes, though clouded and blind, somehow saw the light. It wasn’t just her senses that were awakening—it was her very soul, stirring in response to something beyond the physical world. She took in the sights and sounds with a clarity that made her feel young again, if only for a moment.

  The shack had always been a part of the forest, nestled deep in the heart of the Wyrdwood, a forest that stretched for miles, far from the villages and towns where people huddled together, telling stories of places like this. Places where trees twisted into unnatural shapes, where the fog never lifted, and where the ground itself seemed to breathe with the weight of ancient secrets.

  The Wyrdwood was alive tonight.

  The forest that surrounded her had always been a place of dread. The air within the Wyrdwood was thick and suffocating, damp with the smell of decay. Even the rain, when it came, did not cleanse this place. It left the forest sticky and wet, clinging to the earth and trees, giving the impression that everything was rotting from the inside out. The trees, old beyond imagination, bent and twisted, their bark slick with moss and their branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal hands, desperate to claw their way out of the earth. No birds sang here, no animals rustled in the bushes. Only the occasional crack of a branch underfoot or the distant groan of a tree marked the presence of life at all.

  Tonight, even those sounds were absent. The only sound was the faint hum of the runes, growing stronger as she approached the small, hidden compartment in the base of the cold stone wall. Her gnarled fingers shook as they brushed against the familiar rough surface, her touch hesitant. She had opened this compartment so many times before—hoping, praying, and always finding nothing. Just empty stone and silence. Yet now, the compartment seemed to breathe with the same ancient pulse as the runes, as though it had been waiting for this very moment.

  Her frail hands fumbled for the piece of coal near the dying embers of her fire pit, the last warmth in a room that had long since become as cold as the earth itself. She scrawled a rune on the glowing wall, her strokes surprisingly precise despite the tremor in her fingers. The stone groaned, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to echo through the very bones of the forest, and the compartment slid open, revealing a blinding white light that flooded the room.

  She gasped, recoiling at the brightness.

  For centuries, there had been nothing. And now, after lifetimes of waiting, the light had returned. It was a light so pure, so powerful, that it sent waves of heat through her frail body, warming her blood and stirring something deep within her. The air was suddenly heavy with the scent of ozone, sharp and electric, as though the light itself was charged with raw, unbridled energy.

  Her breath hitched in her throat as she stared into the compartment. The runes that lined the interior glowed with an intensity she had never seen before, their symbols shifting and pulsing as if they were alive. She reached out, her hand trembling, fingers hovering just above the surface of the light, but she hesitated. Something inside her screamed to turn away, to close the compartment and forget what she had seen. But she knew it was too late.

  Her body was already changing.

  She glanced down at her hands and nearly stumbled back in shock. Her withered, wrinkled hands were no more. Instead, they were smooth and strong, the pale skin tight and alive with youth. Her fingers flexed, moving easily, free from the stiffness and pain that had haunted her for as long as she could remember.

  Her heart raced. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, deafening in the oppressive silence of the room. She reached up, touching her face, her breath catching as she felt the fullness of her cheeks, the softness of her skin. Her hair, once thin and brittle, was now thick and lustrous, cascading over her shoulders in raven-black waves.

  For a moment, she stood frozen, her mind reeling. How could this be? After centuries of watching the world move on without her, of waiting in this forgotten place, her youth had returned.

  The transformation was a gift. Or perhaps, a curse.

  She staggered back, her gaze falling to the center of the room where something even more impossible had appeared: a staff. Tall and twisted, it stood as though it had always been there, waiting for her to see it. The wood was dark and gnarled, its surface covered in intricate runes, some she recognized from the old days before the Dissolution, others foreign and unknowable.

  At the top, two twisted wooden fingers held a small, cloudy lavender stone, the figure of a man carved into its surface. The man’s arms were outstretched, his face contorted in eternal agony, mouth open in a silent scream. A faint crackle of energy rippled from the stone, spiraling into the air before fading into nothingness.

  The sight of it made her heart skip a beat. She had not seen a relic like this in centuries—not since the time of the Dissolution, when the gods themselves had torn the world apart with their war. It had been that war, the war of the gods, that had brought the world to the brink of destruction. To save the cosmos from utter annihilation, the gods had made a final sacrifice: they had scattered their essence, their Godsblood, into the mortal world.

  And from that act, the Godsblood Walkers were born—mortals touched by the divine, beings of immense power who had once shaped the world. They had walked the earth for a time, wielding the remnants of the gods’ strength. But that time was long past. The Walkers had vanished, their power fading with the centuries, until they were little more than myths and legends.

  But the staff in front of her, pulsing with energy, was real. As real as her renewed flesh, her strength.

  She took it in her hands, and a wave of warmth and power surged through her body, nearly knocking her to the ground. It was as if the gods themselves had returned, their presence filling the small room, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Her hands trembled around the staff, but not from fear—from the sheer force of the power that now coursed through her veins.

  She closed her eyes, letting the warmth flow through her. For so long, she had waited.

  --------------

  7 Years later

  The Black Swan Tavern was exactly the kind of place Kael loved. Tucked away in the lower districts, it wasn’t the kind of establishment his father approved of—certainly not for the son of Daren Raventhorn, heir to one of the wealthiest merchant families in the city. No, the Black Swan was too rough around the edges for people like that. But for Kael, that was precisely the appeal.

  He slipped inside, immediately enveloped by the warmth and noise of the crowded room. The tavern was packed tonight, with sailors, dockworkers, and merchants crammed into every corner, their voices rising and falling with the murmur of conversation and the clink of mugs. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and stale ale, mingling with the faint scent of wet wool and wood smoke from the fire that crackled in the hearth.

  Kael paused near the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The tavern was lit by a few flickering lanterns and the low fire, casting long shadows across the stone walls and wooden beams. A bard sat in the corner, plucking out a lazy tune on a lute, his voice drowned out by the noise of the crowd. The wooden floorboards creaked underfoot as people shuffled between tables, their boots worn down by long hours on the docks. The whole place had the feel of a well-used ship—battered, but still afloat.

  He grinned to himself, pulling back the hood of his cloak and shaking off the rain that had soaked into his hair. The chill from outside clung to his skin for a moment before the warmth of the tavern began to chase it away. This was home, more than the estate his father lorded over. Here, among the chaos, Kael could breathe.

  “Look who decided to show up,” came a voice from his left.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Kael turned to see Aric leaning against the bar, already halfway through a mug of ale. His friend’s dark hair was damp from the rain, and his sharp features were lit by the glow of a nearby lantern. As usual, Aric looked like he was waiting for trouble to find him.

  “Someone has to keep you out of trouble,” Kael said, sliding into the seat next to him. He signaled the barmaid with a flick of his hand, ordering his usual without a word.

  Aric raised an eyebrow. “Me? Trouble? You’ve got it backwards, mate. You’re the one who drags us into these messes.”

  Kael grinned, leaning back against the bar. “I prefer to think of it as keeping life interesting.”

  The barmaid arrived with his drink—a frothy mug of ale that smelled faintly of honey and spices. She gave him a tired smile as she set it down, her brown hair falling in loose waves around her face. Kael met her eyes for a moment, and despite the exhaustion in her gaze, there was something there—a spark, maybe? He raised his mug to her in thanks, and she moved on to the next table without a word.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Aric warned, his voice teasing.

  “Think about what?” Kael took a long drink of his ale, savoring the warmth as it slid down his throat.

  Aric smirked. “You were giving her that look.”

  Kael chuckled, setting his mug down with a clink. “What look?”

  “The ‘I’m charming, and you know it’ look.”

  Kael shrugged, leaning his elbows on the bar. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

  Aric rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his drink. “She’s probably seen your type a hundred times over.”

  “Maybe,” Kael said, grinning. “But none of them were me.”

  Aric shook his head, though there was a smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  “Because I’m the only person in this city who can make you laugh,” Kael shot back, his grin widening. “And you know it.”

  They fell into easy conversation after that, the familiar rhythm of banter flowing between them. Despite their different backgrounds—Aric, the son of a simple craftsman, and Kael, born into wealth and privilege—the two of them had been inseparable since they were boys. They’d met by chance in the market square, both of them trying to steal the same apple from a vendor. Neither of them had gotten away with it, but they’d earned each other’s respect that day, and that respect had grown into a friendship that had carried them through every scrape and adventure since.

  The barmaid passed by again, this time carrying a tray of empty mugs. Kael caught her eye as she walked past, flashing her his best grin. She raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips, but kept walking. Aric watched the exchange, shaking his head with a laugh.

  “Hopeless,” he muttered.

  Kael turned back to him, still grinning. “You’ll see. One of these days, I’ll win her over.”

  “Sure you will,” Aric said dryly, leaning back in his chair. “Right after she’s done serving the other fifty patrons who’ve been eyeing her all night.”

  The banter continued, their words flowing easily over the noise of the tavern. But beneath the surface, Kael’s mind was elsewhere. He hadn’t told Aric everything about why he’d come tonight—about the gnawing feeling in his gut, the sense that something was brewing just beyond his reach. It was like a storm building on the horizon, not yet here but close enough to make the air feel thick, electric. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to change, and not for the better.

  He took another sip of his ale, his eyes drifting toward the fire. The flames flickered and danced, casting shadows that twisted and stretched across the walls. For a moment, he thought he saw something—a figure moving in the darkness, just beyond the reach of the light. But when he blinked, it was gone.

  Just the ale, he told himself. You’re being paranoid.

  Still, the feeling remained, a heavy weight in his chest that refused to leave. He pushed it down, burying it beneath the familiar warmth of the tavern and the easy conversation with Aric. This was supposed to be a night to relax, to forget about the expectations of his family, the weight of being the heir to the Raventhorn name. He didn’t want to think about that tonight.

  As the night wore on, the tavern grew louder, the conversations blending into a dull roar. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sweat, the heat from the fire making the room feel almost suffocating. Kael’s cloak had dried by now, but the warmth had done little to shake the chill that still clung to him, a reminder of the cold rain outside.

  “You ever think about getting out of here?” Aric asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise. He wasn’t looking at Kael, his eyes focused on the foam in his mug.

  Kael raised an eyebrow. “Out of the tavern? Because I’m pretty comfortable right where I am.”

  Aric gave him a sidelong glance, his expression more serious than Kael was used to seeing. “No, I mean out of here. The city. The whole damn thing.”

  Kael paused, his fingers drumming lightly against the side of his mug. The question caught him off guard, though it wasn’t the first time he’d thought about it. “And go where?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

  Aric shrugged. “Anywhere. Just… somewhere that isn’t here.”

  Kael considered the idea for a moment, his mind wandering to the world beyond the city walls. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to leave—he did, sometimes, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. But there was something about the city, something that held him here, tethered like an anchor. His father, his family’s legacy, the future he was supposed to inherit—it was all a cage, even if it didn’t always feel like one.

  “Wherever we go,” Kael said finally, a grin tugging at his lips, “we’ll end up getting into trouble. You know that, right?”

  Aric snorted, his serious expression breaking. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Trouble is what we’re best at,” Kael agreed, raising his mug in a mock toast. “To trouble, then.”

  Aric clinked his mug against Kael’s, the tension of the moment slipping away as they both laughed. But even as the conversation shifted back to lighter topics, the question lingered in Kael’s mind. What would it be like? he wondered. To leave it all behind, to go somewhere no one knew his name?

  But that wasn’t his life. Not yet, anyway. For now, he was stuck where he was—caught between his family’s expectations and his own desire for something more. And until he figured out what that “more” was, he’d keep doing what he always did—finding ways to slip between the cracks, to steal moments of freedom where he could.

  Kael leaned back, letting his eyes wander over the crowded tavern. It was getting late, and the patrons were showing signs of it. Some were well into their cups, voices growing louder, laughter turning more raucous. A group of sailors near the far corner was engaged in an enthusiastic game of dice, the thud of bones on wood punctuated by the occasional groan or cheer. The barmaid was still making her rounds, though now she looked more tired than amused, her steps slowing as the night wore on.

  From the far side of the room, a commotion caught his attention. A pair of men stood, chairs scraping back across the floor as they squared off, their voices rising above the general din.

  “Here we go,” Kael muttered, watching as the scene unfolded. One of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, leaned forward, jabbing a finger into the other man’s chest. From the look of them, they were both dockworkers—probably arguing over something trivial that had festered all night with the help of too much ale.

  “Care to wager on how long before one of them throws a punch?” Aric asked, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

  Kael considered it for a moment, watching as the smaller man swayed slightly on his feet, his face flushed with drink. “I’d give it about ten seconds.”

  “Five,” Aric countered, taking a sip of his ale.

  They both watched in silence, and sure enough, barely a heartbeat later, the smaller man lunged, swinging a wild, sloppy punch that caught the larger man in the jaw. The brawl that followed was brief but effective—chairs clattered, mugs spilled, and a few unlucky bystanders found themselves shoved aside as the two men grappled across the floor. The bartender barked out a sharp order, and a couple of burly regulars quickly moved in to break it up, dragging the men apart and tossing them toward the door with little ceremony.

  Kael chuckled softly. “You win.”

  Aric grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Naturally.”

  Despite the brief distraction, Kael’s thoughts continued to wander, the noise of the tavern fading into the background. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was coming—that the life he’d known up until now was on the brink of changing. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just the result of too much ale and a few too many reckless adventures.

  But somewhere deep down, he knew better.

  His fingers drifted toward the dagger tucked beneath his cloak, the familiar weight of it against his side offering a small measure of comfort. He’d had the blade for years, ever since he was a boy, but recently… recently it had started to feel different. There were moments when he held it—moments when the leather grip seemed to pulse beneath his fingers, like the dagger was humming with some strange energy. He’d never told anyone about it, not even Aric. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could easily explain without sounding mad.

  But the truth was, Kael didn’t think it was his imagination. The dagger had always felt special to him, like it was more than just a blade. And as much as he tried to push the thought away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to it—something that he hadn’t yet uncovered.

  Aric’s voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “You’ve got that look again.”

  Kael blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the fire, lost in his own mind. He glanced over at Aric, forcing a grin. “What look?”

  “The ‘I’m thinking about something I shouldn’t be’ look.”

  Kael shrugged, taking another drink of his ale. “Just thinking about how lucky you are to have me as a friend.”

  Aric snorted. “Lucky, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

  “Absolutely,” Kael said, leaning back in his chair. “Without me, your life would be a lot less exciting.”

  Aric raised an eyebrow. “Without you, my life would probably be a lot longer.”

  Kael grinned, but the weight in his chest didn’t lift. There was something in the air tonight, something he couldn’t quite name. He could feel it, pressing in on the edges of his awareness, like the moments before a storm broke.

  As if on cue, the door to the tavern swung open with a loud creak, the wind from outside gusting in with a burst of cold, damp air. Kael glanced toward the entrance, his eyes narrowing as a figure stepped inside. The newcomer was hooded, their face shadowed, but there was something about the way they moved—something that caught Kael’s attention.

  The figure paused for a moment, scanning the room, before slipping into the shadows along the far wall, almost invisible in the dim light. Kael watched them for a few moments longer, his instincts prickling with unease.

  “Trouble?” Aric asked, noticing his gaze.

  Kael shrugged, though his eyes didn’t leave the shadowed figure. “Maybe.”

  Aric followed his gaze, frowning. “You know him?”

  “No,” Kael said slowly, “but I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

  Aric raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, the barmaid returned with another round of drinks, setting the mugs down with a thud that drew Kael’s attention away from the stranger. He gave her a quick smile, though his mind was still racing.

  Something was shifting tonight. He could feel it—like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. And if there was one thing Kael had learned in his seventeen years, it was that when you had a feeling like this, it usually meant trouble was just around the corner.

  As the night dragged on, the tavern grew louder, the mix of voices and laughter blending into a steady hum. The air was thick with smoke and the warmth from the fire made everything feel just a little too close. Kael's cloak had dried, but the strange feeling in his gut hadn’t gone away. It was like something was hanging in the air, waiting to happen.

  Aric finished his drink, setting the empty mug down with a loud thud. “You’re not thinking of turning in already, are you?”

  Kael smirked, though his thoughts were still spinning. “What ?”

  Aric leaned back in his chair, a familiar gleam in his eye. “Heard some interesting chatter about the docks. Word is, there’s been some unusual shipments coming in late. Crates that disappear before anyone asks too many questions.”

  Kael’s interest piqued, his grin widening. "Smugglers?"

  Aric shrugged, but there was a spark of mischief in his grin. “Could be. Or something more interesting.”

  “Better than sitting here, at least,” Kael said, tossing a few coins on the table. “What are we waiting for?”

  As they stood to leave, Kael felt the cold rush of air hit his face when they stepped outside. The rain had started again, soft but steady, tapping against the cobblestones. He pulled his hood up, looking out at the narrow, glistening streets. That uneasy feeling still lingered, but he pushed it aside. If there was trouble down at the docks, he wasn’t about to let it slip past him.

  “Let’s see what they’re hiding,” Kael muttered, glancing at Aric. “Could be fun.”

  Aric’s grin widened. “Always is.”

  With that, they set off into the rain, slipping into the night with the promise of something far more interesting than another round of ale.