Kael
The scent of something warm curls through the air, thick and slow. It winds around me, sinking into my skin, tugging at the edges of restless sleep.
My body is heavy. Sore. Like I've been buried beneath stone, like something unseen still drags me down.
I do not move. I barely breathe. For a moment, I do not know where I am. I do not know who I am.
The memory of white—white snow, white hair, white light splitting apart into screams—lurks just behind my eyelids, waiting.
Somewhere close, wood scrapes against metal. Embers shift in a hearth. A quiet, steady sound. Familiar. Safe.
I open my eyes.
Elias stands by the stove, stirring something in a pot. His back is turned to me, broad and unmoving, his dark hair tied at the nape of his neck.
The room around him is small, cluttered—books stacked high, weapons leaned against the walls, dried herbs twisting from the ceiling like brittle vines.
"You're awake," he says, not turning. "Good. You should eat."
I push myself upright. The blanket slips from my shoulders. My limbs ache, but the stiffness has dulled, fading into something distant, something bearable.
Elias sets a bowl in front of me. A simple stew. Steam rises from the surface, carrying the scent of root vegetables, something richer beneath. He watches as I take the spoon, gaze careful but not pressing.
"I'll keep you here until you remember where you came from," he says, arms crossed. "Your parents. Your home. Anything."
I lower my gaze. I do not answer. I do not remember. I am not sure I want to.
Elias sits across from me. He asks questions between my slow bites. Where was I before the battlefield? How long had I been there? Did I recognize any names, any faces?
Each word feels like a knife pressed against raw skin, pricking something sharp inside me. But when I reach for the memories, all I find is steel cutting through flesh, the phantom taste of blood on my tongue.
I shake my head.
Elias exhales through his nose. "Alright," he mutters. "I figured as much."
He studies me, fingers tapping once against the wood of the table. "Back at the pond," he says, voice careful, "you said my voice was blue."
I stop eating.
He waits. When I don't speak, he adds, "What did you mean?"
I search for the words. It is hard to explain something that simply is. Something I have never needed to explain before.
But Elias is patient. Somehow, that makes it worse.
"Voices have colors," I murmur finally. "Yours is blue. Dark blue."
Silence.
I glance up. Elias's expression is unreadable, his fingers curling slightly against the table.
Then, he exhales, a quiet thing, shaking his head like he's clearing a thought away. "Alright," he mutters, not unkind.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a familiar bottle. The pills. He sets them beside my bowl.
I hesitate. "What are they?"
"They'll make you feel better," he says simply. "That's all."
But as the words leave his mouth, something shifts.
His voice—a dark blue, steady and cool—is black. There's no denying it. A color thick and heavy, like ink spilled into water.
A lie.
I tighten my grip on the wooden spoon, staring at the pills resting in my palm. They are small, harmless in appearance. But the black in his voice lingers, curling at the edges of his words like smoke.
I do not know if I believe him.
But I take them anyway.
After I eat, I step outside.
The air is crisp, sharp as a blade against my skin. It bites at the raw ache in my bones, the deep, pulsing soreness that settles in my limbs.
Elias's home stands on the outskirts of the village, where the land stretches wide and empty before curling into dense forest.
The village itself is small—stone and wood, smoke rising in thin wisps from the chimneys. A woman passes with firewood bundled in her arms. A man guides a mule down a dirt path.
The quiet is thick, unnatural. It coils around me, suffocating.
I move toward the pond near the house and kneel at its edge. The water is still, reflecting the muted light of the sky. When I lean closer, my own face stares back at me.
Brown hair. Brown eyes.
I frown.
Were they always this way?
Something about them feels wrong. Off. As if I am looking through a stranger's eyes instead of my own. I reach up, grasping a lock of my hair between my fingers.
The color is plain, dull, lifeless. But the moment I touch it, something inside me recoils. A deep, visceral disgust. A wrongness so sharp it steals the breath from my lungs.
What should it be?
The question barely forms before pain slams into my skull like an iron hammer.
I choke on my own breath, body jerking forward as agony lances through my head. Blinding. Merciless.
A scream builds in my throat, but I bite it back, grinding my teeth so hard my jaw aches. My fingers claw at my scalp, nails digging in as if I can tear the pain from my skull, rip it out before it devours me whole.
A rush of white. Cold like death. The scent of iron, thick and suffocating.
A scream.
My scream.
A hand grips my shoulder. Firm, steady. Elias. His voice cuts through the haze, low and grounding. "Breathe. Kael, breathe."
I can't. My lungs are full of ice.
My vision wavers, darkness creeping at the edges. He squeezes my shoulder, anchoring me. "Look at me," he says, quiet but sharp. "You're alright."
I am not. But the pain—
It vanishes.
As suddenly as it came, it was gone.
I find myself kneeling in the dirt, gasping. My hands shake where they hover near my head, fingers trembling, still bracing for agony that no longer exists.
What…was that?
I don't remember.
I don't know if I want to. Elias stares at me hard, bearing holes into my skin.
The silence presses in around us. Then—
A rustle. A shift.
Elias stiffens. My gaze flickers to the ground near the pond's edge, to the small, broken shape lying there—a bird, limp and lifeless. It wasn't there before.
For a moment, nothing.
Then its chest twitches. A single, shuddering breath.
It does not move. It does not blink. But I swear—
I swear it breathes.
----------
Elias takes me to the village's bootmaker, saying I cannot walk barefoot forever. The streets are livelier here, pulsing with an energy that feels foreign.
People chatter excitedly, their voices weaving into a chorus of joy. As we move closer to the town square, I understand why.
They are preparing for a festival.
Colorful banners stretch between buildings, fluttering like restless spirits in the breeze. Brightly painted paper lanterns hang from wooden beams, their glow flickering in the fading light.
Merchants laugh as they set up their stalls, arranging trays of sugared almonds and spiced meats.
A woman sings an old folk song as she kneads dough, flour dusting her apron like snow.
Children dart between the stalls, wooden swords clashing in mock battle, their laughter shrill and wild.
But it is what stands at the center of the square that makes my stomach turn.
A massive straw figure towers over the crowd, its arms stretched outward in mock surrender. Its body is made of white hay, its eyes painted a striking, unnatural blue. Signs hang from its chest:
"No More Veyrn Scum."
"The Devils Are Dead."
I stare.
Nearby, a group of men drink from wooden tankards, their faces flushed with ale and celebration.
One of them raises his cup in a toast. "To the end of the Veyrn!" he bellows. "To peace at last!" The others cheer, slamming their drinks together in agreement.
A woman hands a boy a torch, ruffling his hair as he beams up at her. He clutches it with both hands, glancing toward the effigy with giddy anticipation.
The people laugh, dance, oblivious to the grotesque monument at their center. A
girl with flowers braided into her hair prances barefoot across the square, spinning beneath the effigy's shadow. A man hammers another nail into its base, sealing its fate. The hollow thud rings through my bones.
A sudden bump against my side jolts me.
I turn to see a little girl, her brown hair tied in twin braids. She looks up at me, eyes bright, curious.
"Where did you come from?" she asks. Her voice is yellow, streaked with red and pink.
I open my mouth. Then close it. I do not know what to say.
"I don't know," I answer finally.
She tilts her head, studying me. Then she grins. "You're like a ghost boy," she says with a giggle.
Then she is gone, darting back into the crowd.
I look back at the strawman. At the firewood stacked at its base. At the blue eyes painted onto its face.
They are celebrating.
But I do not know for whom.
Elias calls my name. I turn. He hands me a new pair of boots.
"Come on," he says, his voice low. "We're leaving."
----------
On our way back, the streets are still alive with celebration. I watch as people string lanterns along rooftops, as musicians tune their instruments.
The air carries the scent of roasted meat and honeyed bread. Laughter spills from taverns, warm and uninhibited.
But I do not understand.
"Why are they celebrating?" I ask. "Who are the Veyrn?"
Elias stiffens. His steps slow, as if the weight of my question has settled onto his shoulders. He does not answer immediately. I watch his throat work around unspoken words, his mouth pressing into a thin line.
And then I see it.
His voice darkens again, from blue to pitch black, just like this morning.
A hollow dread creeps into my chest.
Elias exhales sharply, running a hand over his face. When he speaks, his voice is steady, careful. "It's nothing you need to worry about."
Black.
My fingers curl against my sides. The lie is small, almost gentle, like he wants to shield me from something I'm not meant to know.
It doesn't matter. He's still lying.
"Elias," I whisper, though I do not know what I am asking for.
He glances at me, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "It's complicated."
But his voice remains black.
We walk in silence after that, the crunch of leaves beneath our boots the only sound between us. The air feels heavier now, thick with something I don't understand. I steal a glance at Elias, his face unreadable, his strides steady, purposeful.
I do not ask again.
But the question lingers, curling in my chest like smoke.
Why is he lying?