Elias
I leave the boy in my home, telling him to rest. He does not protest. He does not speak at all. He only sits there, silent and still, as if he has not yet decided whether he belongs to the living or the dead.
As I step out into the cold night, the village is alive with celebration. The war is over, and they rejoice in their triumph.
Lanterns sway from doorways, their golden glow painting shifting patterns over the snow-dusted ground.
The scent of roasted meat and mulled wine drifts through the air, twining with the sound of laughter and music.
Children dart between bonfires, their voices shrill with excitement. Soldiers drink deep from their cups, arms slung over each other's shoulders, toasting to the fall of the Veyrn.
I pass through them like a ghost. People call my name, ask about the aftermath, try to pull me into the revelry. I do not stop.
I have only one destination—the witch's hut, perched at the very edge of the village like an old, forgotten thing.
She wasn't always a witch. She was named Marwen once.
I don't know how old she is. Some say she was already here when our grandfathers were children, watching, waiting.
Others say she came from the north, from a place where the dead walk freely, and she fled before they could claim her too.
What I do know is that no one trusts her, yet everyone needs her. Even our lord has sent for her remedies in secret, though he would never admit it.
She was once a healer, a woman of the village, before the war turned her into something else. When the first battles with the Veyrn began, people started looking at her with wary eyes, whispering of her strange knowledge.
How did she know wounds that should kill a man would not? How did she have cures no one else could name?
Some claimed she was a Veyrn spy, others said she was cursed. When they came for her, torches in hand, she did not beg or plead.
She simply walked into the woods and never came back—at least, not as the same woman.
The next time we saw her, she lived in that rotting cabin at the edge of the village, and anyone who stepped too close said the air around it felt wrong.
Yet, despite all their fear, they come to her when their children are sick, when their warriors are wounded, when death itself lingers too close.
And she answers. Always with that sharp tongue, that tired gaze, as if the world itself has exhausted her.
I suppose I am no different. I should have left the boy in the dirt, let the crows and the frost take him. But I didn't.
And now I need her help. Again.
My boots hammer against the frozen dirt road, breath sharp in my throat. My thoughts churn with every step.
Why am I doing this? Why did I save him? He is Veyrn. There is no doubt about it. That white hair, those gray eyes.
He should be dead. All of them should be dead. Wasn't that what everyone claimed? The war is over. My people have won.
And yet, I had found myself dragging his frail body from that pit instead of finishing the job.
Each cheer, each raised tankard, each joyous cry feels like a stone pressing against my ribs. I should feel relief. Victory.
But all I feel is the creeping cold.
I push open the wooden door of the hut without knocking.
Inside, the room is dim, lit by the flickering glow of candles. The scent of dried herbs and old parchment clings to the air.
The witch sits at her table, weathered hands sifting through brittle leaves, the faint scent of dried herbs clinging to the air around her. Lines etch deep into her skin, carving the story of years spent in solitude, in knowing too much.
Her dark eyes flick up the moment I step inside—sharp, assessing, twin embers buried beneath ash.
Strands of silver-threaded hair slip loose from the braid at her back, framing a face as worn and unyielding as the stone mortar beside her.
She does not flinch, does not startle. It is as if she had been expecting me all along.
"I need something to change hair and eye color," I say without stopping to think twice. My voice is rougher than usual. "In pill form."
She tilts her head, expression unreadable. "Why?"
I hesitate, then turn to face her, my heart hammering in my chest. "I found a Veyrn boy."
Her fingers still. A flicker of something—anger? Fear? Disgust?—crosses her face. Then, she narrows her eyes. "Are you certain?"
The question twists in my gut. I see him again in my mind—the unnatural white of his hair hidden beneath dirt, the hollow look in his gray eyes, like something long dead that refused to lie still.
His voice was so quiet and distant. The way he looked past me, not at me, listening to something I could not hear.
"I'm sure," I say, and the words feel heavier than before.
The witch exhales, slow and measured, but I catch the way her jaw tightens.
"And you didn't kill him?"
"I couldn't." The words slip from my tongue before I can stop them. I do not know if they are a confession or a curse.
The witch lets out a short, sharp breath, shaking her head. "You're a fool." Then, after a pause, she gives me a piercing stare. "Did he say anything strange?"
I pause, my eyes meeting hers.
That moment by the pond. The way he had looked at me. Distant, unfocused. As if he were staring through me, seeing something I could not.
Then I say, "He told me my voice is blue."
The witch stills. The air shifts.
Her expression darkens, her lips pressing into a thin, grim line. "Then he is not just any Veyrn."
A chill runs down my spine. "What do you mean?"
She exhales slowly, rubbing her temples. "Only a Thaneborn can see colors in sound."
The words land like a hammer against my ribs.
The Thaneborn. The noble, ancient bloodline of the Veyrn. The strongest of them. The ones who led armies. The ones who could call the dead from their graves and bend them to their will.
I have heard the stories—every soldier has. The Thaneborn do not just fight; they carve through battlefields like a storm given flesh.
It is said that when they raise their hands, the dead rise with them, pulled from their rotting beds, their bodies forced to move long after their souls have fled.
No Veyrn wields their power as effortlessly, as ruthlessly, as they do. For thousands of years, they have ruled, the strongest among them crowned as kings, their reigns painted in war and blood.
And now, one sleeps under my roof. If he survived the massacre, it could only mean he may be the strongest of them all.
I should kill him. I should take my sword and end it now.
The witch watches me carefully, eyes sharp. "I could do it for you, if you'd rather not dirty your hands."
I let out a slow breath, my fingers curling into fists.
Then I think of his empty eyes.
And I know I won't.
The witch exhales through her nose, muttering under her breath as she moves to a shelf lined with vials and cloth-wrapped bundles. She snatches a small wooden box and sets it on the table between us with a sharp thud.
"He'll need to take one every day," she says, opening the lid to reveal a neat row of dark, round pills. "Miss a dose, and the white will start creeping back into his hair, his eyes will turn again. People will notice."
I nod, reaching for the box, but she slaps my hand away. "I'm not finished."
I scowl, but she ignores me.
"This will hide what he is," she continues, "but it won't stop what he will become. His power isn't tied to his appearance. These won't slow it, won't seal it away. If he's Thaneborn, he will regain what was lost—or worse, he'll learn it all over again, piece by bloody piece."
Her eyes burn into mine, her voice low and certain. "One day, he will raise the dead. And if you're still fool enough to keep him alive, you'd better figure out how to stop him from ever doing it."
A cold weight settles in my gut. I have no answer. No plan.
She watches me for a long moment, then shakes her head. "I always knew you were an idiot, Elias, but I didn't know you were this much of an idiot."
"Good to know I keep exceeding expectations," I mutter.
She snorts, then finally shoves the box into my hands. "Fine. Take them. But if he kills us all in our sleep, I get to say 'I told you so.'"
I turn the small wooden box over in my hands, my mind still circling the witch's warning. The boy will regain his power. He will raise the dead.
I should kill him.
But I won't.
Instead, I ask, "What's in these?"
The witch smirks, leaning back in her chair. "Why? Worried I poisoned them?"
"I wouldn't put it past you," I mutter.
She chuckles, then gestures toward a bundle of dried herbs on the shelf. "They're made from a mix of valerian root, blackthorn, and something special." She taps the table. "Bones."
I frown. "Bones?"
"Not just any bones." Her eyes gleam. "These come from bodies raised long ago by the Veyrn. They were once forced back to life, made to fight, to kill. But when their masters fell, so did they. And their corpses rotted, filled with the lingering power of death itself." She gestures to the pills. "Crush the bones fine enough, mix them with the right things, and—well. You get this."
I stare at the box, suddenly less eager to shove it into my coat.
"Relax," she says, waving a hand. "It's not like they'll make him a corpse." She pauses, then adds, "Though, if he stops taking them, you might want to keep a shovel handy."
I grimace. "That's comforting."
She grins, all teeth. "Oh, I love to comfort."
I exhale sharply, tucking the pills away. "What do I owe you?"
She hums, tapping a finger against her chin. "I could use some boar meat. A whole one, fresh."
I arch a brow. "A whole boar? Do you plan on feeding an army?"
"No, just myself. And my cat."
I glance around. "You don't have a cat."
The witch smiles. "Not one you can see."
A long silence stretches between us.
"…I'll get you the boar."
She nods, satisfied. "Good. And Elias?"
I hesitate at the door, glancing back.
Her smirk is gone, her expression unreadable. "You should pray the boy never learns what he is."
Her words settle like ice in my chest. I say nothing. I just step back into the cold, the weight of the pills suddenly feeling much heavier in my pocket.
----------
Elias says I can stay until morning—until I remember my name. His voice is steady, like a man giving orders, like he's telling himself this is temporary.
I don't argue. I don't speak. I only nod.
He presses small, colorless pills into my hand and tells me they will help. I do not ask what they are. I do not care. I swallow them dry, feeling them scrape against my throat.
Sleep takes me before I can think. Before I can ask if I am supposed to feel this hollow. My body is too heavy, my mind too slow.
As my vision fades, I see Elias watching me. His face is unreadable, but his eyes linger too long on my hair.
----------
I wake to screams.
The room is wrong. Too dark. Shadows shift and bleed into each other, curling over the walls like living things.
The air is thick, pressing down on me, forcing itself into my lungs. The screaming doesn't stop. It tears through the silence, raw and ragged, voices overlapping in something that is not quite human.
Then I see her.
She stands in the doorway, white hair tangled with blood, skin too pale, dress hanging in strips like she's been running through thorns.
Her hands tremble, reaching for me, fingers curling like she's trying to remember how. Her eyes—empty, endless white—lock onto mine. Her lips part.
"Kael—"
The name cuts through me like a blade, but the dark swallows the rest. The voices surge, rising into a wail, pressing into my skull until everything shatters. The world collapses inward.
Then, nothing.
Morning.
Elias crouches beside me, watching like I might stop breathing if he looks away. His voice is rough when he speaks. "Do you remember your name?"
The name is there. It sits on my tongue, something both mine and not mine. The woman's voice still echoes, trapped in my head.
I swallow hard.
"Kael."