Chapter 1 – The House Above the Ground
Imre was seven years old, small for his age, with white hair that caught the light and pale blue eyes that reflected the sky more than the earth.
He wore a wool tunic paired with wool trousers, secured by a leather belt, and sturdy leather shoes that bore the marks of long use.
For three days, he and his father had lived in the forest.
For three days, he hadn't seen his mother.
Above them, bound tightly to the trunk of an ancient tree, stood their new home—a wooden structure woven from branches and planks. From a distance, it looked less like a house and more like a massive bird's nest, clinging stubbornly to life.
Imre was standing, watched as his father secured the last rung of the ladder.
Hira Sorena was tall, broad-shouldered, and calm in a way that made the forest seem quieter around him. A thick beard shadowed his face, and two swords rested across his back as naturally as breath. His eyes—pale blue, almost white—missed very little.
he wore layered desert robes in muted sand tones, the fabric loose and travel-worn. a dark scarf was wrapped around his neck against sun and wind, while leather belt clinched his waist, holding simple gear. Sturdy boots and a long outer west completed look of seasoned wanderer shaped by heat, dirt, and long journeys.
Imre shifted his weight from one foot to the other.Shadows stretched across the ground from sun-drenched trees. The forest was open rather than dense, allowing light to filter freely through the branches and bathe the land in a gentle glow.
The surroundings were cluttered with the debris of construction—splintered wood, coiled ropes, and scattered tools left behind from building the house. Nearby stood a small, weather-worn tent where they had lived while the home was still unfinished. Dark ashes from countless cooked meals lay cold in the dirt, silent traces of the days spent living and waiting.
"Dad," he said softly, his eyes betraying the longing he couldn't hide, "why aren't we living with Mom and my uncles?"
He hesitated, then asked in a quieter voice, "Are we… going to live here now?"
Hira climbed down the ladder and stopped in front of him. For a moment, he didn't answer. Then He sat down on one knee and placed a hand on Imre's head.
"Do you miss them already?" he asked.
Imre nodded.
He stroked Imre's hair.
He stood up, a faint smile crossed Hira's face—warm, but brief.
"They'll come tomorrow," "All of them."
Hira stood and looked up at the tree-house.
"Do you remember what I taught you?"
"I remember everything," Imre said quickly.
Hira glanced at him, amused.
"Good. Then come. Our home is ready."
They stood face-to-face at the base of the ladder.
"You will climb now," Hira said. "Show me what you got, go on" crossing his hands onto his chest, standing and looking at Imre.
Imre swallowed and placed his hands on the rough wood.
The ladder creaked.
"Don't look down," Hira said calmly. "Just go up."
Imre climbed.
Halfway up, his foot slipped.
His heart jumped—but his fingers tightened, nails scraping against bark. He held on.
Hira didn't move.
"You'll do this every day," he said evenly. "So learn to trust your grip."
My hands hurt, Imre thought. But I can't let go.
He climbed the rest of the way.
"Well done," Hira said. "I knew you could."
Inside, the house was small but solid. One large bed rested against the wall. Swords hung neatly beside a bow and two spears. Everything smelled of wood, oil, and steel.
"I did it," Imre thought, his arms trembling.
"I'm proud of you," Hira said quietly.
Then—
Thud.
An arrow struck the outer wall of the house.
Hira's head snapped toward the sound. In a single motion, he reached to his belt and drew a knife—polished, elegant, deadly.
He placed it in Imre's hands.
"This is for today's achievement," he said. "Your uncle is calling me. I'll return tonight—with your mother."
Imre stared at the knife, eyes wide.
"Until then," Hira continued, "practice with it. Feel its weight."
Imre hugged him tightly.
"I always wanted a real knife," he said. "Thank you, Dad."
Hira hesitated—just for a breath—then nodded.
"Remove the cover. Show me what you've learned."
The blade gleamed like water under moonlight. Imre saw his own reflection in it—small, shaking, excited.
He practiced slowly. Stabs. Blocks. Slashes.
Hira said gently. "you're learning."
Stopped for a second, falling into deep thoughts.
Then
He kissed Imre's head.
"Practice your rotating slash. I want to see improvement when I return."
Then he left.
The forest swallowed his footsteps.
It hurts, Imre thought. But if I keep going, I'll be strong.
On the blade, a single letter was engraved.
N
Mom taught me letters, he thought. I'll ask Dad what it means.
Hours passed.
By candlelight, Imre sat at the desk, flipping through picture books and map. The wind rattled the branches.
It's almost midnight, he thought.
The moon was full. Bright. Too bright.
He stepped toward the window to look outside. The scene was amazing, and the cool wind felt refreshing. He went to sleep.
Then—
"ARRR!"
A howl echoed through the forest.
Another followed.
Closer.
His chest tightened.
He stood up fast, grabbing his knife. Curious and fear on his face, he looked down Ground site. Pack of wargs passing through the forest without noticing Imre's presence. House built on top of big tree was perfectly measured to stand unnoticed from most wildlife creatures.
---
Flashback – one Years Ago
Inside the tent, the air was warm and gentle, lit by a single large candle that filled the space with a soft golden glow. Its flame danced against the canvas walls, making the shadows of weapons sway like quiet guardians. Swords rested against wooden supports, spears leaned nearby, and travel gear lay neatly stacked, all too large and heavy for a child to use.
A low table stood close to the ground, covered with hand-drawn maps, rolled parchment, and thick old books bound in worn leather. Small medieval items—ink pots, quills, carved wooden figures, and bronze trinkets—were scattered across it, as if the tent belonged to someone who lived between war and knowledge.
Imre, only four years old, sat on a folded cloth near the table. He held a huge, ancient picture book almost as big as his torso, its yellowed pages filled with faded drawings of heroes, monsters, and distant lands. His feet barely touched the ground, and his small hands struggled to turn each page.
"Mom," Imre asked, pointing at a picture. "What's that?"
A warg is a massive, wolf-like predator, far larger and more intelligent than any natural wolf.
Milasa smiled faintly.
A middle-aged woman with soft white hair, its color giving her an almost otherworldly calm. Her pale blue eyes were gentle yet clear, carrying the same shape and depth as Imre's, a quiet sign of their bond.
Her nose was small and delicate, and faint wrinkles traced the space between her ears and the corners of her eyes. They were not marks of sorrow or age, but signs of a life filled with smiles.
"these are wargs,big theeth and big nails. "
"They hunt in packs. If you see one, hide better and faster."
"Can we pet them like other creatures?"
Her smiled.
"No. They can't be tamed."
"Can Dad kill them?"
"They know your father's scent," she said softly. "They fear it when you proved them your strength. Remember your Scent untill they die."
---
The memory faded.
Imre stepped back from the window.
Below the tree, something scraped against the bark.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Then another howl rose—closer than before.
Imre tightened his grip on the knife.
And waited.