The Village Elders sat on a row of polished oak stumps in the center of the communal hall, their faces illuminated by the flickering hearth. To Arthur, they looked less like wise leaders and more like ancient gargoyles guarding a tomb.
"Absolutely not," Elder Thorne said, his voice grating like stone against stone. He didn't even look up from the ledger in his lap.
Arthur stood in the center of the room, flanked by Leo and Maya. Leo was fidgeting, practically vibrating with nervous energy, while Maya stood straight, hands clasped respectfully behind her back.
"But Elder," Arthur started, trying to keep his voice steady. "The Festival of Light only happens once every four years. We've finished the harvest. The southern fields are plowed. We would only be gone for three days."
"Three days is enough time for a wolf to find a stray lamb," Thorne snapped, finally raising his eyes. They were milky with age but sharp with authority. "The roads are not safe, boy. There are rumors of bandits near the river crossing. And worse things in the shadows of the mountains."
"We can handle ourselves," Leo blurted out. "Arthur is strong as an ox, and I'm fast! And Maya... well, Maya is smart enough for both of us."
"Silence!" Thorne slammed the ledger shut. Dust motes danced in the firelight. "You are children of Oakhaven. Your place is here, ensuring the village survives the winter. Not gallivanting off to the capital to gawk at fireworks and knights who care nothing for you. The decision is final. Go to your homes."
Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but Maya nudged him sharp in the ribs. He looked at her. She gave a microscopic shake of her head.
Not here. Not now.
"Yes, Elder," Arthur said through gritted teeth.
They walked out into the cool evening air, the heavy wooden doors thudding shut behind them with a sound of finality.
"Old bats," Leo kicked a stone, sending it skittering into a puddle. "They act like the world ends at the treeline. 'Bandits.' Please. The only bandit I've ever seen was old man Miller trying to steal an extra scoop of flour."
"They're scared," Maya said quietly, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "They remember the last war. My dad says the capital isn't just fireworks. It's politics. And politics gets people killed."
Arthur looked up at the sky. The first stars were piercing the twilight, diamond chips scattered on blue velvet. The hum in his blood hadn't faded; if anything, the Elders' refusal had only stoked the fire.
"We're going," Arthur said.
Leo stopped kicking stones. "Wait, you mean... actually going? Tonight?"
"You said you knew where the dried meat was," Arthur looked at him. "And Maya, you have the map."
Maya looked back at the closed doors of the hall, then at the darkening road leading north. She took a deep breath, the cold air filling her lungs. "Midnight. My dad checks the locks at eleven. I can slip out the pantry window after that."
"I'll meet you by the ancient oak," Arthur said. "Bring cloaks. It's going to be a cold walk."
The escape was terrifyingly simple.
Oakhaven slept the deep, exhausted sleep of farmers. There were no guards, no walls—only the trust that no one would be foolish enough to leave the safety of the hearth in the dead of night.
Arthur moved like a ghost through his uncle's cottage. Gareth was snoring in the other room, a rhythmic, rumbling sound that usually brought comfort but now set Arthur's nerves on edge. He grabbed his pack—stuffed with a spare tunic, a waterskin, and his sturdy wood-axe—and eased the front door open.
The hinge whined.
Arthur froze.
Gareth snorted in his sleep, mumbled something about "rain in the west," and rolled over.
Arthur let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and slipped into the night.
The ancient oak stood on a hill overlooking the village, its massive branches silhouetted against the moon like the skeletal hands of a giant. Leo and Maya were already there. Leo was bouncing on his heels, a lumpy sack slung over his shoulder that smelled faintly of smoked ham. Maya was studying a parchment map by the light of a captured firefly in a jar.
"We're really doing this," Leo whispered, his grin visible even in the dark.
"Quiet," Maya hissed, though she was smiling too. "The road follows the river for five miles, then cuts through the Whispering Woods. If we keep a steady pace, we'll reach the King's Highway by dawn."
They turned their backs on Oakhaven. As they crossed the ridge, Arthur looked back one last time. The village was just a cluster of dark shapes now, peaceful and ignorant. A pang of guilt struck him—Gareth would be furious, maybe even heartbroken—but the pull of the horizon was stronger.
They walked for hours.
The fear of being caught slowly morphed into a giddy, intoxicating sense of freedom. The world at night was a different place. The wind sang through the tall grass, and the Dragontooth Mountains loomed ahead, jagged and majestic, bathed in silver moonlight.
By the time their legs began to burn, they were deep into the foothills. They found a sheltered hollow beneath a rocky overhang to rest. Leo broke out the dried meat—it was tough as leather but tasted like victory.
"Look at that moon," Leo said, chewing noisily. He pointed upward. "It looks huge out here. No roofs to block it."
"It's the same moon, idiot," Maya laughed, unrolling the map to check their progress.
"Uncle Gareth used to tell me stories about the moon," Arthur said softly, leaning his back against the cold stone. "He said that before the Great Betrayal, the moon didn't have those cracks in it."
He pointed to the faint, spiderweb fissures visible on the lunar surface—scars of a cosmic battle fought eons ago.
"The Great Betrayal," Leo lowered his voice, adopting a dramatic storyteller's tone. "Thousands of years ago. When the Lords of the World got jealous of the First King."
"It wasn't just jealousy," Maya corrected, tracing the line of the river on her map. "It was fear. My dad has books on it. He says the First King could raise the dead, Leo. Not just one or two. Armies. Imagine a king who never runs out of soldiers because he can just wake them back up."
Arthur shivered. "The Undead Army."
"Exactly," Maya continued. "The other regions—the ancestors of Aeris, Glacis, all of them—they saw that power and realized they were just pets to Ozyra. So, they struck. They say the battle shook the stars."
"The world broke with it," Arthur finished the verse. It was a common nursery rhyme. "The sky fell up, the sands burned hot, and the ice froze time. The magic, it scattered into Shards."
"And the world was scattered with it. And each kingdom was given a Shard. Thus, the Shard Kingdoms," Leo added, looking around into the darkness as if a Shard might be hiding behind a bush. "Do you think the Aethelgard's Shard is really in the castle? Or is that just a myth to scare invaders?"
"It has to be," Arthur said, clutching his axe handle. The hum was there again, faint but steady. "That's why the soil here is so fertile. Why our walls are so strong. The Shard protects us."
"Or traps us," Leo countered. "Depends on who you ask."
A howl pierced the night—long, mournful, and far too close.
The three teenagers froze.
"That wasn't a normal wolf," Arthur said, standing up. The vibration in his hands grew stronger, almost painful. He didn't know why, but his body was reacting, adrenaline flooding his veins before he even saw a threat.
"It came from the ridge," Maya packed the map away instantly. "We need to move. Now."
"To the Highway?" Leo asked, grabbing his pack.
"No," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the treeline, his vision seeming to sharpen in the dark. "The Highway is too open. We stick to the trees until dawn. Move."
They scrambled out of the hollow, the lore of ancient kings forgotten as the reality of the wild closed in. They were free of Oakhaven, but they were no longer safe.
The journey had only begun.