Chapter 35: Chosen ones

The night was finally over.

The last of the fiends had been killed, their bodies turning to ash as the first pale light of dawn crept over the mountains.

The sun had not yet risen, but the sky was no longer black. It was the grey color of old bones, and it matched the mood of the survivors.

In the village square, Lady Valara moved among the wounded with gentle hands. Her dress was torn and stained with blood, but she did not care.

“You’ll be well,” she told Old Marcus, whose arm had been broken by a fiend’s claw. The golden light flowed into him, and the bone knitted back together.

“Rest now.”

Around the square, the survivors were sorting the dead from the living. Too many bodies lay still in the growing light.

The wedding feast had become a funeral.

All of them have gathered; Rena went to her mother and hugged her. Valara healed Natina and Ryanna. Neither of them spoke of what happened in the cellar.

The events of this whole night felt too surreal for them.

Right then,

Jaenor walked slowly into the square, carrying his father’s body in his arms. Garrick felt so light, as if death had taken more than just his life.

Jaenor’s clothes were soaked with black blood from the fiend he had killed, and his eyes were empty.

He laid his father’s body before the old stone well in the center of the square. Rosa sat beside her husband, her hand resting on his cold cheek.

She had stopped crying.

There were no tears left.

Rena ran toward Jaenor when she saw him, but she stopped when she saw his face. He looked like a stranger, someone she had never met before. The kind young man who had laughed at the wedding was gone.

In his place was someone harder, colder.

“Jaenor?” she said softly.

He looked at her, but his eyes were distant. “He’s dead,” he said in a flat voice. “My father is dead.”

Taeryn and Baren came up behind Rena, both of them still shaken by what had happened in the tavern.

They looked at Jaenor with grim expressions. They saw Garrick lying on the ground, dead.

Other survivors gathered around them.

They lost their dear ones.

The atmosphere was heavy with grief.

The square filled with quiet sobs and whispered prayers. The living mourned the dead, and the grey light of dawn made everything look like a dream. A terrible dream that they could not wake up from.

Then, from the dark woods that surrounded the village, came another sound.

A howl. Long and low and full of hunger.

Valara stopped her healing and stood up slowly. The golden light around her hands flickered and died.

“No,” she whispered. “It cannot be.”

But it was.

More fiends were coming.

The night’s battle had been just the beginning.

The survivors looked at each other with growing fear. They had barely survived the first attack. How could they fight again?

That was when Morgana and Darian walked into the square.

The Crimson Witch looked just as she had when the battle began, her midnight robes unmarked by blood or dirt. Her black hair moved in a wind that no one else could feel, and her eyes held the deep blue of winter ice.

Darian walked beside her, his black armor gleaming in the pale light. His wolf-head helmet was tucked under his arm, showing a face that was both young and old, scarred by many battles but still strong. But the scar on the left side of his face stood out.

“The first wave is dead,” Morgana said, her voice carrying clearly across the square. “But more are coming. Many more.”

The survivors stared at her in shock.

They had thought the battle was over.

“Is this your doing?” Valara asked, stepping forward. Even exhausted and wounded, she carried herself like the warrior she was.

Morgana remained silent as she looked at Rena, then Taeryn, and lastly, she stopped her gaze on Baren.

“No, it’s not me who led them here,” she said. “They were here to get their hands on chosen ones.”

Jaenor tightened his fists; the red haze lingered on him as he heard that more of them were coming. He was angry because he couldn’t protect his father.

Morgana snapped her head back towards where Jaenor stood. Her eyes squinted as she noticed the red haze, and then her eyes went wide.

Darian also noticed and was surprised.

“Chosen ones? What are you saying?” Valara asked, her expression turned serious.

Morgana turned to Rena, Baren, and Taeryn. “You all must have experienced something today, something strange that shocked you.”

All three of them looked at each other, wondering how she knew.

Valara asked again, in a firm tone, “What the hell are you saying?”

“These three are the chosen ones I am talking about. Those fiends have come for them.”

“What?” All three of them said it at the same time.

The howling from the woods grew louder.

Whatever was coming, it was getting closer.

“Then we have to run,” Baren said, his voice tight with fear. “We have to get away from here.”

Morgana studied the survivors with those ancient eyes. She saw Jaenor’s bloodstained hands and the rage that still flickered in his eyes.

“You are more than you think,” she said softly. “Tonight has awakened things in you that have slept for generations. Powers that your ancestors carried in their blood.”

The howling was getting closer.

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