The wind howled softly through the village, curling past the timber eaves and rattling the metal shutters that hung on hinges like tired eyes. A light snow began to fall, drifting in slow, lazy spirals under the pale light of the moon. Jake stood alone near the edge of the forge, the heat from the coals long gone cold. His new clothes—thicker, warmer, stitched by Emma's hand—still felt foreign against his skin, like a costume he hadn't earned.
He couldn't sleep. Not with the image of the Frostmaw still fresh in his mind, or the way the hunters had looked at him afterward. Not with the question of why he was here gnawing at the back of his mind like some unseen parasite.
Jake wandered the village, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Past the square, past the stables, until he saw the flicker of firelight from a communal hearth in the center of the village. A small group of children sat in a semicircle before a weathered old man who was tossing something fragrant into the flames, sending greenish-blue smoke twisting up into the night.
The children laughed at something, then began dispersing at the sound of a bell calling them home.
Only the man remained. He turned slowly, his eyes catching Jake's from across the fire.
"You look lost, stranger," the man said with a voice like cracked parchment. "Or perhaps found in a place you don't yet understand."
Jake hesitated, then walked forward. "Could say both."
The old man nodded, patting the log beside him. "Then sit. The fire tells better truths than most people."
Jake sat, warming his hands. The smoke had an earthy, herbal scent. Comforting. The old man studied him in the firelight, his pale eyes reflecting the flickering green.
"Name's Eron. Lorekeeper, if titles mean anything anymore." He eyed Jake. "And you're the one they say survived the ruins. Dragon's den, wasn't it?"
Jake gave a short nod. "Didn't plan on that."
"No one does," Eron murmured. He was silent for a long moment before he began. "Have you heard the tale of the man who came from the stars?"
Jake blinked. "Stars?"
"A saying," Eron smiled. "Far before your time… but maybe not so far before his."
Jake turned slowly to face him.
"He came here decades ago—maybe more. Maybe less. Time has a way of folding in on itself around the veil. No one ever agrees how long it's been." Eron's voice lowered. "But we remember him. Wore strange clothes. Had the eyes of someone who'd seen too much, and the tongue of someone from far away."
Jake's breath caught.
"He saved a village from raiders. He slew a beast of black iron and fire in the south. He helped settle feuds that had raged for a generation. But he never stayed. He always left… always searching."
Eron looked at Jake more intently now.
"Some say he came from another world. A place of metal towers and invisible fires. He crossed the veil more than once. Each time, older. More tired. But still… resolute."
Jake's voice was barely a whisper. "Did anyone know his name?"
"Not then," Eron said. "But now? Some wonder if that man had a son. A son with the same fire behind his eyes."
Jake stared into the flames. His father hadn't abandoned them… he'd been here. And for far longer than Jake could've imagined.
Eron leaned closer. "The veil between worlds thins when it chooses. Sometimes for a year. Sometimes for a century. The reasons? Lost to time. But always—always—when it thins, something comes through. And something is left behind."
Jake stood, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Is it thinning now?"
Eron said nothing. He only stared at the flames.
"Why am I here?" Jake asked quietly. "Is this just some accident?"
"Maybe," Eron said. "Or maybe you were always meant to come. The veil opens to those it wants. And it always takes more than it gives."
Jake felt a chill deeper than the snow could reach.
He turned and left without another word.
Back at the forge, the embers still glowed faintly. James looked up from his bench, surprised to see him.
"You all right, boy?" he asked.
Jake nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. "Just… needed air."
James studied him for a moment, then handed him a mug of warm cider. "You're here now. That's what matters."
Jake took it, grateful for the warmth. But his mind drifted to home. To Anna. To his mother, alone in that bed. He gripped the mug tighter, fighting the ache in his chest.
That night, as the wind howled louder and snow coated the world in white silence, Jake dreamed.
He saw his mother's room. The blankets piled high on her frail form. Anna's voice crying out, panicked. A phone call unanswered. A funeral. A white urn on a cold table.
Then the ruins. The dragon's eye. And finally…
A whisper, carried on the mountain wind:
"The veil does not open without price."