Eldoria's Festival of Light came once a year, just after the spring rains. Lanterns were strung between trees, music echoed in the square, and for one day the villagers pretended their world was untouched by darkness.
Kieran hated it.
He watched from a distance, standing on the hill that overlooked the square. Children laughed below, weaving between dancers and tables of steaming food. For a moment, the village looked like something from a dream—until someone pointed at him.
"There he is!" a boy's voice rang out.
"Voidspawn watches from the hill!" another called.
Several teenagers took up the chant, laughing. "Voidspawn! Voidspawn!"
Kieran clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms until they drew blood, but he didn't move. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
But then Branric stepped forward—again.
"You think you can curse our harvest just by watching?" he bellowed, half-drunk. "Why don't you crawl back into whatever pit spat you out?"
Kieran turned away, heart pounding.
He didn't see the stone coming.
It struck the back of his skull, and everything went black.
Darkness came with a bitter chill.
Kieran awoke to the copper taste of blood in his mouth and the throb of pain at the base of his skull. The lantern lights above him blurred and danced, their warm glow twisted by tears he hadn't realized he'd shed.
He was lying in the mud, just beyond the village square. Alone.
Even the cowards who threw the stone hadn't stayed to gloat. The festival had moved on—music still played, people still laughed. Their cruelty had been just another moment of amusement before they returned to pretending the world was good.
Kieran slowly pushed himself up, biting back a groan. His fingers were caked in dirt and blood. No one had helped him. Not one soul.
Not even when I was bleeding.
He stumbled to his feet, swaying. The lanterns above seemed to mock him now, swaying gently in a breeze he could barely feel. They were strung between the trees with bright ribbons—symbols of unity, joy, tradition.
All lies.
The square looked golden from where he stood, a painting brought to life. But he knew what lay beneath it.
He turned and walked into the woods, toward Gareth's cottage.
Hours Later
Gareth wrapped the cloth around Kieran's head carefully. "You could have a concussion. You're lucky they didn't cave your skull in."
"Would've made their day," Kieran muttered.
The old man didn't smile. Instead, he lit a fresh candle and sat heavily in the chair across from him.
"There's no place for me here," Kieran said after a moment. "There never was."
"No," Gareth agreed. "There never was. But it kept you hidden."
Kieran looked up, confused.
"I've kept you here," Gareth admitted, voice low. "Out of sight. Out of reach. Because I feared what they'd do—and what you might do back."
"I've never hurt anyone."
"Not yet."
Kieran flinched.
Gareth leaned forward. "Listen to me, boy. The power in your blood—it's not evil. It's forgotten. Misunderstood. It comes from a time when this world was younger, rawer. You've felt it, haven't you? The way shadows curl around you when you're angry. The way the stars sometimes seem… closer."
Kieran didn't respond. He didn't have to.
"You are Voidborne," Gareth said. "But not what they fear. Not what they whisper."
Kieran stood. "Then I'll prove it. Not to them. To me."
Gareth's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"
"I'm leaving," Kieran said, the words suddenly firm. "When I turn eighteen, I'll go to Caldrath. Join the Adventurer's Guild. I'll carve out a life for myself—not one they gave me, but one I earned."
Gareth was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Then you'll need a sword."