From Blood

Hark settled onto the old wooden bench, its weathered planks creaking beneath his weight. He brought the cigar to his lips, took a slow drag, and exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the air before vanishing like a ghost. His eyes slipped shut for a brief moment, but the sounds of movement—shuffling at the top of the stairs, whispers threading through the air from the other room—kept him from sinking too deeply into his thoughts.

Those kids really thought they were slick.

Hark cracked one eye open and took another long pull from his cigar.

A small head peeked out from the top of the stairs. Auburn hair, messy and untamed, framed the boy’s face. The moment he caught Hark’s gaze, his eyes widened, and he yanked himself back out of sight.

Hark sighed through his nose, watching the thin trail of smoke dissipate. Movement from the hall caught his attention. Another head, smaller than the first, peeked out from behind the open doorframe. This one was different—gray eyes sharp and searching, his curiosity barely concealed.

Damn. That kid’s hair stuck out like a sore thumb.

It was true—white as clouds, bright as snow under the midday sun. A beacon, impossible to miss.

Hark let out a slow, weary sigh and gestured for the boy—Yukion—to step forward. The child hesitated but obeyed, his bare feet silent against the wooden floor.

“Oi! The rest of y’all better get on over here too!” Hark called.

A beat of hesitation. Then, the shuffling of small feet. One by one, six more children emerged, forming a hesitant cluster before him.

Oh hell—where the hell did they all come from?

The kids dropped their heads, avoiding his gaze, hands wringing, feet shuffling.

Hark took another drag before exhaling slowly. “Why are the lot of you sneaking around? Shouldn’t y’all be outside? And you—” he pointed his cigar at the auburn-haired boy—“Didn’t your father tell you to stay outside till lunch?”

Aaron, the boy in question, fidgeted with his shirt collar. “Y-yes, sir... but—”

He clamped his mouth shut, as if thinking better of continuing. Instead, a girl—smallest of the group—lifted her chin, her dark eyes locking onto Hark’s with quiet determination.

“We wanted you to tell us a story, sir.”

Izaline. The youngest, but without question the boldest. Her voice was soft, smooth like honey, yet it carried a weight that made it impossible to ignore.

Hark raised a brow. “A story?” He took another slow drag, eyes narrowing at her unwavering stare.

Tiny thing had more influence than the rest of them combined. It was damn near impossible to tell her no.

He sighed heavily, resigning himself to his fate. “Fine.”

Excited whispers rippled through the group, but none dared to speak outright. Hark shifted on the bench, straightening his posture.

It took him a moment to notice they were all still standing there, expectant and fidgety. He scoffed. “Well? Hurry up and sit down before I change my mind.”

The children scrambled like a bunch of rats, plopping onto the carpet in a tangled heap of limbs and eager faces.

Hark cleared his throat, preparing to begin when Aaron’s voice piped up. “What story are you gonna tell us, Mr. Hark?”

Hark shot him a look. “I was just about to tell you, boy. Have patience.”

He must’ve told Aaron that at least five times a day, and yet every time, the boy acted as if it was a brand-new lesson. Hark wasn’t too concerned, though. He’d learn eventually.

Aaron frowned but clamped his mouth shut and crossed his arms over his chest.

See? Heislearning.

Hark took another slow puff from his cigar, savoring the anticipation as the children grew restless. He liked messing with them.

“I’m going to tell you a story about a girl—”

“A girl? What girl? What was her name??”

Hark scowled at Disrel, the oldest of the bunch, just as Aaron and Niyka turned on him.

“Srel! Shut up!” Niyka hissed, slapping his arm.

Aaron nodded sharply. “Yeah! Be quiet, Srel, or he won’t tell us the story!”

Disrel gave a sheepish smile, mumbling an apology. The interaction amused Hark, a smirk tugging at his lips.

He took one last puff from his cigar before exhaling a long, curling stream of smoke and finally began.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~

Everyone in Emäel knew about the strange place called Earth. Everyone knew it was real. They knew that beings walked its lands—beings that looked like us, yet carried strange machines and wielded alien technology. They spoke of creatures warped and unfamiliar, of animals unlike any seen in our own world.

We heard the stories.

To most, Earth was nothing more than a fireside tale, a phantom world that could never be reached, just as it could never reach us. But to some—to some, it was hope. A chance to be free. A chance to escape the war and the iron grip of the kingdoms. A chance to start anew, to live without fear.

And there was only one way to reach it.

TheShadeshifters.