Chapter 1
Death was in the air, she could smell it.
Carried in by the breeze, the smell of blood was thick, nauseating. It coated the land in an ominous haze, leaving nothing but filth in its wake.
Kesta Reinhard stood on the porch, hands on her hips, frowning at the smell. Something terrible, evil, had happened, and not far from her home. She could feel it in the air, as if the world was screaming at her to open her eyes, to heed its warning.
The forest surrounding her was unusually quiet, an unnerving feeling when it was always so alight with life. There wasn’t a bird chirping, the rustling of leaves, or swishing of the grass to be heard. There was nothing but deafening silence and the smell of death.
The two horses at the gate of their pasture shuffled nervously, throwing their heads. Their ears pivoted in every direction, and then pinned back as they snorted in apprehension.
Kesta glanced at them, and then followed their wild gazes. There was nothing but green foliage at its summer prime. Whatever they were seeing or hearing was lost to her, and she couldn’t shake the uneasiness that came over her.
Gathering herself, she looked up to the sun, which was sinking lower in the sky. Soon it would be dark, and she wouldn’t be caught dead outside when it was. Not when the forest was silent. Only bad things could come out of it.
She set off toward the stomping horses, beasts she’d cared for, paid for, by herself. Grabbing a bucket on the way, she filled it with some feed to coax them into the makeshift stable she’d made them.
The first to meet her was a white gelding, Caster, who snorted into her face when she slipped through the gate.
Smiling to herself, she patted his neck and said, “What’s gotten you two all riled up, huh?”
Mare, the chestnut female, threw her head, both of them crowding around her. Kesta made sure to give them a good scratch under the mane, attempting to sooth their unease. They glanced at the bucket of feed, dropping noses low to sniff.
In a matter of minutes, they were happily eating away in their stalls. Whatever trouble they were alerting to before, now just a second thought.
She watched them from her perch against the gate, arms folded. It had been a year since she’d risen that small stable, since finding this little house in the woods to call her own. It was abandoned, and for good reason. The roof was rotted and floor caved in in spots, but with a little time and hard work, she’d made it what it was now.
Hers.
Kesta had lived in the kingdom of Westfall up until that year ago. She’d had good parents, Victor and Ann Reinhard, who’d called her their daughter from the moment they found her. She was just an infant, alone in the mountain pathways, swaddled and crying in a wicker basket. There was no mention of her parents and who they were, where she’d come from. Just that basket and the black velvet blanket keeping her warm.
So she’d taken the Reinhard name as her own, with the blessing of Victor and Ann. They had been kind, gentle, patient with her. Especially with her troublemaking and knack of getting herself into situations that were relatively unavoidable. It was as though trouble just found her. They had been good parents, though. Their life together was happy.
Then there had been a fire.
“Good evening Kesta, dear.”
The sweet old voice roused her from her thoughts, and she twisted to find her elderly neighbor, Lora, shuffling up the driveway.
“Lora, do you know how late it is?” Kesta asked, latching the gate closed behind her, “It’ll be dark soon.”
“Oh I know it, but my back has been aching all day and I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow.” To emphasize, Lora was bent over and patted her lower back, “I hope it’s not too late to bother you, dear.”
“Of course not.” Kesta smiled reluctantly, “But it’s going to be dark soon, and you don’t want to be out in the woods when it is, do you?”
“Oh these woods don’t scare this old woman anymore.” Lora waved her hand dismissively, continuing on to the house.
It wasn’t anything impressive, the house. It was a simple log structure, the windows clouded around the edges with dirt. A stone chimney rose over it, unused now that it was summer. The steps leading up to it had been rebuilt by Kesta, adding a railing for her older patients.
One thing that she was good at, was relieving pain and discomfort for people. She didn’t really know of a word for what she did, but she’d grown a reputation as a healer in those parts. However, her work wasn’t necessarily healing. Rather, it was massaging the muscles and tissues, cracking the joints and bones out of alignment, that was what she did, and people paid handsomely for it.
In those parts, the population was made up mostly of farmers who labored in their fields all day. A body could only take so much turmoil before it started rebelling, and it was her job to quell any issues.
Kesta had learned the techniques from her mother, who had learned them from her own. It was a special gift passed down to the women of their family. She had been honored when Ann first told her she wanted to teach her, as a girl who wasn’t of her own blood.
Lora groaned as she sat down on the leather padded table Kesta had bought specifically for her patients. It was settled in one of the two bedrooms in her home, in the very back for her patients’ privacy.
“Pain in the usual spot again, Lora?” Kesta asked, eyeing her lower back as she laid face first on the table.
“Yes dear,” Lora said, running a finger across the area just beneath her ribcage, “this old woman is getting a little too old, I think.”
“I thought you said you were going to live forever.” Kesta mused, starting a gentle massage to the old woman’s muscles, “You keep talking like that, and you won’t.”
Lora only laughed, “If only I could. The secrets I’d have.”
“I’m sure you still have many.”
“You’d be surprised.”
They spent the rest of their appointment in comfortable silence. Lora had been one of Kesta’s first patients, and her most frequent. In the year that she’d been coming to her, Kesta had grown quite fond of the petite old woman. Lora wasn’t quite skin and bones yet, but the wear of the years was starting to show. Still, she was a beautiful person. Her silver hair was usually pulled into a low braid, the face free from its coverage one of high cheekbones and delicate features. Kesta, more than a few times, wondered how beautiful she’d been when she was younger.
Lora stood just a little bit straighter on the porch afterward, the little whisps of her hair blowing in the light summer breeze.
Handing Kesta her payment, she looked around them at the woods, “Seems a little strange, doesn’t it?”
“What does?”
“The forest.” Lora pulled her black and white shawl further around her shoulders, “It’s quiet. I’ve never heard it so quiet before.”
“I noticed that too.” Kesta eyed the horses, still lazily eating the hay in their stalls, “Caster and Mare were restless earlier, too.”
Lora clicked her tongue, “Have you heard anything from town lately? There’s rumors of invasion.”
“Invasion?” Kesta asked in surprise, “By who?”
“People are saying the King of Westfall is growing restless. They say his wealth is dwindling and he’s turned his eye on Pyroness.” Lora scoffed, “But, that’s just what people say. Who knows what’s true and not.”
“Pyroness’s army would stop them, wouldn’t it?” Kesta asked. She had heard that the Pyronessian army was the best, the most well trained, out of all the kingdoms. It was commanded by the first Prince, Galliard Keston, who had a reputation as being a fearsome warrior. Some people said he was a bloodthirsty beast, others said he was as honorable as they come. There was one constant theme, though, that he was a natural born leader who took care of his men.
Lora shrugged her bony shoulders, “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough, if the rumors are true.”
Kesta called to her as she set off down the drive, causing her to pause and look back, “Earlier, did you smell something off?”
“Smell something?”
Kesta nodded, frowning at herself for how ridiculous it sounded, “Yeah, I…I thought I could smell blood. It was faint, but it was there.”
Lora only shook her head, “It’s been such a long time of peace. I’m afraid, Kesta, that dark times may be upon us. Hopefully we’re on the right side of things.”
Kesta watched her go until her little silhouette was lost to the trees. Dark times may be upon us. She shuddered at the thought.
Being born in peacetime, she’d never known war or the fear of it. Each kingdom had left the other alone for the most part. There had been small skirmishes here and there, when companies got too close to the borders, but nothing that ever threatened war.
If the rumors of a few townsfolk were true, and there was to be an invasion, Kesta figured it would occur close by.
When she had moved from Westfall, she intended to move further in, to the capital Pyroness. Three days venture, though, and she’d stumbled upon this quaint little spot, met these kind people, and knew it was where she was going to call home.
So, if her assumptions were correct, and Westfall did invade, they would have three days or less to flee. Kesta didn’t know much about war, but she figured an invading force didn’t leave many survivors when it came to small, unimportant border towns.
The sun was just setting when she put the pan on the stove to fry up some meat. It had been a form of payment from one of her patients, the pork, and it was just as good as coin. The less she had to travel into town, the better, and so if anyone offered up food for payment, she would never decline.
She ate her food on the porch, listening to the song of the frogs. Their chirping was one of her favorite sounds, one that lulled her to sleep many nights. If there was one thing she hoped she never forgot, it was that.
Her mind drifted back to earlier, when the forest had gone so silent she could have heard a pin drop. There were stories, ones she’d heard in Westfall, of what roamed in the woods when it went quiet. Ancient, powerful entities. Evil incarnate.
Demons.
She shuddered at the thought, but couldn’t shake the feeling that had been in the pit of her stomach. The stillness, the smell of blood. It wasn’t right.
From her right, Caster nickered softly. She turned her gaze on him, marveling at his beauty in the last remnants of daylight. His alabaster hair would soon be glowing underneath the moon.
His ears pivoted, and then pinned flat against his head as he stood stick straight. Mare nearly mirrored him, their gazes fixed on the woods to her left.
Caster let out a deep whinny before slamming his hooves against the door of his stall. Mare jostled from leg to leg, her own whinnies drowning out the frogs.
Kesta rose to her feet, ready to jaunt over to attempt to calm them. She knew exactly where she’d left the bucket for feed, that’s all it would take.
The trees to her left rustled, directly where Caster and Mare were staring, screaming. Kesta slowly backed up to the front door, her hand fumbling with the knob. Her eyes scanned the tree line, unable to see what the horses could.
Then, from out of the foliage, emerged a man. He was dressed in the gold armor of the Pyroness military, slowly stumbling forward.
Kesta let out a sigh of relief at the sight of him. She had been afraid that it was some sort of animal coming for the horses, and she was in little position to fight off a pack of wolves.
Lighting a lantern to fight the growing darkness, she went out to greet the soldier.
“You nearly scared me half to death.” She called, “I thought you were a wild-“
The smell of blood overpowered her, making her cover her mouth and nose with the crook of her arm. The light of the lantern began to reveal the deep maroon splotches covering the glossy gold of his armor, dried and crusted and stinking.
His fist was wrapped tightly around the hilt of a great broadsword, and he feebly attempted to lift it toward her as she came to a stop twenty feet away from him.
Holding her hands up in good faith, she said, “I mean you no harm. This is my home. I can help you.”
His sapphire eyes were wide, wild with fear and confusion, burning with rage. Blood had pooled into his right one, a deep gash running from his hairline, over his eye, and down to his cheekbone. That same blood was crusted around it, spattering nearly his whole face. The injuries were new, but it looked like he’d been walking for quite some time. Hours. Maybe even days.
Without a word, the soldier let the sword drop down to his side, and then continued his slow, limp stumble.
He made it another ten feet, before he fell
