The sky was gray, the clouds were gray, the grass was gray, even Dayanik looked a bit gray at this point. But none of that was new to him, it was always gray here. Gray and dull and dreary, though that may have been a bit harsh to this valley. It was his home, after all. Lights, when did I even last stand here? He wasn’t sure why he feigned ignorance; he knew exactly how long it had been. Six years, two months, eleven days. He had grown into a man nearly, though his slender frame and youthful cheeks betrayed his age despite his best efforts to smartly don his starched white shirt and brown woolen trousers, the uniform of one yet to graduate. Yet the valley hadn’t changed at all in so long a time.

  Gray and quiet, at the very least, he thought to himself. But it was a peaceful place, it brought a sense of serenity and a feeling of warmth to his heart to know he was so close to home, despite the cold weather. Truth be told, even being away in the capital for six years could not undo the fact that in his childhood here he had become inured to the cold valley winds and the perpetual lack of sunshine. “I think you’ll like it here, Ket, there’s certainly plenty of carrots and apples for you,” he smiled gently at his filly, tousling her golden mane and rubbing her neck that he had brushed earlier that morning. Though she was still just two years old, she was deemed strong enough by the grooms to carry him on the trip from Erenamune, though he constantly felt a familiar compunction and walked by her side for much of the journey instead. The guilt extended, drearily, to his return home after so long, where he found himself slowed by thoughts of disdain that the villagers might feel toward him for having left in the first place, or worse, the idea that he had been forgotten entirely.

  But he couldn’t turn back. It had been three months since he had left Erenamune. A year was typically given to boys who were nearing preparation to take their vows and join the Brotherhood forever. He had no regrets about leaving the village; he was an orphan, penniless and destitute. But it wasn’t quite accurate to say he had no regrets.

  Suddenly, a dark flash from the puddles that painted the side of the pathway, a jolt across his face, and Dayanik let out a frightened yelp, nearly toppling over off Ket entirely.

  “Biriki! Are you mad?! I could have fallen off!”

  Beady black eyes stared back at him, wordless and expressionless.

  “I know you were excited for a bath, but goodness, my friend, you scared me half to death. You’d been falling behind, and I had nearly forgotten you were just over there.”

  Biriki crawled onto his shoulder, smartly keeping his muddy paws on Dayanik’s large brown leathery coat, his white linen shirt still safe from the mud. He licked his claws eagerly as he splayed the individual toes, focusing greatly on cleaning in between each one. The water mink seemed all too eager to jump into muddy puddles but seemed to detest the end results.

  As they continued along the trodden path, the sun dimmed further as it reached perfectly between the westward mountains, providing a purple and blue tint to the gray grasses, which already were soaked through to the topsoil with the morning’s rain. Upon the sun setting, the weather turned from bleak to abysmal, the cold and the rain blustering across Dayanik’s face as he struggled to follow a line. He’d let Ket ride without him, worried the muddy conditions would only be deepened by his weight on her back. They slowed with the worsening conditions, and he no longer thought he could reach the town before he would need to turn in for the night, though the familiar landscape brought him to the outskirts of the village center. Old man Karif’s house is near here. I hope he’s as kind as I remember, I’m soaked through to the bone. As the night darkened, he searched through the scattered moonlit grasses for his shelter. Finally, a hundred meters away, he spotted Karif’s house, though it nearly blended into the pitch-black night sky behind it, the fireplace, already extinguished for the night.

  Rapping upon the door as loudly as he could, hoping the winds and rain didn’t buffet his clanging, Dayanik screamed as the calming rains from earlier in the day swelled into a cacophonic gale, “Karif! Karif, can you hear me? Please, please let me in!”

  Silence answered him, though Dayanik wasn’t sure if he just couldn’t hear a reply over the roar of the winds as they seemed to grow ever louder.

  He attempted to gaze through the window, his hot breath fogging the panes. He held his right hand up and removed the leather glove. Faint yellow light, ever-so-slightly warm, emanated from the palm of his hand, the center of the eye etched into his hand looking as if it seemed to have glowing embers licking out of it. There was nothing he could see, no movement. It was the tiniest of cabins, so much so that he could see the small mattress in the corner atop its wooden frame, just a meter away from the wood stove. He wondered if it may have been abandoned. People moved in droves to the capital or to larger cities in general, as the world felt less and less safe these days away from the center and safety of the glowing city.

  A blood curdling scream, a crunch of wood splintering inside the home. Dayanik fell backward into the mud, his trousers soaking through and chilling him to the bone, too frightened to speak or utter a noise, his thoughts and fears too quick for his body to react. He pushed himself away from the cabin, his voice finally reaching him as he cried out, “Ka…Karif!” He was certain it had been a scream from a woman, though if he remembered correctly, Karif was the closest thing to a hermit he could think of, always alone. Never need nothing if I’ve got my warm fire and my thoughts. Never alone out here, Dayanik, he remembered him saying in a flash. But perhaps the old man had finally gotten lonely in his ripe old age. Plenty of the elder priests had concubines, even the members of the High Council had favorites they plucked from the brothels in the city.

  “Who’s that there?” a gruff voice bellowed creakily from behind him.

  Dayanik yelped again, whirling himself around, the light gone from his hand after he lost his composure. “Who – who are you?” he entreated back.

  “Why, I asked you first, and you’re the one banging on my door in the middle of the night there, young one,” Karif shot back pointedly.

  “Karif? Is that you?” Dayanik finally remembered the words and shot up a diaphanous orb of warm light above their heads, revealing the older man toothily grinning at him. “Light above, what was that noise?”

  “Noise, what noise? And who are you? How do you know my name. Not seen you ‘round here before.”

  “It’s me, Dayanik, y-you knew me when I was a boy. You’d feed me barley soup and tell me tales about your tales traversing the Spine when you were a sailor. Do you remember me?” Dayanik’s voice trembled, though the rain seemed to have quieted to a light drizzle, so he no longer felt the need to shout. Remembering the scream, however, he whipped his head back around and looked back at the cabin. “Is there someone in there? I think they may be hurt!”

  The man straightened up stiffly, still curious as to the boy’s appearance, though he lowered his lantern as his eyes adjusted to Dayanik’s light. “I don’t remember you, boy, but I don’t remember much these days. And I don’t have no one in my home. I’m never alone out here, and I never need nothing if I’ve got a warm fire and my thoughts…I don’t know who you are…but come in and see if you can jog my memory, you look terrible.” He patted Dayanik on the shoulder and trudged through the mud to the door of the home to grant respite from the rain.

  The rain pattering against the window brought a calming thrum oddly juxtaposed against the actual storming experience just outside. Dayanik lowered his hand, extinguishing his light as Karif started a fire and lit the tableside lamp. In the light, he could see how much time had aged this man. Though he was always old in his mind, the former sailor had a strength to him when he was a young child that he awed in. A wiry frame belied a life full of hard labor and strong hands. But now, in the growing light of the fire, he saw that time had been merciless. The man limped visibly, not something that Dayanik remembered him being afflicted with before. His clothes were ragged, though the rain and mud had soaked Dayanik so badly he wondered if he looked much better. His hair was also gone atop his head, long gray strands falling from the sides down to his shoulders. His eyes, however, still had a fire within them that Dayanik remembered. A playful spark in them that seemed to be of a younger man.

  “So, are you a priest, come by to take more of us? Seem too young to be a priest, but maybe you’re getting desperate,” he shrugged as he spoke.

  “No, I – well, yes, I am, but…” Dayanik struggled to find his voice. “I-I am here t-to-”

  “Spit it out lad!” the man crossed his arms in annoyance.

  “I’m here to…see my home and friends before my assignment. You see, I-I’ve just turned sixteen, and the Council approved me to take one year before assignment,” Dayanik exhaled after he was finally able to finish his sentence.

  “Assignment? Where they shipping you off to?”

  “Borderlands with Ilerle, sir, I –”

  “Don’t call me sir, I’m no lord or anyone worth anything. Plus, you already knew my name.”

  “Yes, s-Karif. I’m originally from this village. I was an orphan, ten when I left, Karif, sir. After my sixteenth birthday, I’ve evoked the words and taken the rites to become a full Priest. But I…I missed someone.”

  “Oh, got yourself a lover, do you?” Karif snickered. He sat himself in a creaky old chair, gesturing for Dayanik to do the same.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Dayanik flushed beet red, shuffling his feet and staring straight at them. “N-no, sir, Karif, I mean. Nothing like that. My friend, Lida…she was sad when I left. It’s been six years, but I remember her face when I left.”

  “Prym’s girl? The blacksmith’s daughter? Aye, you’ve snagged a worth one there, lad. Would I be a younger man,” the man leaned back in wishful thinking, his eyes glazing over as his mind lecherously wandered.

  “Karif! Nothing like that, I said. She was – is – my closest friend,” his voice grew stern in reprobation as he seated himself to join the old scoundrel.

  The man shot back up, memories coming back. “Wait a minute! You’re little Day, the wayward boy, always lost on adventures!” Dayanik nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgment. “Well, Light be, I can’t believe someone came back after so long. You were a scrawny little thing back then, could bounce you off my knee. Doubt you’re that much bigger though, by the look of ya. Don’t they feed yer lot in the capital?”

  Though he was already crimson faced, his face seemed to redden, fidgeting with his coat and flicking mud off it. The fire started to dry the mud until it was cakey rather than runny on his clothes, and he removed his coat quickly. “Yes! They feed us; I’ve always just been…smaller.”

  At that, Karif laughed heartily. “I only jest, boy. Come, how about some stew? I have some rabbit I’ve caught.”

  “Oh, is that where you were just now? I was surprised you were out so late,” Dayanik suddenly remembered why he had come, “n-not that’s it any of my business!”

  Karif, though, went silent, his face suddenly sullen and his expression distant. “No, I…I, uh, went into the village today. There’s been some reports, ya know?”

  “Reports?”

  “Just, a kid going missing when they play. Some of the men, worse than usual when they drink at the pub…just…some things,” as he spoke, barely above a whisper, his hair and lips seemed to tremble in fear.

  Dayanik read panic on the man’s expression and started to worry. “Karif, is everything all right?”

  “Don’t fret,” he snorted, snapping out of his funk. Clearing his throat, he continued as normal, “grab what you need but I don’t recommend hanging around too long, Dayanik. This part of the land is slowly fading. Let it fade like me, don’t worry too much about this village.” Dayanik eyed him carefully, sensing some pain behind the man’s icy eyes. His own eyes, emerald-green and bouncing with youth, clashed in vibrancy. The kettle boiled behind him over an open fire, and Karif stood, his knees aching from decades spent on his feet. Shuffling over to the fire, he lifted the kettle and poured a mug full of nettle tea, steam billowing out of the mug in a welcome, warm embrace. “So, it’s true you priestly folks have magic powers, eh?” nodding at Dayanik’s hands wrapping around the mug.

  “Oh! Yes, just small things. When I took the oaths, they tattooed the Eye on my hands to help me in the process to unlock my abilities.”

  “Fancy words,” Karif nodded, smiling in blissful ignorance as to the meaning.

  “Most of us, most of my brothers and sisters, channel Amune’s powers of healing through our oaths. Some of us are meant for battle but,” he paused to sip down the scalding tea, “but most of us are meant to heal the sick and wounded.”

  Karif met his sip with a voracious gulp, clearly unaffected by the temperature of the tea. “You get fancy powers, and you can’t even fight on the borderlands with them?”

  Dayanik chuckled nervously, still unable to fully relax. “I…I’ve never been much of a fighter. Most of Dunyasik’s army are sellswords anyways. I’m…actually grateful,” he buried his face in the steam of the mug.

  Karif nodded, understanding.

  “I wanted to say goodbye to Lida before I went off on assignment. The Council gave us all our assignments before I left but granted some of us deferment for one year.”

  “I remember the stunts that lass has pulled over the years, I’m guessing you must have been part of them, but she’s grown into a fine young woman,” Karif sipped some more. He pushed back in his chair, ladling some stew into an earthen bowl. The stew looked rich and perfectly thick, like a gravy with chunks of carrots, mushrooms, and potatoes, with barley grains dotting the brown mess.

  Dayanik took a grateful spoonful into his mouth, resisting the urge to squeal like an infant tasting a sweet for the first time. It was earthy, rich, and savory to the point that it felt like one bite might sate Dayanik, though as a member of the clergy he was used to having stringent dietary restrictions, to the point that figured this was the biggest meal he’d had since he left the village, coming full circle in a strange manner. He hadn’t had many hot meals since he left those three months ago, except for the few nights of luxury when he might have been lucky enough to spend the night at an inn along the Merchant’s Road.

  “Lida! Where are you girl?” a bellowing roar rang out. Backlit by the furnace of his smithing shop, a mountainous man, hulking as sweat ran down his arms and heavy brow profusely, looked around angrily. His coarse brown beard and curling lavish locks created a clashing look upon a wide face covered in grime. His dark brown eyes, deeply set, were the only feature that truly betrayed his age. His arms were larger than Dayanik’s whole torso, as he carried the unruly boy by his belt loop, giggling uncontrollably. “I’m gonna find you!” A stifled giggle from the stables broke the silence, and Prym stormed over, Dayanik bouncing as he dangled from his grip.

  He burst through the open doors and scanned the straw-hewn ground, ignoring the brays of startled horses. He stopped, standing very still, then slowly craned his head and saw: a small girl, with curly brown hair already down to her waist, behind one of the support beams. She was so lanky and tall for her age that it nearly hid her well enough.

  “I’ve got you!” Prym roared as he scooped the girl up by the waist in his free hand, lifting her from the ground as easy as one lifts a fallen scrap of paper. The girl laughed uncontrollably, hugging her father’s neck as he cradled her close.

  Later that night, the trio sat around the dinner table. Prym cracked open a hard-boiled egg from his plate, scraping the shells on to the floor and crunching them underfoot. He inhaled the egg whole as he reached to rip off a hunk of bread from the loaf that sat at the center of the simple wooden table. Even sitting down, he had a hulking presence that dwarfed most other men, let alone the children across from him. Even the hairs on his arm were dark and coarse; the man appeared to be suited more for battle or a contest of strength than an ordinary life.

  “Father! Don’t just throw the shells on the floor, I’ve just cleaned!” shrieked a voice from the stove behind them. A girl not much taller than Lida, her hair tied up under a white cover with beads of sweat gathering on her temples, brought over a large knob of butter, white radishes, and carrots. “And it encourages those two to behave the same way!” she added, nodding at the giggling pair.

  “I thought I’d get away with that one, Alya,” he chuckled quietly. He stooped over in his seat, pulling the shells off the floor and expertly flinging them out the door a few meters away.

  Lida giggled maniacally as she watched her father continue to make silly faces as he scooped up bubbling yellow curry fish stew with some remaining hunks of bread. The perch were plentiful this year, and Prym took Lida on his weekends to the river to fish regularly. They loved to laugh together in the grass, shaded under the chestnut trees. It had rained heavily that summer and humidity still clung to the air like shirts that clung to the skin soaked through with sweat. Alya had the poor fortune of inheriting her mother’s beauty but also her frailty, and Prym worried incessantly about her health as she kept up the house after his wife’s death two years prior. Despite being fifteen, an age at which she should be chasing a husband or parading with others her age, she chained herself to the home, constantly sweeping, cooking, or cleaning. He hated that for her. She had once been just like her younger sister, full of infectious energy and with a smile that warmed the coldest cockles of even the most heartless. But Prym let her take up the mantle of the homemaker, desperately clinging to warm, distant memories.

  Dayanik shuffled in, closing the door behind him to block out the hounding sun. The boy was awkward and barely ever spoke, though he clung like Moss to Lida whenever they were together. He sat at the table wordlessly and let Alya serve him a bowl of the hot curry, still steaming and spiced heavily. Southerners braved spices that broke them out in a sweat even in the dreadful summer heat, and Dayanik thanked her mutedly. He pushed the fish around in the bowl, but did not take a bite.

  “What’s wrong Day?” Lida asked through mouthfuls of bread. She hated fish, which probably was what kept her as thin as a reed. I like fishing, but I don’t have to like eating it. It stinks! She always protested. The boy didn’t answer, still staring at the bowl, though he looked somewhat distraught.

  “The priests came by,” Alya said from the stove over the bubbling pot. “They’re leaving tomorrow.” She said so quietly, but with no outward emotion, like she was reading instructions from a cookbook.

  Lida looked to her sister and back at Dayanik, “wait…you’re not actually going to go with them, are you Day??”

  The boy silently cried, “I d-don’t…I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have a family,” he barely managed to choke out.

  “What do you MEAN you don’t have a family. We’re your family!” Lida shouted, her own eyes beginning to mist.

  All Dayanik could do was cry slightly louder, though he hated being noisy, so he tried his best to still muffle the sounds.

  “Tell him, papa! Tell him he can stay as long as he wants!”

  “Lida! You don’t get to make those calls for our family, three of us is already a lot of mouths to feed,” Alya snapped back, short-tempered as she cleaned the mess, refilling her father’s bowl with the last of the curried fish stew.

  “We had four before when mother was here!”

  “And father has fewer people who pay him for his work these days, so there’s less money to go around, have you ever thought about that instead of just being a selfish brat?”

  “You shut up!”

  Prym sighed deeply as the two shouted; it was a far sadder sigh than he’d allow his face to show. He had always been a stolid presence for Dayanik. When the plague swept through the village two years ago, taking Dayanik’s parents and his wife, he could feel that the boy didn’t want a cheerful face or a mournful one to greet him. He just needed someone next to him. He stared at the boy as he wept silently onto his lap. Finally, he put a hand on Lida’s arm as she raised it to protest and swipe at Alya. Firmly, he held her hand on the table in a gentle embrace and looked at her, her eyes red with fury and heartbreak. “Lida, Dayanik knows what path is best for him,” holding up a hand as she prepared to direct her yells in his direction. “He is, however,” turning to Dayanik now, “always welcome to call this place home. We will always welcome you home, Dayanik.”

  The boy wiped his tears, though he’d cried so much he might not have any left. “T-thank you.” And he slowly scooped the spicy stew into his mouth.

  “Bu-” began to shout, but Alya put a hand on her shoulder gently. Lida looked up at her and saw that the older girl had cried a bit as well, though she hid her face far better.

  Karif had been mostly quiet the next hour or so, and Dayanik’s ears perked up when he mentioned that at least the tavern was likely still open; travelers had come through more frequently to avoid border skirmishes on their way to the Merchant’s Road. Dayanik hurriedly gathered himself to try to make the remainder of the trip in the same night, renewed to push through his earlier pessimism.

  “Lad, it’s dark out there, and things have changed these last few years.”

  “I’ve got Ket and Biriki,” Dayanik said back confidently, “and I have the light within me to guide the way,” holding up his hand to emit the light from the seal on his palm.

  “I’m telling ya, Dayanik, the village isn’t what you know.”

  “Lida’s still there, which means I’ll know someone at least; a familiar, friendly face is all I need.”

  Karif sighed, putting a hand gingerly on Dayanik’s shoulder, his expression that of a parent watching a child depart on a long journey, openly worried. “Be careful, son,” strangely seeming to hold back some emotion for the young boy who he failed to recognize just an hour or so before. “Don’t stray from the path.”