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As chaos ensues,

nocturnal dangers draw forever closer.

|| Arc 1 - Origins ||

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The oceanic breeze softly phased through my locks. Enjoying the vantage point on my homemade raft, I sat down, leaning into a fuzzy hay bale. Whilst I would never publicly admit it, the rising summer sun on the horizon and the slight bobbling of the raft were dangerously relaxing.

Adjusting ever so slightly, I shifted in place: finding a more comfortable position. I glanced at the shrieking seagulls soaring amidst the heavenly skies. Although, as per usual, my gaze soon fell upon the snow-capped mountains to the eastern region. The steep, sharp cliffs never failed to amaze me. It was breath-taking to watch from such distance: then again, not much else was to be expected from soil deemed sacred.

Unknowingly, my thoughts had shifted to the folktales regarding the sacred mountain range: how a godly being supposedly forged the island itself. I never believed in such fairy tales, however. All the world's magic had long run into extinction, centuries if not aeons ago.

A yawn crept its way up, rolling over my lips. Today had been a tiresome day. Having to run from the keep atop the hillside down to the harbour for Father's errands undoubtedly had proven itself . . . difficult. I honestly would never consider my stamina to stoop so low, but the activity begged to differ. I cackled at the thought, ever so slowly descending into my dream world.

Before I gave in to the desire for sleep, I tossed out the retractable, homemade anchor; effectively docking my raft. The last thing I longed for was to become the most recent victim of Drowner's Sorrow. The mere thought alone of getting caught in the whirlpool sent a shiver through every fibre of my body.

With my raft properly docked near the shores, I laid back – arms locked behind my head – into the hay bales, a stray of hair falling in front of my eyes. I found it funny how everyone always seemingly jokes about my hair sharing similarities to wheat. Still, now that I had the chance to examine the shared attributes properly, I could only chuckle at the thought. Perhaps they had been right all along – not like I'd admit it, though.

I let the thought slide aside. The seagulls went quiet for but a moment. Only the bobbing of the raft atop the waves, the whistles of the wind and the faint traces of voices coming from the docks remained audible. Just barely, although present, nevertheless. Regardless, silence somehow kicked in as I closed my eyes.

Time had naturally kept on ticking. As I woke up – with the accompanying struggles, but of course – the sun had begun to submerge beneath the far horizon. A thick layer of deep orange had brushed the sky with less noticeable shades of red.

I rose to my feet, standing atop the raft with my eyes squinted as I took in the dying sun's final rays. Partially wavering - I approached the side of the float to dismount. I leapt into the water. Splashes shot over the bamboo foundation of the raft. The tides were low, leading to the sea only reaching half my lower leg. Regardless, the waves were icy cold as they crashed into my bare skin.

I waded a few metres through the water; wet, coarse sand was twisting between my toes. In a matter of seconds, I made it to the shoreline. I didn't have to be careful to keep my shorts from being soaked entirely. My trivial worry faded out while a new thought drifted in. I stared at the beach, momentarily entranced like every once in a while. The sand somehow always seemed to retain a slight alteration in colouration at dusk, going from a soft yellow to a silvery hue. Usually, I didn't notice the colour change, considering I was supposed to be in the keep at this hour. Dismissing the thought, I swiftly proceeded to return to the town. As per default, the echoes of screaming merchants had trailed all the way here.

While wandering down the silvery-tanned shoreline, pondering over whether to join tomorrow's hunt or not, my gaze fell upon two dots specking the remote Ashwood Peninsula. I narrowed my eyes in hopes of getting a proper visual – albeit to no avail. Perhaps they were passer-by-traders? Although, at this time of year, barely anyone dared sail past the Peninsula, as the surrounding currents had grown fiercely strong, not to mention the occasional whirlpools and countless tornadoes.

Five minutes had gone by before I arrived at the slums. I walked through the crowded streets. My eyes trailed off to the pavement, ducking my head ever so slightly. As always, I didn't want to attract unnecessary attention. Especially when I was late, knowing Father, he'd surely ground me for the remainder of this fortnight.

Losing myself in the abyssal depths that were my never-ending thoughts, I bumped into a hooded stranger, his chest onto mine. I heard something drop on the floor and, as a reflex, I instantly looked down to see a pile of books. I averted my gaze back to the stranger. Oily grey locks fell before his dark eyes. Though, the first thing I had noticed was his scrawny silver beard.

The individual let out a huff, bowing down to grab his belongings. "My apologies, milady." He said, gathering his items.

"Oh, the blame is on me," I replied, briskly getting down on my knees to provide my assistance. "Here, let me help you." I offered, looking at the man's shabby robes. Mud covered his sandals, and some liquid had been smeared across his dark tunic, leaving a foul stain.

"You need not help me, dear child." His voice sounded deep and old. Our eyes locked for a moment or two as he grimaced, "The night is dangerous—"The man cut himself off, only to continue muttering, "especially this one."

Nearly instantaneously, I dismissed his words. Many commoners around these parts of town usually called out weird, peculiar events. Then again, most reeked of alcohol. And though the stranger did not, the looming suspicion of possible alcohol intoxication remained present.

We had gathered the last snippets of the man's stuff; a strange medallion lay in the palm of my hand. Its silver coating gave its own peculiar glow as I turned it. As I handed it back to the man, I noticed a socket in the back, which ever-so-tightly held a small, seemingly fractured sapphire in place.

"Thank you, child. May the Phoenix's feathers grace your path." He said.

The two of us wandered down the Wharf's Headstreet; Neither of us voiced another word as we silently walked. Step by step over the paved stone, we approached the keep. A passing carriage slowly neared us. The man stepped aside for an approaching transport to pass by. The stallions moved by, the driver tugging the reins. The hooves tapped gently onto the paved stone. And within a second or two, the carriage had gone by – as did the man. He had faded out. Must have blend in with the crowd, I presumed, not giving another thought to it.

I proceeded my trip to the castle on the hill, crossing the Headstreet, passing through a few remote alleys and lastly, went up the unevenly paved paths that led up to the castle's moat and accompanying front gate. With a few huffs and puffs, I came to a halt before the drawbridge. Whilst regularly pulled up at this hour, the spruce wood bridge still hovered over the shallow moat. Laughing a bit, only to realise it was probably for the sole reason my parents acknowledged my absence, my smile distorted into a frown.

I got onto the bridge. The wooden floorboards cracked as I did just so. The wind toyed around with the chain linking the keep and the bridge together. The clang of iron resonated violently. My sight trailed off to the ashen skies. Clouds pestered the heavens above. A storm was destined to strike Crescent Isle down to its core – and strike it would.

Rearranging my thoughts, prioritising satisfying my parents' desire to see me safe and sound, I entered the castle. Having crossed the moat and gate, I directly went to the housing section, passing by the kitchen, numerous bathrooms, a storage room, and the armoury and the Small Chamber, in which the weekly council meetings were held.

I turned the corner to leave the remote kitchen section, approaching the personal chambers. The dimmed, warm light of torches provided a comforting glow to the stone hallways. The tapestries on the walls wavered a tiny bit as I wandered by - while ensuring none would hear my footsteps.

At long last, sneakily having passed the Chief of Security- and the Guards Quarters, I climbed up the stairs in the far-right tower of the grounds. Only to have reached my bedroom after an excellent exercise that was one hundred chunky steps.

I was surprised, confused, even. I honestly had expected at least either one of my parents to have scolded me at this point. But strangely, it was as though neither was at home.

Stopping in my tracks before the iron-laced wooden door, I wrapped my fingers around the handle; but only to hear voices emerge from the other side. Damnit, busted. I ducked down to peek through the keyhole. The bright glow of several candles radiated right into my blue eyes. Squinting, I adjusted to the level of light. I couldn't see anyone, only the remnants of their shadows waltzing on the wall.

With a mental sigh, I straightened back up. I pushed the door open, my eyes meeting the slate-coloured brick walls, the mahogany desks and chairs, and the metres high-towering roof with accompanying chandelier. -- As well as my parents' worried faces.

"Cynthia," Father called out immediately. His voice was deep and low yet soothing. "Thank goodness you came back unharmed." He added.

"Unharmed?" I inquired. Why unharmed? True, these days, a darkness of sorts loomed over the island as opposed to the peaceful decades prior. Accidents happened more frequently, and people even seemingly disappeared overnight.

Mum jumped in, "Never mind your father. He's had a rough day supervising the defences." She spread her arms wide before embracing me. "We are just glad to see you home."

"Albeit late," remarked Father, frowning slightly while his voice lost its soothing characteristic.

"Darling, let it be." Mother rolled her eyes, "One of the cooks will be dropping by with your dinner, Cynthia." She finished, loosening her arms around me.

Father mumbled under his breath as he left the room without another clear word.

Mother gave one last look at me before she followed suit. She closed the door shut behind her. Her footsteps resounded in the form of an echo, slowly growing fainter by the second.

To this day, it surprised me how neither had locked the door on me simply to keep me out of harm's way. Then again, I would see myself scaling the side of the tower and enduring lethal injuries in the process.

I turned towards my desk, sitting down on the mahogany chair. I leaned down, stretching my arm as I reached out for one of the red cushions I kept beneath the table. I placed it behind my back, reclining afterwards.

I placed my elbow on the desk, resting my head atop my palm. My eyes trailed the woodgrains, leading up to something I didn't remember putting there at any time priorly. A grey sachet, accentuated by a gleaming black strap at the top, lay still near the mirror further up the desk. Admittedly, it couldn't be my monthly allowance, not after over-spending mine last week. I tenderly picked up the sachet, lacing my fingers around to undo the strap. Having removed the close, I opened the small bag.

Before I continued, a knock on the door caught my attention. I placed the bag back on the desk, shifted sideways and rose from the chair. I approached the door and slid it open.

"Good evening, ma'am," said Peter, one of the latest additions to our cooks. And truth be told, I was glad he was offered the position of chef. We had been through a lot together, and the vast hallways and castle walls oft make for poor company.

My eyes sank into a pair of deep-brown ones—the odour of freshly baked salmon. My stomach broke a silent roar upon the registration of said smell.

"Looks as though someone is quite hungry today, aye?" Peter joked around, chuckling.

He usually always teased when it came to offering dinner. Then again, he knew all too well how positively received the kitchen's work was.

"Not particularly hungry," had I answered as Peter entered the room; a platter rested atop his hand palm. He walked towards the window opposed to the door and placed the dish onto its rustic sill.

"I wish I could stay a bit longer to catch up with you, Cynthia. But sadly, I still have some cleaning up to do in the bakery," said Peter, turning towards me.

I walked up to the window, "It's all right. We could meet up tomorrow, might be able to arrange something with Father to get you a day off." We both smiled at that. It was a welcomed thought, though, as of late, only a few days off could be permitted as staff members had gone missing.

"Ah well," he locked his fingers behind his head. "I'd love to take you up on that!" Peter walked back towards the entrance door, "although, later. Need to clean up. The kiddos are waiting for me." Before I had the chance to reply, he already scurried out of the room.

Peter was always in a rush. Though it didn't come as a surprise, after all, he had to take care of his four siblings ever since their parents' ship sank at Drowner's Sorrow all those years ago.

I still ever so vividly recall the day he told me. I remembered the feeling of my skin going pale as snow. It was awful, not because I knew them that well. No. It was painful because Peter got tragically forced into adulthood so early on.

But it never dragged him down. Somehow, he had found the light of joy in even the darkest of days. I admired him for just that. And while he looked fragile, I have always been sure he was more vigilant than I dared imagine when we first met as whining children. Oh, how times have changed.

I let the thought fade out as I didn't want to get stuck in the past's long shadow. I shook my head, realising the sun had settled. Clouds had wrapped the sky in a grey carpet. I picked up the silvery platter from the sill and went back to my desk.

And to my shock, the sachet had vanished. I placed the food down on the desk and bent down to look if it had fallen silently on the flooring – Negative. Had Peter taken it? No. It couldn't be. He wasn't even near the table in the first place. It was just as if the thing had gone up in the air. It was gone without a trace. I sighed. At least, most things that get lost eventually turn up at even the oddest of places.

I ate my dinner and got dressed for bed. I had hung my tunic and coat over a stool beside the standing oval-shaped mirror on the back of the door. While it was only still so early, I was tired beyond belief. The last three days were marked by the presence of hunting parties all across the island; the annual Great Hunt had started yet again.

I lay down in bed, beneath the deer hides Father and I skinned during last year's Hunt. Ah, how satisfied Father was when I successfully prowled around the forest, unseen to the untrained eye. It was one of the few times I saw him genuinely smile. Thank goodness he had a small change of heart after grandfather passed on a few months ago.

I felt my eyelids gain a specific gravity: the gravity of restlessness, that was. They turned heavy within seconds. I could barely keep them open.

I opened my eyes to the darkness. The dimly lit street light candles shot a ray of light through the window while dust glided down from the elevated ceiling. The chandelier was fanatically shaking and trembling in place. I rose from my bed, only to feel the planks beneath my very feet... shifting – as though they had slowly begun to crack under some odd pressure.

A scream ripped through the night's sky. Out of the blue, a cold sensation raced down my spine. Goosebumps stippled my skin. Another shrill noise emerged from the silent darkness as loud bangs echoed. Had they only just begun? Or had I simply not heard them – too dazed by a night's rest?

Almost sprinting to the windowsill, my heart began throbbing against my chest frantically. The blood surged through my veins rapidly. I gazed out the glass to meet crisps and dying embers in the blowing wind. A layer of smog limited my vision; I could only see a few of the streets' houses- ruins of their former selves.

Near - where I could only assume the docks lied, brushes of orange and red sparked alive solely to die out immediately afterwards.

Cutlasses and spearheads shimmered in the flickering glow of a fire. Shadows waltzed around the place, some colliding, others meeting the sharp end of a blade.

My breathing intensified, hitching as thoughts flew in. This simply had to be a nightmare. It couldn't be. Not here, not at this scale. Just. . . Not at Crescent Isle. So I thought as a silhouette wandered out the shaded, northern woods near Conquest Road.