The sun blazed with all its sovereign majesty over the fields of Barley-bottom. Only in a few scattered plots were there souls at work; some casting seed, others bearing water in heavy pails. The season for sowing was fast waning. Among these laborers was a young man, a few mere months shy of his majority. As he toiled beneath the unwavering heat, beads of sweat gathered upon his brow, tracing dark paths down a tunic already sodden with labor. His skin was flushed, his nape darkened beyond its natural bronze by the sun’s persistent kiss. With a rhythmic strength, he drove his hoe into the earth, drawing it back to carve a furrow. Into this wound in the world, he scattered grains of wheat. The subtle, dry rustle of the soil brought him a flicker of primitive pleasure. He drew the hoe back once more, tamping the earth down with its flat head to cradle the seeds within the cool dark. Resting the tool against his knee, he wiped his brow and turned, surveying his work with the quiet pride of a husbandman.

  As he walked toward the arbor at the field’s edge, the sharp geometry of his features became clear. His face seemed hewn from stone by a master’s chisel. His jaw was prominent, meeting his throat in stark, blunt lines. His cheekbones, though not overly pronounced, lent a subtle breadth to his visage, which favored the rectangular. Long, raven hair fell to the nape of his neck, unruly locks occasionally veiling his eyes—eyes the color of dark mahogany, bordering on black. His brows were thick and even, and his nose ran straight as an arrow, ending in broad nostrils just above a mouth that was small but possessed of full, well-defined lips. He was of a height that surpassed the average, though he was not a giant. His shoulders were broad enough to strain the seams of his tunic—a youth any mother would covet for her daughter.

  Reaching the arbor, he exchanged his damp tunic for one of heavier cloth, draping the soiled garment over the wooden rafters to catch the sun. He stowed his hoe in the chest and returned to the field to gather his spade and rake, for he was a man who favored order. Once his tools were secured, he untethered his donkey. Alongside the remnant seed, he packed the herbs his father had requested into the woven panniers of the beast's saddle. A deep weariness began to settle into his marrow, yet as he watched other farmers trickling into the fields, a sense of satisfaction warmed him; he had outpaced the day. Taking the reins, he began the trek home.

  He was soon joined by Barra, the youngest daughter of Harin. She came sprinting across the clodded earth of the freshly ploughed field, stumbling yet never slowing until she stood breathless at his side. Hamdar felt a fondness for the girl’s "little-old-woman" mannerisms—the way she bestowed precocious, endearing looks upon him. There was a curious balance between them; he wished to treat her as the child she was, yet she often disarmed him with observations far beyond her years.

  "Good morning, Brother Hamdar," she chirped. "Early again?"

  "Indeed, Barra." Hamdar knelt to meet her eye level, though his legs throbbed from the morning’s exertion. "A field requires a watchful eye and an early hand if it is to thrive. You shall understand when you are grown."

  "My brothers do not toil so. My father says you work overmuch."

  "I am certain he means it as a kindness."

  "He says it serves no end but to make a martyr of yourself."

  Hamdar sat back on his haunches, sensing a long discourse. "If you give enough of yourself to a thing, dear Barra," he said, his voice taking on the tone of a mentor, "success will find you sooner or later. Labor yields beauty, and hardship is the father of joy. My own father taught me that."

  "I think it is a fine thing, to work so," Barra mused, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. Hamdar made to rise, but her next question stayed him. "My uncles... they do not go to the Tor Rites as they once did. My father calls them cowards—says they have turned their backs on the spirits. What does he mean?"

  "Such questions are best for your father," Hamdar replied carefully. He did not share his mother’s deep piety nor his father’s steadfastness in prayer. Yet he understood the tension. Barley-bottom was one of the few places in the Vale that remained faithful to the Religion of the Horse-Lords. But even here, secluded as they were, the long shadow of Sovereign City (Hakim?ehir) and its pressures reached them.

  After a hasty parting and a chaste kiss on the girl's cheek, Hamdar led his donkey toward the steep slope that overlooked the village. Barley-bottom had ever been a world apart. Bound by the Eastern River, it was guarded by mountains to the East, crags to the North, and the deep woods to the West. The villagers were technically subjects of First-City, but Hamdar had never seen a tax collector or a soldier in his seventeen summers. They were a people of long lives and stoic independence, governed by a council of elders. Only the Enelkan Rebellion thirty years prior had forced them to formally submit to a foreign Fers—a necessity to convince the Sovereign’s soldiers they had not harbored the rebels.

  He navigated the treacherous rocky path with practiced caution. From this height, the village was a sprawling, chaotic tapestry of stone and timber, beautiful in its very disorder. To the South lay the open plains; to the West, the mystery of the woods; and to the East, the mountain range that rose like the breasts of a reclining goddess. Hamdar loved this land, yet deep within him, whispered by the wind and written in the clouds, was the certainty that his destiny lay far beyond these borders.

  Returning to the village, he navigated the muddy streets, avoiding the bustle of the center where the elders gathered at the inn. His father, Bargan, was a man respected but held at a distance by his peers for reasons Hamdar never fully grasped. This isolation had bled into Hamdar’s own life; he had few friends, a void he filled with a self-sufficient solitude.

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  At home, he found his mother, Inva. Even in her middle years, she possessed a shapely, angular beauty that was the subject of village gossip. Her nose was a pillar, her eyes slightly hooded, and her hair—though streaked with silver—still reached her waist.

  "I have brought the herbs Father required," Hamdar said, unhooking them from his belt.

  Inva chuckled. "It was I who asked for them. Your father, it seems, has delegated his chores again." She moved to the hearth, adding the herbs to the dough she was kneading. "He has gone to Balathor’s shop for winter seeds. If that merchant tries to double the price with lies of 'Western imports' again, I shall have words with him myself."

  "I am meeting Garda for a hunt," Hamdar called out, snatching his bow and quiver from the wall. "I can stop by the shop on our way. Father... well, he was never one for haggling."

  Outside, the scent of fresh-cut timber filled the air. A group of woodsmen were descending from the eastern slopes, led by the hulking Khalses, Balathor’s eldest son. Khalses was a bully who had once tried to lord over Hamdar, only to be met with a stone to the face from a rooftop. Since that day, the brute had maintained a wary, aggressive distance.

  "Hamdar," Khalses growled, his eyes bloodshot and sweat-streaked. "Lend a hand with these loads."

  "Do your own labor," Hamdar replied, not breaking his stride. "If you want my help, come help me in the fields. Otherwise, keep bringing the wood, and I’ll keep growing the wheat that feeds you."

  He found his father and Balathor embroiled in a heated debate over sacks of seed. Balathor, a merchant from First-City who lacked the communal spirit of the villagers, was a known charlatan. Three years prior, he had nearly been lynched for selling "cooked" beans that would never sprout. After a grueling negotiation—and the silent pressure of Hamdar’s presence—Bargan secured the seeds at a fair price. As they left, Balathor’s daughter, Bal, emerged from behind the counter. She was strikingly pale with a dusting of freckles and raven hair. Hamdar, who was never at ease with women, found himself thinking she was quite beautiful.

  "Finish the work in the fields?" Bargan asked, leaning against a wall outside.

  "It is done," Hamdar said. "Save for the southern patch; I left it for the corn you wanted."

  "And you are off with Talan’s boy? To the North Woods?" Bargan’s eyes narrowed.

  "Yes, Father."

  "I know you better than you know yourself, lad. One word of warning: Stay out of the East Forest. Do you mark me?"

  Hamdar nodded, yet the forbidden fruit of the East Forest—a place of ghost stories and sleeping mists—tugged at his heart. He met Garda beneath the Melon Tree at the village edge. Garda, the blacksmith’s son, was Hamdar's only true friend—a jovial youth who grew restless in crowds but was a lion in the wild.

  "You're late," Garda grinned, his curly hair tossing in the wind. "Another hour and I’d have started without you."

  The two set off, taking the goat paths up toward the high plateaus. From the ridges, the world opened up: First-City shimmering like a needle in the distance, the winding arms of the river, and the peak of Mount Sermon piercing a silk shroud of clouds.

  They entered the woods as the sun began its western descent. Shadows lengthened, and the air grew cool. They reached the banks of the Eastern River, a place where the wild things gathered to drink. It was a place of opportunity and of great peril.

  "I must ease myself," Garda whispered, handing Hamdar his bow. Hamdar stood watch, listening to the rushing water and the rustle of the leaves. When Garda returned, they sat behind a great stone and shared a meal of bread and dried venison.

  "Let us move," Hamdar said. They tracked the river until they spotted their quarry: a Linven Hart. The beast was magnificent, its gait as graceful as the Moon-Dancers of the village festivals. As always, a pang of guilt struck Hamdar—a revulsion at the thought of staining such innocence. But the need for meat was absolute; in the Vale, venison was a luxury for nobles unless one had the courage to hunt the forbidden woods.

  Hamdar drew his string, feeling the familiar tension in his shoulder. He took a breath, held it, and released. The arrow took the hart behind the ribs. The animal shrieked—a haunting, human-like sound—and bolted. They gave chase, leaping over mossy stones and fallen trunks. At a narrowing of the river, Hamdar knelt and loosed a second shaft. It struck true. The hart collapsed with a cry like a weeping child.

  As they approached the dying beast to end its suffering, the forest changed. The rushing water fell silent. The trees looked older, their bark shimmering like fish scales. The river turned a pale, sickly green. To the East, the snowy peaks of the mountains seemed suddenly closer, draped in tangled, ancient vines.

  "Garda," Hamdar whispered, his skin crawling. "The forest... it’s changed."

  "We lost track of the time," Garda said, his voice trembling. "Forget the hide. We take the meat and go. Now."

  But as Hamdar moved to shoulder the carcass, his foot slipped on a slick stone. A jagged edge tore through his leggings, opening a deep gash in his calf. He groaned, hauling himself to the far bank with Garda’s help.

  Then, a sound erupted from the gloom—a guttural, rattling bray that froze the blood in their veins.

  From the shadows emerged a nightmare. It was a beast of reddish-brown fur, covered in a chaotic thicket of horns. Its eyes were twin embers of crimson, fixed upon them with a singular, predatory malice.

  "Blue Creator, have mercy," Garda breathed.

  "A Great-horn," Hamdar murmured. The creature roared, a sound that shook the very leaves.

  "Run!"

  Hamdar reached for the deer, but Garda shoved him. "Leave the damned thing!"

  The Great-horn leaped the river with terrifying agility. They sprinted through the thickening dark, the beast’s claws whistling through the air behind them. Hamdar’s leg screamed in protest; his ankle twisted as he plummeted down a steep embankment, tumbling through the brush until he slammed into a fallen log.

  He lay there, gasping, waiting for the end. But the sounds of pursuit faded. He was alone. The forest was a cathedral of shadows. He had run North, deeper into the forbidden territory.

  With shaking hands, he tended to his wound, binding it with strips of his tunic. He realized with a sinking heart that he was separated from Garda. His bow lay nearby, but his quiver was mostly empty. He was miles from home, injured, and the sun had long since vanished.

  He managed to hack a sturdy branch from the tree above to serve as a crutch. The terror of the Great-horn was now a dull ache, replaced by the gnawing void of hunger and thirst. He crawled into the hollow of the ancient tree, clutching his crutch, and drifted into a fitful sleep, the secrets of the East Forest whispering all around him.