-Rivulet-

  There they were—the Dawnsworn fools—kneeling before the rising sun as if it could save them.

  My hand rested on the hilt of my blade deep within the woods, where the dawn could not reach. Shadow clung to me, cool and familiar, while I waited for the moon to reclaim the sky. Hunger coiled tight in my throat, a thirst that had learned patience but never mercy. It would only be sated by blood.

  Soon enough, I would taste his.

  He stood apart from the others, lingering beneath a small grove of trees. While they prayed, he watched—silent, unmoving. His hair was nearly white, his garments marked him as one of them, yet the shade held him as it held me. Chosen, whether he knew it or not. A mortal with a familiar shadow.

  There was pride in his stance, but damage too. Loss had carved itself into him, hollowed him out, made space for something else. Something the Veil had noticed.

  Why the Veil chose him, I did not yet know.

  But I would.

  -Ruik-

  I stood as they knelt, their prayer a song I once sang beside them—now only a reminder of her blood forever staining my hands. The sun pierced the morning clouds, its warmth brushing their solemn faces, but I remained in the shade. It is my comfort now, my refuge from the light that still remembers her. My love. My purpose—taken from me in the night, when no sun rose to protect her.

  The clearing was bathed in gold. Dawn stretched over the western slopes of the Great Mountain, light spilling through the thick canopy of pines that shielded the Dawnsworn village of Dunkarr. One by one, the hunters knelt on one knee, hands pressed to the sun-sigil necklaces at their throats, the other reaching toward the rising sun. Heads bowed, breaths steady, they moved as one.

  “Oh Dawn, bringer of light,” they prayed, voices strong and measured, “may you shine upon us this day, your warmth a reminder of your mercy, our devotion a sign of our faith. May we be the weapon to pierce the Veil, the shield to guard against the night.”

  The prayer rolled across the clearing, carried on the wind over the moat lined with sharpened stakes and beyond the wooden palisades.

  From the edge of the forest, I watched.

  My hand rested on the dagger at my belt—a metal stake shaped like a blade, its edge catching the faintest gleam of morning light. Pine needles clung to my sun-bleached tunic, the same pale shade as my hair. Worn leather bracers wrapped my forearms, familiar as scars.

  I did not kneel.

  I did not bow.

  My gaze remained fixed on the forest floor, cold and unyielding, refusing the warmth of the sun. I remembered when my voice joined theirs. When the words meant something.

  Now, even the sound of them tastes like ash.

  The prayer ended, and the Dawnsworn rose together, synchrony giving way to motion. Thorn—the Bringer of Dawn—straightened at the center of the clearing, twin daggers clutched in hands worn smooth by decades of battle.

  “The Veil weakens when we are vigilant,” he said, voice steady. “We do not rest. We do not falter.”

  Murmurs of assent rippled through the hunters. Jarold, broad and towering, gave a heavy nod, leather creaking at his shoulders. Tom, smaller and quicker, kept a hand near his dagger, eyes darting to the surrounding trees.

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  My lips pressed into a thin line.

  I once prayed here. Knelt beside them. Believed. Until she was gone. The dawn offered no comfort then—only the memory of her blood and the hollow weight of my failure.

  Thorn’s gaze swept the clearing and found me at last. His expression softened, though the firmness never left it. He stepped forward and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “My boy,” he said quietly, “you cannot let her death rule your heart forever. The Dawnsworn need your faith. When will you kneel with them again?”

  “I’d rather stand and fight,” I muttered, my voice low and rough, “than kneel and pray.”

  “There will be time for revenge,” Thorn said, eyes steady on mine. “But your deeds—and your devotion—can speak, sometimes even louder than your blades.”

  My jaw tightened. I didn’t answer. I never did.

  I remained at the forest’s edge, a sentinel caught between shadow and light, the rising sun at my back, the Dawnsworn before me, and the weight of prophecy pressing down on my shoulders.

  Thorn exhaled softly. “See Myrren after sunrise. She asked for you.” He turned toward the village, then paused. “Don’t keep your mother waiting, son.”

  As he walked away, Jarold shoved Tom playfully as they approached me. “There’s no one I’d rather have at my side,” Jarold said, grinning, “even if you refuse to kneel, brother.”

  Tom smirked. “At least you don’t have to scrub dirt out of your knee every morning.”

  The corner of my mouth twitched—almost a smirk. I kept my eyes on the forest. “I don’t think anyone’s looking at your knee,” I muttered, “especially when you look like you rolled in a pig pen.”

  Jarold laughed and slung an arm around both of us, dragging us toward the village. “Breakfast,” he declared. “And a bath for Tom. I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving,” Tom shot back. “You look like you’ve never missed a meal.”

  I couldn’t stop the smile that slipped through.

  They’d been my friends since childhood, pulling me back from the darkness more often than they knew—even when I pretended I didn’t need it.

  Villagers went about their morning as we passed through the gates. The dirt road wound between stalls and cottages, children darting through the crowd like obstacles in a game. We stopped often, trading words and laughter, until we reached the courtyard.

  A woman stood at its center, staff in hand, the sun-sigil at its tip catching the light.

  “You boys up to no good again?” she asked.

  They halted. I stepped forward and rested my forehead against hers for a brief moment.

  “Good dawn, Mother.”

  Myrren nodded, warmth and resolve sharing her expression. “Good dawn, Ruik. Jarold. Tom.” Her gaze lingered on me, sunlight glinting off the faint scar along my brow. “Remember—the Dawnsworn need more than strength. You need wisdom, vigilance… and hearts steady in purpose.”

  Jarold grinned. “Don’t worry, Sun Keeper. We’ve got plenty of that. Mostly strength.”

  Tom adjusted his dagger nervously. “I’ve got… the vigilance part.”

  “Sometimes,” I added.

  Myrren turned to them. “Go clean up and eat. I have words for Ruik.”

  They bowed their heads. “Yes, Sun Keeper,” they said in unison, already resuming their banter as they moved on.

  Myrren studied me as my attention drifted back toward the trees. “Try not to brood too long in the shadows,” she said. “The Veil won’t have to look far if you choose to live there.”

  The words caught me off guard. “I’m sorry, Mother. I—”

  “No need to explain. Not here.” She links her arm through mine. “Walk with me.”

  We moved through the courtyard at an unhurried pace, villagers greeting us as we passed. The church rose ahead—white planked walls, a spire crowned by a brass sun, a great bell hanging beneath it.

  Inside, sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating rows of worn pews. The floor creaked beneath our steps. At the pulpit, Myrren released my arm and took my hand in both of hers.

  “Your prayers have ceased,” she said softly. “Your pain is plain. But to turn away entirely… I fear what may take root.”

  I tried to pull back. She tightened her grip.

  “Speak to me, Ruik,” she urged. “The sun does not hide from shadows. Shadows hide from the sun.”

  The silence between us weighed heavier than the prayer that opened the day.

  “Then why does the sun leave us in darkness each night?” I whispered. “Where was it when Brie died in my arms?”

  Her grip tightened. “The night tests us. Her life was taken too soon. But was your faith bound only to your love for her? Would she want it to falter now—after she died for what she believed in? What you believed in?”

  My hand trembled. “Her devotion was stronger than mine,” I admit. “She gave me strength. But what did she receive in return? I failed her. Not the Sun—me. The Sun wasn’t there… but I was. And I couldn’t save her.”

  “My poor boy,” Myrren murmured. “She may be gone, but her soul lives on. Her presence rises with each dawn. You refuse to feel her warmth.”

  Something in me snaps.

  I wrench my hand free and step back. “I don’t feel anything,” I said, the emptiness echoing in my chest. “Not the Sun. Not the darkness. Just hollow. I don’t need this place to remind me.”

  I turned and stormed into the blinding light.

  For a moment, I almost lifted my face toward it.

  But I didn’t.

  I lowered my head before the warmth could settle and walked on, the shadows following—as they always did.