Messenger

Chapter 1 — The Messenger

400 years after the catastrophe

The muffled pounding of hooves carried along the empty road at the very edge of the forest. To the right stretched a field scattered with heavy golden spheres. They resembled dandelions, but were far larger, and their stems looked tough, almost wooden. Whenever the wind touched the field, dense yellow umbrellas rose into the air, covering the road in dry pollen.

The heavy morning fog reluctantly retreated, letting the first rays of sunlight through. The light fell on the ground in patches, catching on the damp grass and the broken road. The old cart creaked over every rut, holding together by its last strength. The wood had darkened and cracked, the iron brackets were covered in rust. It seemed that just a little more — and it would fall apart on the move.

— Ehhh… Damn cold… — the driver muttered, throwing back his damp hood.

Beneath it appeared red curls and a thick beard. His face was tired, marked with deep lines and traces of sleeplessness — the face of a man used to the road.

— Let’s see… didn’t sleep through anything… didn’t get robbed… — he mumbled.

At his feet lay a handmade crossbow — crude, but reliable. The wagon was covered with torn cloth, from under which animal hides peeked out. On the side of the cart hung a piece of thick fabric with an embroidered symbol — a bird with outstretched wings, faded, but still recognizable.

— Prr… — he pulled on the reins. — Nearly crashed into it…

The horse stopped at massive wooden gates.

A settlement.

The walls had been built from anything they could find: boards, scraps of metal, old signs, hoods, doors. All of it held together somehow — and yet it stood.

In the half-light of fog and dawn, the place seemed almost dead. Michael slowly reached for the crossbow and rose slightly in the wagon. A faint tingling ran through his legs after the long road, and his fingers felt wooden, barely able to grip the cold wooden handle of the crossbow. The thick fog made him squint harder and harder, trying to make out the frightening shapes around him. Despite the chill after the harsh night, warm drops of sweat still ran down his back.

And suddenly — a child’s laughter.

Alive.

Voices sounded beyond the gates.

— Hey there! — he shouted. — Are you going to greet a guest with mercy… or with pitchforks?

Silence, followed by movement.

Faces appeared on the fortifications. People peered out from cracks and gaps, studying him warily, as if checking whether he had brought trouble with him.

One of the guards slapped a gawker on the shoulder:

— Move along. And call Sarah — looks like a trader from the Ravens.

The gates slowly swung open, creaking as they moved.

— You came to the right place, don’t worry. Lower your weapon! — the guard said, coming closer.

Michael exhaled and carefully sat back down.

— Been on the road long? — the guard asked. His layered clothing, made from pieces of fabric and hides, looked worn but dependable.

— Not that long… — Michael smirked. — But my backside is already against it. You know what the bumps are like.

The guard snorted.

Behind him, another world opened up. Smoke from the forges rose into the morning air. Wooden houses — crooked, with mismatched roofs — stood either pressed close together or separated by gaps. Streets stretched between them: people with baskets, a market, children running barefoot through the dust.

Near the gates stood an old board with scratched symbols — a row of colored circles: first simple green ones, then white, blue, and at the end dark red ones, rarer than the rest. Beside them were rough drawings.

— What is that? — Michael asked quietly.

The guard glanced over his shoulder and breathed out shortly.

— Ah… the board! I always forget to mention it. For traders. So they can see right away what things cost here and what we’re short on.

Michael narrowed his eyes for a moment, lifting his gaze. The sun struck from behind the walls, pulling the pine forest out of the haze… and farther beyond it — ruins. Sharp as bones.

— Who is there? — a woman’s voice rang out.

Sarah approached the gates. Tall, slender, with a serious gaze. Her fair hair was tied carelessly, her movements precise and confident. There was authority in the way she walked.

— Michael. Trader from the Ravens, — he answered with a nod. — I heard you have healing herbs. I’ll trade hides and meat for them.

Sarah looked him over, judging.

— Let him through.

Michael climbed down from the wagon, took the horse by the reins, and entered.

— Follow me, — Sarah said, and walked on without waiting.

The streets grew tighter. Gardens behind houses, smoke, the smell of wood and something floral. Tents stretched along the road.

— Hides! Clean hides — four greens each!

— Vegetables! Fresh! One each!

People shouted over one another, paying him no attention.

— Not this way, — Sarah threw over her shoulder and turned away from the market, toward the center of the camp, to a quiet square.

In the center rose a strange monument. A stone silhouette of a man knelt, clutching his head in his hands. Behind his back stretched thin glass threads. They converged toward a head that hovered separately from the body. Its outlines were blurred — a hooded figure, human… but alien. Light slid across its surface — and for a moment it seemed alive.

At the very base, near the figure’s knees, a broken glass horn jutted from the ground. One edge was slightly chipped, the sharp facets darkened with time, but a scattered glow still smoldered within. Something lay inside — a small opaque bundle, barely visible — and it seemed to feed that dim light.

— Who is that? — Michael asked, unable to tear his eyes away.

Sarah walked beside him, not slowing down.

— My grandfather made it. One of the founders of the camp.

For a second, her gaze lingered on the statue.

— He said it was… Udgal’s punishment. That was how he explained it when I was little.

Sarah led him to her house. It was not just a house — more like the center of the settlement. Decisions were made here, conversations were held, deals were made. She lived on the second floor herself.

— Well, come in. Why are you frozen there?

Her voice no longer had the hardness it had held at the gates — it had grown softer, almost friendly.

Inside was a spacious hall. The walls were lined with bookshelves — battered spines, faded titles, fragments of the past.

In the center stood a wide table covered with papers, bundles, and simple tools. To the right was a fireplace. Above it — horns. Unusual ones, faintly glowing, as if the last remains of light were smoldering inside.

Michael’s gaze lingered on them.

— I got those horns myself, — Sarah said calmly. — They belong to a light-horn Saltor. Catching one is almost impossible. In the middle of winter, they go deep into the forest. To places where people don’t go. That’s when their season begins. The young males start to glow then. Their horns light up as if there is fire inside.

She gave a slight smirk:

— But they don’t fight like ordinary deer. They dance.

Silence hung in the room for a second.

— The old ones form a ring. They stand like guards. They let no one close. And inside… the young ones dance. Each one shows himself. Movement, light, rhythm…

Michael snorted softly:

— Sounds beautiful.

— It is beautiful, — Sarah agreed. — Until you come closer.

She turned away from the fireplace.

— All right. Let’s not get distracted. You said you came for medicine. What exactly do you need?

Michael scratched the back of his head, sat down on a chair, and breathed out heavily:

— Sickness hit the village… The winter was cold, many were laid low. Our stores of herbs ran out quickly. And then the Khemars came.

Sarah frowned:

— The harvest?

— Trampled almost all of it. What they didn’t eat, they tore apart. We were left almost with nothing for winter. Travelers said you still had last year’s harvest.

Sarah nodded:

— Correct. We don’t have many hunters, but we gather plenty of herbs. Trade benefits us.

She began to list them, bending her fingers:

Willow bark, raspberry leaf — for fever. Thyme, rosehip, St. John’s wort. That is what I can offer, but the meat needs to be checked. If it has spoiled, there will be no trade.

— I understand.

— The butcher is nearby. By the statue. You’ll see the sign with a boar — that’s him. Tell him you are from me. He’ll check the goods and say how much we can take.

— Thank you.

— When you return, we’ll decide about lodging. For the horse separately — five green Lagerents.

Sarah was already turning back to her affairs. She quickly dissolved into the flow — approached someone, said something to someone else, stopped somewhere else. Her movements carried the habit of keeping everything under control.

Michael went outside, took the horse by the reins, and headed toward the butcher. He had almost no strength left, but business could not wait.

By the statue, he quickly found the right place — a sign with a roughly carved boar swayed in the wind.

The butcher checked the goods carefully — by smell, by color, by firmness. The fresh smell of meat immediately spread through the cramped shop, heavy, warm, so alive after the damp morning air outside.

— Good, — he finally grunted. — Fresh. Lucky you.

Michael nodded, feeling the exhaustion press down harder.

— Well, look, — the butcher said, cutting off a piece with a heavy knife. — For the meat I’ll give four green Lagerents per kilo. For the hide — three.

— I have a trade with Sarah, — Michael frowned.

The butcher raised his eyes and narrowed them:

— I know.

He nodded somewhere behind him:

— Saw the board by the gates?

— I saw it.

— Then you understand.

He turned the piece of meat over and struck it hard with the cleaver. The wet sound of split flesh echoed unpleasantly somewhere in Michael’s stomach. He did not even notice himself swallowing — from hunger, his stomach tightened treacherously and rumbled softly.

— I’ll add something extra on top for everything. I won’t cheat you.

— It’s easier for me to pay you than to bother Sarah…

— And then? — Michael asked, confused.

— Then you take what you need from her. Everyone wins.

He went back to the meat again, as if the conversation was already over:

— I’ve known Sarah since she was in swaddling clothes. I don’t like bothering her over trifles.

Michael smirked:

— I see you respect her here.

The butcher snorted:

— Not respect. Trust.

He set the knife aside and looked at Michael:

— They forgot to explain at the entrance again, didn’t they?

— Same thing every time.

The butcher quickly finished with the meat, weighed it, and calculated:

— Weighed it all! Comes to: four blue, eight white, and nine green Lagerents.

He counted out glass coins — heavy, cold, each with a different shade of light — and handed them over.

Michael took them, poured them into a pouch, and, nodding, headed for the exit:

— Thank you.

Already beyond the threshold, he stopped. He took out one transparent coin and held it up to the light.

Crystal clear. Inside were four symbols: Green Grass, the Ravens, the Wolves, and the Creek.

Real.

He put it back and quickened his pace.

Michael headed toward Sarah’s house. Hunger pulled unpleasantly at his stomach, his legs hummed from the road, and the thought of a real bed seemed almost a luxury. But there was no time to rest.

And suddenly — a feeling.

Someone was watching his back.

Michael sharply turned around.

Behind a building, a figure in a black cloak seemed to flicker — and immediately vanish.

And nothing else.

People went about their business; someone passed by, someone did not even pay attention to him.

Michael looked more carefully at the passersby.

— Hm… — he breathed out quietly, noticing nothing strange.

Only now did one detail stand out to him — many people had wooden pendants around their necks, shaped like small horns. He had not noticed them before.

— Maybe I imagined it…

He stood there for a second, then went on — faster now. The leader’s house was visible in the distance.

After knocking, Michael entered.

Sarah sat at the table, which was covered with books and papers. She was turning the pages of an old, darkened book and quickly writing something in a notebook with a quill, dipping it into ink.

— Oh, Michael, it’s you? Come in. I usually don’t handle this myself, but your matter is urgent. So I decided to speed things up and help — I’ve already asked the herb trader to bring everything here. I think we can get straight to business.

She closed the book, pushed it aside, and moved a wooden box toward him.

— The prices are: a handful of crushed willow bark — two greens. A bundle of thyme or St. John’s wort — three each. Raspberry leaves and rosehip fruits — five each. Take what you need for the amount you have.

Michael took the bag from his shoulder and began quickly sorting through the herbs. His hands trembled slightly.

He was an experienced trader, but now everything was different. His first time in this settlement, among unfamiliar goods, where a mistake could cost dearly.

— Here… I’ll take this.

Michael reached for the bundles of herbs. The dry raspberry leaves scratched his palm unpleasantly, clinging to the skin. The round rosehip fruits, on the other hand, kept trying to slip from his tired fingers and roll across the counter with a soft knock. Michael irritably gathered them back.

He set aside almost everything he could carry, leaving only a few Lagerents for the stall and feed.

Sarah quickly assessed it with her eyes:

— That will do. Take it. The stable is five houses north. Across the road is the tavern.

— Thank you… very much, for the care!

The backpack became noticeably heavier.

Sarah smirked:

— It is not care. Traders are important to the settlement. If you collapse from exhaustion, you’ll be robbed clean. Then there will be problems — for you and for me. And I don’t like unnecessary problems.

Michael nodded.

He adjusted the backpack, checked that the straps were tightened properly, and went outside. The noise of the camp immediately covered him — voices, knocking, the smell of smoke and fresh wood.

The stable was not far. He walked slowly, leading the horse by the reins, moving around people and wagons. Dogs barked somewhere nearby, someone argued at a stall, boards creaked underfoot.

At the stable, he left the wagon, paid for the place and hay, exchanged a few short words with the stableman, and, now lighter, headed to the tavern.

It was warmer and quieter there.

To his surprise, the food turned out better than he had expected: hot soup in meat broth with herbs, pieces of meat, soft pastry.

Michael even smiled to himself.

— Now that’s food…

He ate in silence.

At the next table, people were speaking in low voices:

— How much longer will they keep glowing…

— Who knows. It’s almost time already.

— I don’t want another leader.

— You think she’ll go again?

— Into the forest? People don’t go there a second time.

— Then the change is coming soon…

Michael involuntarily listened closer, but the conversation died down.

After finishing a piece of bread and ordering a mug of ale, Michael sat for a little longer. The drink spread pleasantly through his body, relaxing him after the road.

He did not even undress. His boots struck heavily against the wooden floor when he simply stretched his legs out on the bed. His feet hummed after the road, his calves filled with a dull heaviness, and his body already felt as if it no longer belonged to him.

He simply lay down.

And fell into sleep.

Evening came unnoticed.

At first, silhouettes flickered beyond the window — everything as usual. Then the movements became sharper, more tense.

And suddenly — screams.

Loud.

Broken.

Michael woke sharply, not immediately understanding where he was. His heart struck heavily against his chest, his mouth was dry, and his body still resisted sleep, unwilling to rise after the road.

The first thing he did was grab the backpack.

From the street came the noise of a crowd, stomping, voices.

Something was happening.

And it was not just a gathering.

End of Chapter One.