Prologue: Whisper on the Riverbank
In the sinking shadows beyond Avarin, there’s an unseen taint eating this ancient land. Folken, seventeen, stands quietly by the black flow of the River Karst. His eyes follow something bobbing weakly in the mud. It’s another blanket-wrapped white bundle drifting in; another foundling left by folk afraid of this new rot. Next to him, the bard Qil holds a lantern raised high, motes of gold light battling thick dusk.
Meet the Waking Crew
Folken speaks with hushed weight. “We don’t call it a blight out loud. Words give it power, or so they say.” Qil’s lips tighten in a half smile: “You still believe them, even after the moon went black twice?” In his wake steps Ein, all scars and steel, Folken’s anxious friend who trusts a curse more than he trusts hope. Together, they’re the only ones answering the nightly calls for help—even if their only pay is broken bread and shelter for another day at most. Wouldn’t you hide, too?
The Pact is Broken
A shlepping trek through the gloom, three lanterns bob each side of the wet wagon. Folded in an old shroud is the blank-eyed, silent child. Ein fidgets. “You saw its wrist? The vine brand. That’s Wormwood’s mark. They’re fey-branded, Folken.” The words weigh heavy. For centuries, no child born with Wormwood’s glyph saw daylight for long. Now, bundles wash up twice a week. Do you glance down streams near home in the dark ever?
Village of Prayers
They bring the child to Matron Sar, upright but fading. She shakes her ring of orchard keys. “Ask empty gods, ask fey lords—days are getting shorter. We can’t save all these babes, boys!” Qil’s shoulders slump. “You hear… if you take the bundle north, bribe Tharic? They’re throwing them into the chasm, of course.” There’s a hot sting in Folken’s eyes at that word.
Flesh and Memory
Rain smears old chalk runes on the market doors. The trio run for cover as cloaked riders gallop in. Folken sees his own sick father through glass, mumbling prayers to shapes swaying behind candle light. All illness now whispers in Wormwood’s voice. Qil picks on lute with tired fingers in the shutters’ hush: “We won’t look away. It’s death that flees us, not the other way around.” Why are some people always the first called, risks and dread aside?
The Fey Return
The babbling child at last breaks rank with a word: “Home.” The glyph on his skin pulses a vile green. As Folken draws a blade, wood splits and thick black vines tear through the mud between wet stones. Out steps Lys in a torn yellow dress, eyes twin blue moons behind shifting hair. She’s fey in human form, once Folken’s apparition and warning, sometimes aid. “Put away your badge, Folken. No champion survives the Worm coming for your bloodline,” she hums, smirking. His arm drops; his fear climbs higher. What’s one cursed child if all Avarin could fall?
The Meeting under Thorn
At the village heart stands an altar left for wild things long ago. As midnight bells wail, all folk crowd in silence. Lys steps closer, green glyph burning brighter. “You lot talk sacrifice but feed the fey in shadows,” she spits. “This one’s still got time. Make a pact proper, or the field won’t grow, and you know it.” Qil hands Folken a thin knife, hands shaking. “What do we do… if it’s our own people fey now?”
Truth Breaks Bones
Old lore keepers argue with raucous traders; both blame fading crops, stillborn calves, loved ones lost in the woods. The glyph-wrapped child wrapped in sackcloth watches; cold rain tracks down skin carved with new green light. “They’re right to be scared,” whispers Ein, eyeing mist curling near Folken’s boots.
Descent: Harvest Gate
The only way left is below. Moonless, the rescue crew moves past willow roots at the real gate of Wormwood. The air’s thick with spice-hot fear and bitter breath. Folken squares shoulders. “I don’t have much, but nobody dies until I say so—not tonight!” Is there bravery when magic muddies what’s right, or just bravado?
Cliffhanger: Voice Below
They slip into the worn crypt under tangled trees. Breath misting, shadows stretch almost human shape. Voice from the dark: “Is that you, Folken? Or the curse older than words?” Door behind them cracks shut; the child glows a hungry root-raw green. Darkness surges, hungry for a deal or for last blood. Who gets left alive come sunrise? Would you go further?
