Chapter 1
Avilyna
MAKE IT MAKE SENSE
Before the screams.
Before the blood.
There was only snow.
Snowflakes drift lazily through the air, softening every edge, muting every sound.
Running, my breath puffs into clouds in front of me.
Stones peek out from beneath the frozen earth, guiding me toward the village beyond the trees.
Above me, the sun breaks through the canopy in golden shards, catching on my blue dress where it peeks beneath the fur-lined coat.
The deep bronze of my skin stands out against the snow, one of the few gifts my mother gave me. But my deep auburn curls are a family trait passed down from some faraway relative. That’s what we concluded, since I am the only one in the family with this hair colour.
People stare.
They always do.
So I run.
I duck instinctively under low-hanging branches and leap across the narrow stream with practiced ease. I know this forest as it knows me. Slowly, the silence breaks.
Laughter, chatter and music. The forest thins, and I step into the familiar hum of the village market.
Stalls line the clearing, displaying bright fabrics, strings of dried meat, roasted nuts, and precious gems meant only for nobles.
The scent of cinnamon and roasted pine nuts warms the air; a promise of Grianstad just five days away.
I grin, weaving through the crowd, my boots crunching on the snow.
This is my favourite time of the year. Colour and joy spill from every stall.
Some merchants call my name with cheerful waves, and some grumpy ones give me a nod.
In the centre stands the towering Grianstad Crann, waiting for the ornaments of gratitude and the promises to Kvirr we’ll offer on the Eve.
But then a smell hits me—spicy, sweet, overpowering. I turn before I can think, drawn to a table filled with herbs shimmering with enchantment, colourful stones that pull me in, and crystals gleaming with promises.
The essence burns, and I’m not shielding.
Dizzy, I clench my fists, forcing myself to breathe. I’m supposed to be applying my lessons on how to block my mind from this kind of spell.
I whisper the words under my breath, “Feel its energy. It doesn’t have to be perfect; it just has to work.
If you're feeling static… You’re on the right track.
” The mantra my dad taught me to control my shielding pulses slowly passes through me.
“Thank Kvirr,” I exhale as I regain control of my mind.
This spell was only a threat for the few coins I have, but if it were someone ill-intended, this could have become dangerous. I can’t forget that where there’s light, there’s always darkness.
Vordak.
The thought makes my steps falter.
A wave of unease slithers up my spine. Scanning the crowd, the laughter feels too loud now, the colours too bright.
The air buzzes.
My skin prickles, and Alek appears in front of me, wearing his signature annoyed-brother look. Erasing any trace of unease.
“There you are!” He snaps, with an identical green gaze to mine, analyzing me. “Where the hell were you?”
Rolling my eyes, I brush past him. “You know where. I went to see them.”
“You’ll have all the time for petting pegasus when we turn twelve,” he mutters, grabbing my hand. “Mom’s already stressed. Can we please not make it worse?”
“But that’s in four years!” I whine, trying to shake him off. “They’re so beautiful. How can you not want to just be around them?”
“I have duties, Avilyna.” He says it with his chest raised, “One of us has to be responsible. And I’m older.”
I cross my arms and roll my eyes. “I have responsibilities, Avilyna,” I mimic in a low grumble, then add under my breath, “By five minutes.”
He smirks. “Still counts.”
Sighing, I turn to face him, “Fine. You’re right. I’ll be more considerate.”
Hand squeezing mine, Alek adds, “Thanks. And your mission is important too. Just… maybe future-important. Right now, let’s make Mom and Dad proud.”
I nod.
We walk together, side by side, through the bustle of celebration.
He glances over, his voice softer now. “Is tú an trioblóideoir is fearr liom.”
You’re my favourite troublemaker.
I smile. “Is tú mo shíochánaí is fearr leat.”
You’re my favourite peacemaker.
The language of the Gods always stirs something in me, like they’re more than just words. My dad says it gives us access to savoirs, since knowledge is power. But whatever bubble we were in, it shatters in a heartbeat.
A scream rips through the air.
Then echoes of it surround us.
I freeze, panic spreading like wildfire.
“Alek!” I spin toward him, but he’s not moving.
His eyes lock on mine, wide with fear.
Then he chokes.
Blood—thick, dark, wrong—pours from his mouth. His hands wrap around his middle before he falls.
The world tilts, and my voice rips from my lungs in a shriek that shatters everything.
“Avilyna!”
I bolt upright, gasping. My chest heaves, damp with sweat, and every muscle feels as if it’s been yanked tight, ready to snap. My father leans over me, worry carved deep into his tired face as he keeps calling my name.
“Mmm... yes. Stop yelling,” I rasp, my throat dry as dust. “I’m awake.” I rub my eyes, blinking several times to adjust to the soft glow of the lamp. He hands me a glass of water, the corner of his mouth twitching in that way it does when he’s trying not to be overbearing.
“You’re always such a delight in the morning. Oh wait, no, that’s just you.”
I drink eagerly, as if it might cool the burning in my chest, but the taste of fear still lingers at the back of my tongue. I recognize the night terror, my old friend. I must’ve been thrashing. My sheets are a mess, twisted and damp. I can’t remember what I saw, only that it felt real.
Too real.
My hands ache as if they were clawing at something, or someone.
It’s been a while since I screamed and woke my dad.
Usually, I’m good at being a passive witness to my horrifying dreams. But when I have a stressful day that leaves me physically or emotionally exhausted, the shadows of my mind are more vivid and disturbing.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I sigh.
“Hey, I’m not complaining. I wanted to wake up at 5. Remember, I’m supposed to start jogging,” my dad says, giving me a tap on the back.
“You were serious… because I wasn’t. I don’t run; I hate running. Why are you doing it anyway?”
“The doc wants me to be more active,” Dad says, stretching with a groan as he settles at the edge of my bed.
“Says it’ll help with my blood pressure.
I used to run all the time, back in my young days, you know…
” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the window, the shadows of the trees looming in the corner.
“Less beer would help with that too, you know,” I mumble, half-grinning.
He chuckles, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Careful. That sass will spike my blood pressure faster than a triple espresso. And for the record, beer’s mostly water, so that counts as hydration.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not how it works.”
“That’s exactly how it works. Dad Law, page sixty-four,” he says with mock authority. Taking the empty cup from my hands, he sets it gently on the nightstand as he stands.
My dad has a way of leaving a lasting impression, even when he's not around. With his broad build and scruffy beard, others could easily mistake him for intimidating, but in reality, he radiates a calming, almost magnetic aura. People often describe him as a teddy bear, and I get it. He’s the kind of guy who puts everyone at ease without even trying.
His only real flaws?
Always wearing a cap to keep his mid-length hair under control and his occasional Maryjane habit, which he justifies with a laid-back grin, saying, "It’s from the earth, how bad could it be?"
A pretty harmless vice, right?
One we both share, I wonder why.
“Get some more sleep, kiddo. School’s not for a bit, and you look like you just lost a wrestling match.” His voice softens, the playfulness giving way to tenderness.
“Mmm,” I murmur through a yawn, curling deeper under the covers. “Are you gonna be home tonight?”
“Yeah. I head back on the road Saturday,” he replies, reaching over to switch off my lamp. He pauses for a beat before finally closing the door behind him.
Turning onto my back, I stare at the white ceiling.
In two days, he’ll be gone again, another month on the road.
Another month of just me, the house, and the silence.
I sigh, eyelids growing heavier by the second.
Sleep creeps in, but not before my mind drifts to the nightmare.
The way it always ends in a different place, the only part that doesn’t feel like a blur until it disappears after a couple of days.
But there’s one thing that I know doesn’t make sense.
How can these be memories?
I've had them for as long as I can remember, but how do you remember something you never lived?
Every specialist I’ve seen says the same thing: repressed trauma.
But if it’s trauma… Why does my brain dress it up with medieval ruins and people with pointed ears?
Make it make sense.