Rooted in the Earth: Sanctuary

The Herdsman was drunk. Staggeringly, wretchedly drunk. More so than he'd ever been in his life, though no one in the Old Goat's smoky common room could blame him. Most of the others there were in much the same state—or well on their way. Tonight, after all, wasn't just another night of bitter ales and dull grievances. It was the night they'd burned a living Relic of Old.

No amount of drink, however, could wash the smell from his nostrils. Smoke, ash, and the sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh clung to him like a curse, a phantom he could neither drown nor shake. The screams echoed in his mind, jagged and raw, a cruel refrain that refused to fade.

Why? By all the gods, why?

But he knew the answer as surely as every soul in the Kingdom did. Knowing didn't make it right. Not even close.

Outside the Old Goat, an early spring storm raged over the Vale of Shadows. All afternoon, dark clouds had rolled in, thick and ominous, smothering the weak sunlight and casting the town of Vesper in shadow. By evening, howling winds rattled the tavern's old lead-paned windows, while downdrafts sent smoke from the central hearth spilling into the room.

The acrid haze filled the air, stinging eyes and burning throats. Still, no one left. They huddled close to the dimming fire, their voices low and their cups high, as though more drink might banish the horror of the day. But the smell of charred human flesh was not so easily forgotten. It lingered, pervasive and haunting.

Sometime near midnight, the Herdsman made his clumsy move to leave. Or perhaps it wasn't entirely his idea; Timmon, the burly tavern keeper, had taken it upon himself to intervene.

"Go home, you blasted fool!" Timmon grunted, half guiding, half shoving the Herdsman toward the door. "You're so drunk you can't even find the damn handle. Marta's gonna have your hide strung out by morning—and mine too if I let you keep at this!"

The Herdsman didn't argue. He might've been too far gone to form words, but he recognized the truth in Timmon's warning. His tiny, formidable wife had expected him hours ago, and he doubted she'd greet him kindly. Even through the fog of ale and misery, he sensed the brewing storm at home would rival the one outside.

The problem wasn't finding the door. He knew that door better than his own reflection. He could have described, in perfect detail, the cold roughness of the brass handle, worn smooth in places by decades of use. The issue lay in the multitude of handles swaying before him now, shimmering and splitting like mirages. Which one was real?

Timmon huffed, stepping in to steady him. "By the gods, you're hopeless." With one firm motion, he thrust the Herdsman out into the night.

The streets of Vesper were silent, save for the mournful howl of the wind. Most townsfolk had long since retreated to their beds, leaving only furtive rodents and prowling cats to witness the Herdsman's stumbling exit.

The Old Goat stood like a relic of its own—a sagging, two-story structure with moss-covered gables and crooked shingles. Against the emptiness of the dying town, its dimly lit windows flickered like weary eyes.

The market square before the tavern stretched wide and desolate. Its cobbled stones, slick with rain, glistened under the pale light of a waning moon. A gust of wind whipped through the square, sharp and biting, carrying with it the faint but unmistakable scent of the day's atrocities.

The Herdsman stopped short, his stomach churning violently. The smell hit him like a physical blow. He doubled over, clutching his knees as bile surged in his throat, his body rebelling against both the drink and the memories.

This time, there was no stopping it. 

Teetering on legs that felt both leaden and jelly, the Herdsman waged a losing battle against the forces of alcohol and gravity as he quickly staggered across the street. Each step across the uneven cobblestone street was a precarious gamble.

He made it, just barely, to the raised planter box at the base of one of Vesper's ornate street lamps, where, with a guttural heave, emptied his stomach into the hardy shrubs.

The street lamps of Vesper were renowned for their artistry, relics of a more prosperous time when wealth and vitality coursed through the city's veins. Crafted by the finest metalworkers, each lamp mimicked a tree. The posts rose like trunks, tall and proud, before branching into intricate arms that held globes of glass. Every night, guards lit the flames within these globes, their warm glow persisting until dawn.

Vesper itself was dying a slow, agonizing death, but the lamps stood as reminders of what the city had once been—beautiful, alive, and full of promise. Now, their light merely illuminated its decay.

"Oi! No need to be so rough! No need!" the Herdsman slurred, his voice cracking as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, swaying unsteadily.

Behind him, the only reply was the heavy thud of Timmon closing the Old Goat's sturdy oaken door, sealing him out into the night.

The world tilted violently, and the Herdsman groaned, clutching the lamppost as if it were his last lifeline. Beneath his weathered fingers, he could feel the intricate texture of the metal faux bark. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying the spinning would stop before his stomach betrayed him again.

When he dared to look, bleary eyes scanned the shadow-drenched city center stretching before him—the heart of Vesper. A place where they burned the innocent alive.

Dammit. Why did you stay?

Before the thought could mull itself over any further in his already muddled mind, the skies above rumbled ominously and opened up to unleash a deluge of rain. Heavy droplets fell from the dark storm clouds that hung low and heavy in the moonless sky to pelt the earth below.

A jagged flash of lightning tore through the darkness, illuminating the city in stark, fleeting brightness. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, muttering to no one in particular, "Best get on with it."

Home wasn't going to walk itself to him.

With a deep, unsteady breath, he shoved off from the lamppost, his body lurching forward in the general direction of his dwelling. The streets of Vesper stretched dimly ahead, the wet stones glistening under the feeble light of the lamps.

By the gods, when did I get so damned drunk?

He wasn't sure if he'd thought the question or spoken it aloud. In his current state, it was impossible to tell.

Fragments of memory swirled in his mind, disjointed and foggy. The fire, the pyre—it was the last thing he could clearly recall. He didn't even remember walking into the Old Goat, let alone how much he'd had to drink.

But her face...

Her screams...

Those he couldn't forget.

They echoed in his ears, relentless, as he stumbled through the rain-soaked streets. The weight of them pressed down on him, heavier than the storm, heavier than the drink. The lamps above flickered faintly, their light doing little to chase away the shadows pooling in the corners of his mind.

Ten years had passed since he last saw her face. A decade, yet the memory refused to fade. He couldn't forget her. There were new lines around her eyes and mouth. Streaks of gray threading through her dark hair that weren't there before. Time had changed her, but she was unmistakable. After all, she was the one who had brought death to his friends.

At the edge of Vesper's cobbled streets, the Herdsman paused, leaning heavily against one of the last ornate lamp posts. The rain battered his cloak, and the storm above churned in the absence of moonlight, swallowing the road ahead in an abyss of black. He squinted into the void, his breath misting in the cool, damp air, and reflected on the journey home that still lay before him.

Fear slithered through him, cold and deliberate, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. It coiled tightly in his belly, a knot of dread that twisted with each passing second.

The Herdsman was not a man who frightened easily. His towering frame, hardened from years of farm labor, had always been enough to ward off thieves or drunkards who might think to test him. Even now, swaying slightly in his drunkenness, no one in Vesper dared approach. But his fear wasn't of men.

Seven girls had gone missing in the Vale the summer after the old Lord of Nightfall's death. Their bodies had been discovered during the spring thaw, scattered in the wilderness, their remains gnawed by scavengers and battered by the elements. The cause of death remained a mystery—at least until the boys began to die.

A beast, they whispered. A savage thing with claws like knives, capable of tearing a body apart with terrifying precision. The boys' deaths had been brutal, their bellies ripped open, entrails spilled onto the earth—all while they still lived.

Surely, only a monster could commit such atrocities.

And yet, the current Lord of Nightfall had done little to hunt the creature. He was far too preoccupied by the capital to worry about the vale. And the Lord of Vesper he'd left in charge was too interested in finding the Harbinger. 

Whatever it was that killed those youths, it still prowled the valley.

Clutching his worn leather cloak tightly across his chest, he tried to steady himself. His heart pounded violently, its rhythm wild and uneven, as though it sought to escape the confines of his ribs.

The cloak had been Marta's gift, crafted during the early days of their marriage. She had tanned the leather herself, spun the wool that now lined it, and mended its tears with careful, practiced hands over the years. It was old, thin in places, but it was hers—and it brought him a shred of comfort amidst the storm.

The Herdsman forced himself off the lamppost, leaving the glow of Vesper's lights behind. The darkness seemed to press closer as he ventured further from the safety of the city. His boots splashed in puddles, the sound swallowed by the rain.

With each step, the sobriety he had avoided all evening crept back in, heavier than he would have liked. He cursed himself for his foolishness.

That morning, his visit to Vesper had been to purchase a couple of new laying hens at the market. A damned fox had slaughtered their best layers last week, leaving Marta distraught and him without his favorite breakfast.

He had come for the chickens and stayed for her.

Grimacing, the Herdsman looked up at the dark sky, blinking heavily as rain filled his eyes. The reality of what had happened that day settled heavily on his heart and mind.

Gods be good, they had burned a living Relic of Old today!

Navigating the uneven dirt road in the moonless storm was a battle waged on multiple fronts: against the haze of drink, the pelting rain, and the treacherous footing. Spring storms had gouged deep ruts and potholes into the Vale's roads, leaving the Herdsman to stumble blindly, his boots slipping on the slick mud.

As he neared the Burial Grounds that marked the midpoint between Vesper and the farm he shared with his wife and sons, his foot found one of the craters. Gravity seized its opportunity.

The big man crashed to the ground, his knees slamming into the wet, rocky earth. Pain radiated through his body, sharp and unforgiving, as his teeth clacked together with a sickening force. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth, and he reflexively probed his tongue, half-expecting to find it mangled. Was a tooth broken? 

The icy knot in his stomach stirred, twisting tighter with cruel insistence. The fall had roused the serpent of dread coiled within him, and he retched again. But his stomach had long been emptied, leaving him shuddering with dry heaves.

The road beneath him was quickly dissolving into a mire of mud, rainwater pooling in every indentation. Slowly, he let his head tilt back, closing his eyes as the cool rain poured over his face, soothing his soul. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to savor the sensation.

And that was when he heard it.

A song.

It was faint at first, almost lost beneath the drumming rain and the growling storm, but it rose steadily, clear and haunting. The melody seemed to weave itself into the storm, a lament carried on the winds.