The candlelight flickered against the stone walls of Thalia's chamber, casting long, trembling shadows. She sat cross-legged upon her bed, the weighty tome of her ancestor's writings resting in her lap. Her fingers traced the cracked leather of its binding, the ancient smell of dust and forgotten ink rising from its yellowed pages.
The disappointment set in swiftly. There were only five pages.
She had expected grand tales of conquest, detailed maps of the unknown Welch Lands, and accounts of mighty battles. Instead, it was but a diary—a fragmented account of King Alaric's failed attempt to claim the forsaken region. And yet, as she read, a shiver crept up her spine.
The Welch Lands, Alaric wrote, were a place untouched by ordinary men. Though described as white as a newborn lamb's fleece, the lands held no warmth—only frost and silence. The lakes were frozen still, the air sharp as a dagger's edge, and the night carried with it the laughter of unseen women and the cries of children long dead.
Thalia's grip tightened on the book. The words felt wrong—as if they should not have been spoken aloud, let alone written.
She continued reading.
One night, Alaric wrote, as he crouched behind an outcrop of ice, he saw fire in the distance. Human figures, wrapped in furs and shadows, danced around the blaze, their voices rising in a song he did not understand. In the center of their circle stood a man—or what once had been a man. He bore horns curling from his skull, his body adorned with symbols that pulsed like molten gold. The gathered figures knelt before him, not in fear, but in reverence.
Alaric had turned his gaze heavenward then, seeking comfort from the gods, but he saw something else instead.
A figure, impossibly tall, looming above the trees. It stood motionless, watching the sky. Swaying gently, as if moved by a wind that did not touch the earth.
Alaric had been unable to look away.
The Moon Gazer, he named it in his writings. A being that fed upon the fear of those who met its gaze, trapping them in their own terror. He could not move, could not breathe. He had nearly succumbed to its power, had it not been for the desperate shaking of one of his knights pulling him back to reality.
And then—just like that—the entity was gone.
Thalia's breath came slow, measured. She turned the page, but there was little more to read. Alaric's final entry described a chant—words spoken by the women who danced around the fire. Their voices had risen in unison:
"Lic Ala Gudze, Fitzgra Unempra."
One by one, the women had fallen to the frozen ground, their lifeless bodies still as their souls rose from them, slipping into the fire.
The candle beside Thalia sputtered. She let out a breath she did not know she had been holding and shut the book. "Grandfather must have been too deep in his cups," she muttered. "Magic is not real. It cannot be."
But even as she spoke, a feeling of unease curled around her.
She placed the book beneath her pillow and exhaled deeply, lying back against the silken sheets. The warmth of her bed should have comforted her, but a chill settled deep in her bones. She shut her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but her lips parted once more, her voice a whisper in the darkness—
"Lic Ala Gudze, Fitzgra Unempra."
The moment the words left her tongue, the chamber grew deathly still.
The wind came first.
A sudden gust slammed against her windows, bursting them open with a deafening crash. The curtains snapped in the gale, her candle was snuffed out, and the room was plunged into darkness.
Thalia jolted upright, her heart hammering in her chest. Her hand snatched for the dagger beneath her pillow as she turned toward the open window. The wind had died as suddenly as it had come. The night beyond was ink-black, the stars swallowed by shadow.
Her breath trembled in the silence.
And then—
A shadow darted through the air.
A raven, black as midnight, burst through the window. It circled the room in frenzied flight before landing upon her bed. Its beady eyes gleamed in the darkness as it cocked its head, its beak parting in a shrill, piercing squawk.
Thalia exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the dagger. "Off my bed," she commanded, waving a hand. "Go on—shoo."
The raven did not move.
Instead, it stared.
And then, it spoke.
"But you called to me," it croaked, its voice raspy, unnatural. "And I have come… from the Welch Lands."