Morning came with smoke and the smell of burning still hanging in the air. The villagers walked with heavy steps. The livestock pens had been leveled to charcoal. Their livestock had died. Their hopes for winter were buried with them.
Zeo sat by the well, pretending to be pensive. He knew that eyes were starting to glance at him. But one eye stared deeper than the others.
His name was Rivan.
The son of a newcomer. He was the same age as Zeo, but quieter, more observant. So far, not many had paid attention to him. But Zeo had long noticed his presence. And this morning, when everyone was busy cleaning up the remains of the fire, Rivan stood not far from Zeo. Silent. Observing.
"Did you lose your livestock too?" Zeo asked, turning to him.
Rivan stared at him for a moment. A flat gaze, almost emotionless.
"No," he answered. "I lost sleep. The fire was too… planned to be an accident."
Zeo raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"The fire spread too fast. The wood in the barn was old and damp. But it spread like oil had been poured on it."
Zeo chuckled. "Do you have a conspiracy theory, Rivan?"
"I have eyes," Rivan replied quietly, then turned to leave.
Zeo was silent for a moment. Not out of fear, but intrigue. Rivan was different from the others. He wasn't stupid. And that meant two things: he could be a threat… or he could be a pawn.
That night, Zeo returned to the basement. On the stone table, he wrote a new name on the wall.
RIVAN.
Not a target. Not an ally.
Not yet.
"Sometimes," Zeo muttered as he stared at his name, "the best enemy… is a friend who doesn't know his place yet."
And for the first time, Zeo felt a little excited. Finally, someone to play with.
Rivan sat in the old library at the edge of the village. The small building had rarely been used since the elders had died one by one. It contained only old books, village records, and reports of events from decades ago. But that was enough.
He opened the village death archive. Years and years. Name after name.
Zeo.
It appeared in the records 17 years ago. A girl named Leira, a single mother, died from black magic contamination. Her son survived, but was recorded as having undetected side effects of the magic.
Rivan frowned.
Black magic? In a village this small?
He continued reading. Leira used to be a healer, but in the secret records of the village chief at the time, it was written that she had kept an ancient magic book—before it was burned by royal order. The book… was lost when Leira's house burned down. Never found.
And her son—Zeo—had lived there ever since.
Rivan closed the book slowly. His head throbbed. Something was wrong. It wasn't just the burning of the stables. This was deeper. Older.
That evening, he walked to Zeo's house. Pretending to pass by. But as he approached, he noticed the wooden floor in front of the house—there were small scratches. Too regular. Like the floor had been opened often.
The basement.
Rivan wasn't stupid. But he knew one thing: if he opened it without a plan, he might not get out alive.
From the window, Zeo watched from behind the curtains.
His eyes narrowed.
"So he dug," he whispered softly. "Good."
But that night, for the first time, Zeo set a trap on his secret floor. Not because he was afraid… but because the game had just leveled up.