"WAKE UP, BOY!"
The words hit me just before the man did.
A rough hand gripped my arm, tearing me from the small bed. I was weightless for a moment—then slammed into the wall with a force that knocked the air from my lungs. I crumpled to the ground, wheezing, gasping, coughing. The floor was cold against my cheek, but the fire in my ribs drowned out everything else.
Blinking through the pain, I looked up—and froze.
He stood above me like a storm given flesh. Brutal. Unpredictable. Cruel. Carran Shayde—my father.
His face was carved from stone, marked with deep scars and angry lines. A map of violence. Of rage. Of battles lost both on and off the field. His bloodshot eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, glared at me through a haze of whiskey and fury. The stench of stale liquor clung to him like armor—bitter, sharp, suffocating.
His voice was gravel dragged across metal."Get up, boy. Your fate ceremony's in ten minutes. Be late, and I'll tan your hide with a fire poker."
He didn't wait for a reply. The door slammed behind him, rattling the walls. I stayed where I was for a moment, letting the silence settle, letting the pain fade into the familiar numbness that had kept me alive this long.
This was Carran Shayde—the man who was once a knight of Kithra, respected and honored. But time, regret, and whatever poison he poured into his cup each night had hollowed him out, leaving only the wreckage of what he used to be.
I stood slowly, bones aching, every movement a reminder of the bruises beneath my clothes. Some fresh. Most old. All of them permanent, in their own way.
The air in my room was thick—smoke, old wood, and something else. Something like memory. I looked around, and for a second, the walls seemed to close in on me, as if they, too, remembered every beating, every whispered threat, every long night spent hoping morning wouldn't come.
But it had. It always did.
I faced the door. Beyond it, my father waited. So did the temple. The ceremony. My fate.
I should've been afraid. And I was. But not in the same way I used to be.
Something twisted in my gut. Dread, yes—but also something sharper. A defiance I hadn't felt in a long time. A whisper in the back of my mind, urging me toward something different. Something new.
Maybe this time, I wouldn't just survive.
Maybe this time, I'd choose.
I turned away from the door.
Instead, I moved to the window, pushing it open with care. The hinges creaked softly. I climbed out and landed in the dew-damp grass. The morning was quiet, the sun just beginning to paint the sky in pale gold.
Around the side of the house, I grabbed a long-handled gardening tool—a hoe with a strong, sturdy shaft. It had served my mother once in her garden. It would serve me now in a different way.
When I reached the front door, I slid the shaft between the handle and the frame, jamming it tightly. The wood groaned. It wouldn't hold him forever. Just long enough.
I turned and walked toward the town square, toward the towering spires of the Temple of Fates.
I smiled. A real smile. Small. Fierce.
This time, my life was mine.
The town of Varrow's Hollow stretched out before me like a half-forgotten dream—familiar yet distant, worn and weary like the people who called it home.
Stone buildings leaned into each other like old men huddled against the wind, their thatched roofs dark with age and rain. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning peat and bitter herbs. The cobbled streets were slick with morning dew, their cracks filled with moss and time. Shutters creaked. Carts rolled slowly through the square. Everything moved with the same sluggish rhythm, like the town itself was holding its breath.
Varrow's Hollow wasn't a place of glory or gold. It was a place people survived. Worked until their hands bled. Prayed even when they knew no gods were listening. The kind of place that raised ghosts faster than it raised heroes.
And at its heart stood the Temple of Fates—the only building in town that dared to reach for the sky.
It rose from the earth like a blade of obsidian, sharp and unnatural. Its spires were twisted, jagged things, as if carved from the bones of something long dead. Pale stone marked with runes older than the kingdom lined its walls, catching the morning light and turning it cold. Stained glass windows shimmered in shades of violet and gold, depicting the three Sisters of Fate with blank, judging eyes.
A wide staircase led up to the front, where twin statues stood sentinel—hooded figures with outstretched hands, each holding a scale. No one knew what the scales weighed. Only that they always tipped, and never in your favor.
The temple loomed in the center of the square, casting long shadows even in the early light. It wasn't welcoming. It wasn't holy.
It was inevitable.
The townsfolk walked around it like it might bite. Heads down. Voices hushed. No one lingered near its gates unless they were summoned.
Like I had been.