Chapter 01 - Stolen Children
Avia's boots crunched softly on the gravel path as she led her prisoner, Hirg, towards the village of Arewa. The journey had been long, winding along the river away from the main road, a gesture that Hirg had come to appreciate. It was rare for a warrior to show such consideration for a prisoner, and in those quiet moments by the river, a grudging respect had formed between them. The village of Arewa was just coming to life with the dawn. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the distant clatter of morning routines echoed through the still air. Avia and Hirg moved with purpose, the weight of their journey hanging in the morning mist. "You didn't have to take the river path," Hirg said, breaking the silence. His voice was rough, but there was a note of genuine gratitude in it. "You could've kept to the main roads." Avia glanced at him, her expression inscrutable. "Easier to avoid trouble if I don’t." Hirg nodded, understanding the unspoken truth. He had had less chance of escaping. But he had also not have to stand people and their opinion of him and his position. As they neared the village center, the wooden gates of Arewa's modest prison came into view. The structure was sturdy, built to withstand both time and the occasional desperate prisoner. Avia walked with a steady, unyielding pace, her grip on Hirg's arm firm but not harsh. The village guard, a stout man with a weathered face named Rokan, stepped forward as they approached. He eyed Hirg with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion but greeted Avia with a nod of respect. "Morning, Warrior," Rokan said, his voice gravelly from years of shouting orders. "Prisoner from Yamma?" Avia nodded. "Yes, this is Hirg. He'll be your responsibility now." Rokan grunted, motioning for another guard to take Hirg's other arm. "We’ll take it from here. Any trouble along the way?" "None," Avia replied simply. She turned to Hirg, meeting his gaze squarely. "This is where we part ways." Hirg held her gaze, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. "Thank you," he said quietly, surprising even himself with the sincerity of the words. Avia confirmed with a nod and continued through the village, leaving it behind. Perched on a rugged boulder, Avia watched the sun dip below the mountain horizon, painting the sky in hues of pearlescent yellow. The valley below shimmered in gold-green and brown, adorned with moss and stunted bushes, while higher up, the lavender-gray of Sturt mountains was patched with resilient white snowbanks, lingering relics of the past winter. Their bases cloaked in a skirt of eroded rocks and pebbles. Drawing a sip from her waterskin—more frequently these days, as age demanded more of her—she sighed. The advancing years brought challenges, but she accepted them with a seasoned warrior’s resignation. Seated comfortably, she tended to her meal simmering over the glowing embers. There was no rush; when time allowed, food deserved to be savored. Such moments of tranquility were her small sanctuaries after days that were often long and taxing. Today had been merely lengthy, her feet aching for rest. Tomorrow promised a journey across the valley pass to the village of Peragri, where her grandson awaited. Though a road led there, Avia preferred the solitude of less trodden paths, especially when anticipating the inevitable clamor of familial duties. Her visits, though not bound by strict cycles, had stretched this cycle to its limit. She mulled over the reception that might await her. Arica, her daughter, might harbor resentment for her prolonged absence. The thought was unsettling. Avia understood that while Arica might wish for more frequent visits, her overt frustrations could easily drive Avia away, drawn instead to the solitude of the road and the simplicity of her missions. It wasn’t just about feeling welcomed; it was about the expectations of a duty she was perceived to neglect. Despite managing her life impeccably without her mother, Arica seemed to hold a silent tally of Avia's absences. Turning the rabbit meat over the fire, Avia contemplated the concept of duty. To her, the obligations imposed by tradition were like shackles, constraints she had long rejected. Traditions, in her eyes, were the bars of a cage she had vowed to escape, limitations that stifled true self-discovery and growth. If not for Putt, who had swiftly stolen her heart, it was doubtful she would tether herself to these visits as much as she had. Farmers, like her daughter, took pride in upholding these very traditions, including the revered practice of caring for the elderly. They expected the old to retire into passive dependency, a lifestyle Avia vehemently refused. She was no newly hatched chicken, but obsolete she was not. There was still much to learn, much to experience, and she would not resign herself to the idle twilight of being cared for. Her life, like the landscape before her, was not meant to be static or predictable. As she bit into the tender, smoky rabbit, a wry smile touched her lips. Yes, life was indeed meant to be an unpredictable journey—a strange, beautiful voyage that she intended to continue on her own terms. Avia's frame was tall and slender, her muscles not as pronounced as in her youth, yet her strength would surprise any adversary. It was not the brute force of a crushing fist or powerful arm that defined her, but a subtler, enduring might, woven into her very sinews—a stamina and persistence that outlasted the fiery impulses of younger warriors seeking swift victory. Her face was sharply contoured with high cheekbones, framed by dark, raven eyebrows that contrasted strikingly with her brown skin. Above her eyes, which melded the deep black of her hair—now turning gray—with the rich brown of her complexion, gave her a distinguished and imposing look. A lifetime of drawing bows and wielding swords had sculpted her hands into strong, sturdy instruments of war. She was adept with dual blades, one in each hand, yet equally proficient with a bow or knife, adapting seamlessly to the demands of battle. Being a warrior at her age was an anomaly, a fact that drew both admiration and unwanted celebrity in equal measure. To some, she was a figure of legend, an enigma that walked among them with the ease of a ghost passing through walls. This celebrity status was something she found more burdensome than flattering. In contrast to the starry-eyed stares that often followed her, the stern demands of her daughter, Arica, were almost a welcome reprieve. Yet, returning to Peragri brought its own challenges. Here, the expectation was to don a mask of charm and joviality, a role that sat uncomfortably on her shoulders like a poorly fitted armor. For the next few days, until her patience or energy waned, she would have to play this part, with no escape into the solitude that she so often craved. As Avia descended the pass, a disquiet settled over her. An acrid scent on the wind, the hallmark of destruction carried from afar. What lay before her were the charred remnants of Peragri, the village that had once consisted of about sixty homes now reduced to ashes. Smoke still curled from the ruins, and the residual heat prickled her skin as she treaded the once-familiar main path, her bow ready, an arrow nocked. She paused at the scorched plot where her daughter and grandson had lived. Any soul caught within during the blaze would have stood no chance; the structure was reduced to cinders. With a heavy heart, she slid the arrow back into her quiver and stepped into the grim skeleton of charred logs. Surveying the blackened debris, she prodded at it with her bow’s tip, unable to discern the remains of their life from the rubble. Avia's mind raced—were Arica, Putt, and her capable son-in-law, Bov, reduced to these shattered fragments? In her many years, Avia had witnessed the horrors of fire, its ruthless consumption of flesh and bone. Some cultures incinerated their dead on pyres so intense that nothing remained, not even bone. Could the blaze have reached such ferocity? Without tangible evidence, the uncertainty of their fates gnawed at her. Her gaze drifted across the wreckage, pondering where one might seek refuge in a burning wooden house. Her eyes settled on the fireplace, the only structure that had withstood the inferno, its fireproof build a stark contrast to the destruction around it. It was broad and tall, a testament to her son-in-law’s craftsmanship, built to accommodate Arica’s culinary prowess. Inside, however, was not a refuge but tragedy—two bodies, reduced to skeletal remains, lay huddled together. Avia knelt for a closer look; they were adults. Putt would not appear so grown. The blackened skulls grinned grotesquely back at her, one undoubtedly her daughter. It was a grim tableau, the innermost being of her child exposed in a way no parent should ever witness. Avia's warrior spirit, tempered by countless battles and losses, steadied her even now. The starkness of death was a familiar companion, yet the sight before her sliced through any facade of detachment. Here was the undeniable truth: her beloved Arica was gone. The loss seared into her soul, a profound grief for which there was no armor, no shield. Only the harsh, unyielding reality remained. Avia had never quite understood how the farmers tended to their dead. Did they really use their cherished arable land to dig graves? It seemed unlikely that they would deplete valuable farmland for burials, nor did they have an excess of wood for pyres. The soil itself was a double-edged sword—it could be seen as either sanctifying or contaminating the land. Her travels had brought her to mountain communities where the dead were offered to the beasts—a practical, albeit unsettling, tradition for those with scarce resources. Avia ventured to the village's edge to learn about their customs, following a path that forked towards the hills. Away from the ruins, she discovered neatly arranged piles of stones—cairns, oval in shape, with young grass sprouting between the rocks. Further afield, older graves were completely shrouded in green. This, she deduced, was the farmers' graveyard; no farmland was disturbed, and the abundance of stones served a somber purpose. Returning to the charred remains of her daughter's home, Avia gently wrapped the bodies of Arica and Bov in a blanket from her pack. As she transported them to the burial site, her thoughts were with Putt. Had he escaped, or had the assailants taken him? Or worse, was he among the unrecognizable remains? Laboriously, Avia began covering her daughter and son-in-law with stones, choosing to lay them together as they had perished. Despite her reservations about Bov—who had always subtly disparaged her life choices—her daughter had loved him, and in death, they should not be parted. Exhausted, Avia paused for water when a rustle among the boulders caught her attention. On alert, she called out, "Putt?" and reached for her bow, readying an arrow. A young woman emerged, followed by two men, one barely more than a boy, the other much older. They wore the simple garb of night clothes, their expressions etched with the trauma of survival—a look Avia recognized all too well. "Don't shoot," the younger man pleaded. Avia lowered her bow slightly, her arrow still poised. "Can we help you with that?" the woman asked, nodding towards the burial. "They were my neighbors." Avia scrutinized her. She didn't recognize the woman, though she admitted to herself that she had never taken much interest in the other villagers. Peragri had always been a backdrop to her visits, a place detached from the dangers and duties of her usual life. "If you were their neighbors, you should know their names," Avia challenged. "Bov and Arica," the woman responded promptly. "I've seen you here before. Who are you?" "Her mother." "I'm sorry." "For what? For me having Arica as a daughter?" Avia's words were sharper than intended, seeing the confusion on the woman’s face. She sighed, regretting her brusqueness. "I apologize for that. A bad habit," she admitted, and sheathed her arrow. "Thank you for offering to help. I'd welcome it." The tension eased as the group came together to work on the cairn. "Any idea what happened to their son, Putt?" Avia asked when she had put the last stone. "They took the children," the older man revealed grimly. "Who did?" Avia’s voice was steady, but her heart raced with a mix of fear and anger, ready to seek out those responsible.
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