Luminara - Chapter Nine: The Village Without Names - Wattpad

Luminara

by NaturesQueen_

Luminara

Table of contents

YOU ARE READING

Luminara
Fantasy

They say the gods saved the world.
They lied.
Now the dead are speaking through forbidden bells, empires are bleeding secrets, and a forgotten force beneath reality is beginning to remember itself.
Zafira Kain was never meant to hear the truth.
But...

# ancient# dark# fairycore# fictional# mythical# whimsical

The village still had food on the tables.
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That was the first thing Kaelor noticed.
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Not the silence. Not the open doors. Not the chickens wandering loose in the road, pecking at spilled grain as if nothing sacred had been broken. It was the food.
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A pot of stew sat in one house above a cold hearth, untouched except for a thin gray skin congealed over the surface. In another, three clay bowls had been placed around a table for supper. One bowl had a spoon resting inside it. Another had been knocked sideways, spilling lentils across the wood. A loaf of dark bread sat beside a knife, sliced halfway through.
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Whoever had lived here had not packed.
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They had not fled.
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They had simply stopped being present.
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Kaelor stood in the doorway of the third house and let his eyes adjust to the dimness within. The room smelled of dust, cooked onions, and rain creeping through the cracks in the shutters. A child's sandals lay beside the door, one upright, one overturned. A woven blanket had slipped from a chair and gathered on the floor like someone had stood too quickly and forgotten to return.
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Captain Elias Renn stood behind him with a lantern held high.
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The light shook only slightly in his hand.
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"Do you want the report now or after we finish searching the houses?" Elias asked.
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Kaelor glanced toward the table.
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"Now."
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Elias opened the small leather notebook he kept tucked beneath his breastplate. He had been writing since they entered the village, not because Kaelor ordered him to, but because Elias had always believed fear became easier to carry once it had been turned into ink. He was lean, copper brown, and sharp eyed, with close cut coils that had gone gray at the temples far too early for a man not yet thirty. There was usually humor resting somewhere near his mouth. Tonight, it had disappeared.
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"Village name is listed as Marrowick on Dominion maps," Elias said. "Local road markers call it Mawu's Rest, though most have been scraped clean. Estimated population before disappearance, two hundred and thirty to two hundred and seventy. No bodies found so far. No signs of looting. No burn pattern. No blood trails. Livestock scattered but alive. Wells untouched."
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Kaelor stepped toward the table and picked up the overturned bowl.
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The lentils had dried to the wood.
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"How long?"
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"Three days at least. Perhaps four."
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"And the last confirmed traveler?"
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"A spice merchant passed through five days ago. Reported nothing unusual. Children playing near the western road. Women drying peppers on lines. Men repairing the bridge. Ordinary village life."
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Ordinary.
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Kaelor hated that word in reports.
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It always arrived before proof that ordinary had ended.
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He set the bowl upright.
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"Continue the search."
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Elias did not move.
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Kaelor turned to him.
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"What is it?"
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His captain looked toward the far wall.
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Kaelor followed his gaze.
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At first, the mark looked decorative, another bit of village paintwork half hidden by shadow. Then the lantern light shifted, and the spiral revealed itself.

It had been carved into the wall above the cooking shelves. + Not painted. + Carved. + Deeply. + Carefully. + Again and again. + Dozens of spirals overlapped one another until the plaster looked wounded. + Kaelor crossed the room and touched the nearest groove with two fingers. + The cut was clean. + No splinters. + No hesitation. + Whoever made it had worked steadily. + Or many people had worked at once. + Elias moved beside him. "We found the same mark on four doors, the well stones, and one of the goats." + Kaelor looked at him. + "The goat is alive," Elias added quickly. "Very offended, but alive." + Under other circumstances, Kaelor might have smiled. + Tonight, he only lowered his hand. + "Who else knows?" + "Everyone who has eyes." + "Then keep the soldiers from inventing explanations." + "They already have." + Kaelor stepped back from the wall. "Of course they have." + Elias closed his notebook. + "They think the village was taken by spirits." + "And what do you think?" + "I think soldiers blame spirits when they are afraid to blame men." + Kaelor looked toward the dark window where rain had begun to gather against the glass.
"That is not an answer." + "No," Elias admitted. "It is what I tell myself when I do not have one." + Outside, a horse screamed. + Both men moved at once. + Kaelor reached the street with Elias at his side. Rain had begun falling in earnest, soft at first, then steadier, turning the empty road to mud. Soldiers gathered near the village square, keeping their distance from the old shrine at its center. + The shrine was not Dominion built. + That much was obvious. + It had no clean white marble, no gold sunburst, no polished columns carved with approved prayers. It was made of dark wood and river stone, with small bells hanging beneath the eaves. Most had rusted. Some had cracked. A few had been tied with strips of red cloth so old they had faded nearly brown. + At the base of the shrine stood High Curator Selene Arctis. + Rain touched her ivory robes but did not seem to stain them. Crimson embroidery wound around her sleeves in patterns so fine they looked like veins. Her silver hair had been braided into a crown around her head, and her deep brown face held the serene severity of a woman who had learned long ago that mercy could be performed without ever being felt. + Beside her, one of Kaelor's horses thrashed against its reins. + Its handler tried to calm it, but the animal's eyes rolled white. + Kaelor crossed the square. "Move away from it." + The handler obeyed immediately.
Kaelor approached the horse slowly, keeping both hands visible. He never wore gloves. He disliked the barrier between command and touch. His palms were scarred from years of blades, reins, rope, and old choices. Soldiers noticed those hands. So did horses.