The sun hadn’t actually peeked over the horizon. Still, Rowan was already wide awake, his heart pounding like a festival drum. Today was the day he was finally leaving Zyranth! Unfortunately, his blanket didn’t seem to agree with him.

“Gah, let go!” Rowan wriggled and wrestled until he tumbled straight off the bed with a solid thud.

“Totally meant to do that,” he grumbled, rubbing the bump on his head. His hair stuck out in every direction, looking as if a lightning bolt had zapped him in his sleep. The floor around him was a battlefield of crumpled shirts, scattered maps, and a trail of bread crumbs from a late-night snack.

Rowan scrambled to his knees, tugged a chunk of bread out from under a sock, and took a proud bite. “Breakfast, check. Socks, check. Extra spoon? Hmm. No spoon. But, aha! Ladle!” With a delighted grin, he tucked it into his pack.

Rowan yanked his new cloak on, twisting it around backward, then inside out, then finally managed to get it sitting right. “Okay… today’s the day.” The tremor in his voice carried both excitement and something softer, like butterflies in his chest.

Outside, the morning air was cool and damp, carrying the hush of a village still dreaming. The last stars melted into a sky brushed with gold and rose, their colors spilling across the clouds. A wooden sign creaked softly in the breeze, and a lone cricket answered with its steady chirp. Rowan tiptoed past the cider stand, careful not to knock over the empty barrels stacked in the shadows. Ahead, the mossy road curved east, winding out of sight between the hills.

He gripped his bag strap tighter. “Next stop… Ashmere Hold.”

He hadn’t made it far before his cloak snagged on a bush. “Seriously?” Rowan tugged until the fabric came free. A single twig fell to the ground and bounced once before coming to a stop. The small twig looked like a finger pointing toward the road ahead. For a moment, Rowan stared at it, unsure if it was nudging him forward or warning him back.

The road stretched farther than he imagined. Rolling hills glowed like golden waves in the morning light. The tall grass whispered in the breeze, and birds flew high against the endless blue. A stream chuckled somewhere ahead, but Rowan’s mind had already wandered miles beyond.

In his imagination, outlaws leapt from behind a boulder, their cloaks snapping in the wind. The leader brandished a rusty, crooked sword. “You’ll never stop us, Windnaru!”

Rowan confidently raised his palm, the spiral mark blazing. A fierce wind exploded to life, snapping his cloak wide like wings. With a cry that split the air, he jumped upward, hurling the outlaws back in a storm of dust and flying leaves.

One by one, the villagers appeared, their faces glowing with amazement. A single voice whispered, “That’s him… the Windnaru.” Another joined, then another, until the name rose like a song on the wind: “Rowan… Rowan… Rowan!”

He grinned at the thought, then WHUMP! He tripped over a rock and landed flat on his face.

“Alright,” he sighed, brushing off his cloak. “Let’s keep the daydreaming for after I stop tripping over rocks.”

Just then, a gust swept across the path. Not the playful kind of wind Rowan knew so well. This one tore through the grass in a sharp wave, bending every tall blade of grass as though something unseen was charging past. Birds shrieked and hid in the trees. A chill prickled Rowan’s arms.

“Uh… pretty sure that’s not normal,” he muttered, his voice snatched by the wind.

Far on the horizon, gray clouds swelled like giants stretching awake, their glowing edges flickering with hidden light. Rowan’s steps quickened until the hills opened into a narrow grove. The trees here were unlike any he had seen before. Their trunks twisted in opposite directions, as though locked in an endless fight with the sky. A thin mist drifted across the roots as the air turned cooler.

PLOP! 

A fat drop of water landed square on Rowan’s nose. He blinked, wiped it off with a quick swipe, and tilted his head back toward the branches above. More drops followed, pattering softly against the leaves until the whole grove hummed with the quiet rhythm of rain. Drops of water clung to the branches, catching the dim light as they slipped free, each one sparkling before dropping to the earth below.

Rowan hitched his pack higher and pushed deeper into the trees. A sudden gust shoved his side, nearly knocking him off balance. Squelch! His boot slid in the mud, but he caught himself just in time. His cloak twisted around his legs, heavy and damp, while stray locks of wet hair clung stubbornly to his forehead. Every step sent up a splash of cold mud against his shins. Strange mushrooms, huddled at the roots, he passed. Their ghostly caps brushed his ankles, glowing faintly like tiny lanterns in the mist.

He was just about to turn back when he heard voices. Not human voices, something he’d never heard before. They rose and fell like the crackle of dry leaves crushed underfoot, snapping and clicking in uneven bursts, as though insects were whispering secrets he wasn’t supposed to hear. Rowan froze. The rain still fell soft and steady, masking the silence between the sounds. Then, through the mist, he saw a faint glow weaving between the trees. It swayed like a torch, but it glided too perfectly, as though something unseen was carrying it.

“Is someone out here?” he whispered, barely louder than the rain, as if answering his fear.

Careful not to snap a branch, Rowan crept forward until he reached a patch of tall grass where the ground held firm. Rowan ducked behind a mossy log to catch his breath. Beyond it, a strange light floated through the storm, weaving and glimmering as though it carried a heartbeat of its own. For a moment, it wandered slowly, bobbing in the mist like a lantern searching for someone to guide.

Then, CRACK!

Lightning split the sky in a jagged flash. Rowan’s heart jumped. In the clearing, three dark figures stood, their shadows carved against the glowing rain. He ducked quickly into the grass. In that split-second of light, he’d seen them: tall, thin bodies, limbs that stretched too far, bending like trees about to snap. Skin like wet bark clung to their frames. Tangled mats of hair ran across their hunched shoulders.

The three figures huddled around the torch that should have gone out long ago. Rain hammered down, but the flame only hissed louder, flaring bright orange. Its glow cut through the storm, throwing restless shadows that crawled over the clearing.

Rowan’s chest tightened. That’s when he noticed their eyes. Huge and glowing yellow, they cut through the storm like twin beacons. The figures’ heads snapped from side to side, jerking as they swept the grove.

Click. Snap. Crunch. The creature’s mouth opened too wide, bending in ways no mouth should. Rows of jagged teeth flashed in the torchlight as it made sounds Rowan couldn’t understand. Then, the figure jerked its head toward him. Rowan pressed into the mud, hardly daring to blink. His heart thudded like it wanted to leap out of his chest. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t…

The torchbearer lifted its arm with a harsh click! The sound cut through the storm. Then, slow and deliberate, it stepped in Rowan’s direction.

FWOOSH!

The torch exploded in a roar of fire, bursting into a blaze that seemed almost alive. Sparks leapt from the fire and curled into shapes of their own. One by one, tiny creatures shot upward, their wings snapping open with a sound like wood popping. Ember eyes glared through the rain as dozens swarmed into the sky, shrieking in piercing cries that made Rowan’s heart jolt.

“Firebats…” Rowan whispered, the name falling from him like an old story come to life.

The air burned with their glow, firebats wheeling overhead in a storm of sparks. Their cries sliced through Rowan’s skull, high and piercing, until it felt like knives driving straight into his ears. He pressed his palms tighter against his head, but the sound clawed its way inside, rattling his teeth.

The firebats shrieked one last time, a chorus that rattled the storm, then broke apart midair. In a single motion, they spiraled downward, streaks of flame coiling around the torch as though drawn back to their birth. One by one, they sank into the fire until nothing remained but the hiss of embers.

Rowan crouched in the grass, the storm’s drizzle sliding cold down his neck. The tall blades swayed and brushed against his cheeks, and every drop seemed to echo in his ears. He didn’t dare move. Ahead, the creatures moved in a circle, their twitching limbs jerking like crooked branches clawing at the wind. Rowan’s chest tightened with every step they took. He didn’t know what they were, only that he couldn’t look away. Fear coiled deep inside him, but curiosity tugged just as hard, pulling him in two directions at once.

Rowan walked sideways, careful not to snap a twig, keeping the tall stalks of grass and a crooked tree trunk between himself and the circling creatures. Each step sank with a soft squish into the mud, but the steady drizzle swallowed the sound. He stayed low to the ground and slipped behind a mossy log, peeking through the twisted branches for a better view of the clearing.

Rowan blinked, hardly believing it. A boy was lying in the middle of the clearing. He looked a little older than Rowan. Strands of dark hair stuck across his mud-smeared face, and heavy ropes pinned him to the ground. His clothes were drenched, pressed flat into the damp earth. 

One of the creatures moved, its step crunching like snapping twigs. Rowan ducked as low as he could. When he peeked again, the creature’s nose twitched like a hound, and its glowing yellow eyes swept across the trees.

Rowan’s thoughts spun out of control. What do I do? What if they catch me? He could run back to the village, back to safety. Someone stronger, someone braver could handle this. But what if there wasn’t time?

The grass bent with the breeze, his cloak rippling as though the wind urged him onward. Rowan clenched his teeth and shut his eyes. Then, beneath the roar of his fear, another sound rose, a voice carried from memory.

He was small again, perched beside his mother’s bed. Her skin had been pale, but her smile glowed like lantern light in the dark room. With trembling fingers, she brushed his hair from his forehead.

“Rowan,” she whispered, “you’ve got a good heart. I see it every day.”

Her laugh drifted out, gentle as chimes in the breeze. “Just promise me one thing.”

Rowan looked at his mom. “What thing?”

“Don’t ever walk away from someone who needs help,” she said. “Even if you’re afraid.”

Rowan had nodded quickly, his little fists clenched in determination. “Okay. I promise.”

Her smile deepened, proud and warm. “That’s my brave boy.”

The memory faded, replaced by the roar of the storm and Rowan’s heart thundering in his chest.

Rowan shifted to turn away, but his legs wouldn’t budge. His boots sank into the mud, as if the earth held him there. “Nope. Not my problem. Definitely not my problem,” he whispered, shaking his head. But his stomach knotted, as though his mother’s promise had wrapped around him like the very ropes pinning the boy to the ground.

The creatures hissed and clicked in their strange language, their voices rattling like beetle shells. One pointed a long, bony finger toward the grass. Another sniffed the air. The last tilted its head at a sharp angle, listening with eerie stillness.

The boy stirred. Rowan’s head snapped up, and through the curtain of rain their eyes locked. No words passed between them, but Rowan felt it all the same: Don’t leave me.

Rowan took a deep breath and pulled his hood up. Then, with his pulse roaring in his ears, he burst from the grass and charged into the clearing.