Chapter 96: A Stranger at the Gate
The village shimmered with festivity.
Lanterns floated through the air, suspended by unseen threads of magic. Laughter echoed between the flower-draped houses, and the streets were lined with ribbons, candles, and stalls filled with food and gifts. At the village center, a giant cake, layered with soft pink icing and sugar flowers, towered beside a throne of blossoms where Elara sat.
She smiled, genuinely—for once forgetting the battles, the prophecies, and the grief that had marked the last decade.
She was twenty-five today.
"Happy birthday, Ela!" Ariella said, placing a garland of forget-me-nots around her friend's neck.
"Thanks, Ari," Elara said with a chuckle. "I still remember us running barefoot through the woods with no clue what we were doing."
"You mean you had no clue," Ari teased.
They both laughed.
Just then, a soft murmur spread through the crowd.
A stranger had arrived.
He stood tall and poised at the edge of the celebration, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as though taking in the scenery. His hair was black, tousled perfectly by the breeze. His skin was smooth and pale, his eyes dark and unreadable. Something about him was... unreal. The way he smiled. The way the crowd reacted.
Gasps erupted.
A group of young village girls squealed.
"Oh my stars, who is that?" one of them cried.
"He's a dream!" another whispered.
More voices chimed in, swooning, blushing, tugging each other closer for a better look. The stranger took a few steps forward, then paused.
"Apologies," he said, his voice smooth as velvet. "I was wandering through these parts and happened upon a celebration. I hope I'm not intruding."
The villagers eagerly welcomed him, ushering him toward the center.
He smiled again, this time directly at Elara and Ariella.
"My name is Albert," he said.
The name slid through the air like silk—calm, unassuming, charming. Elara and Ariella exchanged a quick glance.
Albert?
The name echoed in their minds, but it rang no bells.
Still, something didn't sit right.
He was too perfect.
Too confident for someone who had just "wandered in."
Yet when he spoke, he sounded genuinely lost.
Elara narrowed her eyes, watching the way he moved, the slight tilt of his head, the subtle twitch at the corner of his smile. Her heart thudded. "Ari," she murmured under her breath. "Doesn't this feel… off?"
Ariella's brows furrowed. "You feel it too?"
They both stared at Albert as he greeted the others.
Suddenly, a memory struck Ariella.
Her 13th birthday.
The day the Shrouded One ruined everything. The fire. The fear. The prophecy. The attack. The frantic run through the woods that ended with her being turned into a bird by the guardian of the chosen. She had barely survived that night.
Her voice was tight. "He came on a birthday once before."
Elara nodded grimly. "Let's talk to him. Now."
They approached Albert, smiling politely.
"Would you mind stepping aside with us for a moment?" Elara asked.
He nodded with ease, not a trace of hesitation in his expression.
They led him to a quiet garden behind the celebration. The laughter and cheers faded behind a curtain of bushes. Ariella turned first. "So, Albert… what exactly are you doing here?"
He blinked, feigning confusion. "I told you… I was wandering. I've always been drawn to nature. I got lost and heard music."
"You're not from here," Elara said, tone cool.
"No," he replied. "I'm from the north. My parents died when I was young. I grew up in the woods."
A flicker of something passed through Elara's eyes. Ariella crossed her arms.
"Ever been here before?" she asked pointedly.
"Never," he answered smoothly.
His eyes, wide and gentle, brimmed with innocence. "Is something wrong? Did I do something to offend you?"
The doubt began to melt.
Maybe he was just lost.
Maybe they were overthinking.
Elara sighed. "No, it's just… you remind us of someone."
Albert smiled sheepishly. "People say that a lot. I must have one of those faces."
They both gave a small laugh, a little embarrassed now for dragging him away.
"Well, enjoy the party," Ari said.
They turned and walked back toward the lights and music.
Behind them, Albert watched—still, quiet.
Then slowly, his face changed.
The soft eyes sharpened. The gentle smile twisted into a smirk of cruel satisfaction. His gaze narrowed, dripping with venom.
"Fools," he muttered under his breath.
His blood boiled.
They didn't recognize him.
Not the girls. Not the villagers. No one.
He clenched his jaw, feeling the old rage simmer beneath his skin. The same village that had cast out his mother when he was just a baby—now clapping, dancing, and offering him sweets and smiles. They had once chased her away with nothing but a cloth to wrap her newborn. And now? They welcomed the very child they had scorned… dressed up and returned to them as a stranger.
He drifted slowly through the crowd, his expression calm, polite—masking the storm inside.
They had forgotten.
But he hadn't.
Not since the day the smoke came to him on his twelfth birthday, unveiling the truth in flashes of memory and pain. He'd seen it all. How his mother ran barefoot, clutching him against her chest, blood running down her legs. How she begged for shelter. How no one had come.
How they watched her suffer.
She had died nameless, cold, and abandoned.
And now, these same faces—only touched slightly by time—stood here with warm smiles and glowing lanterns, celebrating a peace they did not deserve.
He walked among them silently, noting their wrinkled eyes and silvering hair. The ones who turned away from her suffering now turned to him with cheerful nods.
His fists remained in his pockets, but his fury clawed against his skin like fire.
They would pay.
Not with swords. Not with flames.
But slowly.
He would smile, and wait, and take everything from them—just as they had taken everything from her.
Let them laugh tonight.
It would be their last true celebration.
That moment he remembered how he was named,
It was a quiet evening.
The sky was painted orange, and the forest bathed in amber light. He sat alone, tracing circles into the dirt with a stick.
That's when the smoke above his head began to swirl—gathering, thickening, twisting into a vague shape that hovered silently for a long time.
He looked up, eyes wide. "What is it?"
The smoke lowered and spoke—not in words, but in pulses, like wind brushing thoughts into his mind.
You have grown. You are no longer a child.
He blinked. "But I don't have a name."
The smoke paused.
Then, in a voice like thunder hidden beneath silk, it whispered:
"Albert."
He repeated it. "Albert."
It felt right.
It felt wrong.
It was perfect.