The Veilfall Lantern Festival was the vibrant heartbeat of Oakhaven, a thrumming artery of joy that pulsed strongest as twilight deepened into the peculiar bruised purple of Veilfall. Tonight, like every year, Lucian found himself swept into its very core, a willing particle in the swirling galaxy of celebration. Lanterns, like captured stars, bobbed and swayed everywhere. Crafted with loving, familiar hands from paper in hues of amber, rose, and saffron, stretched over delicate bamboo frames, they lined the winding cobblestone paths, hung in cheerful clusters from the low eaves of timber-framed houses. Here, beneath the ancient oak that gave the village its name, the fiddler's tune was at its most exuberant, a merry jig that set feet tapping and skirts twirling. Oakhaven, cradled in a gentle valley with the shadowy expanse of the Whisperwood brooding at its western edge, felt like the safest, most vibrant place in all Aethelgard, especially tonight.
Lucian, his laughter a bright, unrestrained melody that harmonised effortlessly with the fiddler's tune, navigated the joyful throng with an easy grace. He was a whirlwind of infectious energy, his dark hair falling boyishly into his eyes as he ducked under a low-hanging string of crimson lanterns. In one hand, he clutched a half-eaten honeycake, its sweet, sticky glaze a testament to Old Man Hemlock's renowned baking skills; in the other, he precariously balanced three more, a prize wheedled from the gruff but soft-hearted baker.
"For the little ones by the storytelling circle, Hemlock, you old softie!" Lucian called back over his shoulder, his grin wide and utterly disarming. "Their eyes were practically falling out with longing!"
Old Man Hemlock, his flour-dusted apron pulled taut over his ample belly, merely grunted, a sound that was more affection than annoyance. "Aye, and I suppose your eyes were doing the same, you young scamp! Be off with you before you charm the whole stall empty!" He knew Lucian too well; the lad's charisma was a force of nature, as much a part of him as his quick wit or the surprising depth of empathy that often lay hidden beneath his playful exterior. Lucian felt emotions with a startling keenness, a trait that could sometimes be a heavy burden in a world that often preferred feelings to be muted, but tonight, the collective joy of the festival was a heady, intoxicating wine, and he drank it in deeply.
Veilfall. That liminal, magical hour when the sky bled into shades unseen at any other time of day, when the very air seemed to grow thin and shimmer, as if the Veil between Somnus Prime, the waking world, and the dream-like expanse of the Astral Weave was at its most exquisitely permeable. It was a time of breathtaking beauty, of heightened senses where colours seemed more vibrant, sounds sharper, and the scent of pine from the Whisperwood carried an almost mystical fragrance. But it was also, as the village elders never failed to caution with solemn faces and lowered voices, a time of potential danger, when the fabric between worlds thinned and things not of Somnus Prime might slip through. Tonight, however, any hint of peril seemed a distant whisper, drowned out by the laughter and music, the lanterns a defiant, cheerful blaze against the encroaching shadows of the ancient forest.
He delivered the honeycakes to a chorus of delighted squeals from the children gathered around Mistress Elmsworth, the village storyteller, her voice a soothing balm as she recounted tales of mischievous Glimmerfish and brave Somna Flutters. Lucian ruffled a few heads of tousled hair, accepted a sticky hug from a little girl with jam on her chin, and was just turning to seek out Mary, the cooper's daughter, to tease her about the decidedly lopsided lantern she'd crafted, when a sound sliced through the festive cacophony.
It wasn't a loud sound, not at first. It was subtle, almost lost beneath the fiddler's melody and the happy chatter, but it was utterly, chillingly wrong. A guttural, wet snarl, low and rasping, that seemed to vibrate in the bones rather than the ears. It emanated from the direction of the Whisperwood path, where the cheerful glow of the lanterns began to thin, giving way to the deeper, more mysterious shadows of the forest.
A child screamed. Not a playful shriek of delight, but a raw, piercing cry of undiluted terror.
The music, which a moment before had been so full of life, faltered, the fiddler's bow skittering across the strings into a discordant whine. Heads, adorned with festive ribbons and flower crowns, turned as one, a ripple of unease spreading through the crowd like a sudden chill. The laughter died in Lucian's throat, replaced by a cold knot of dread. "What in the Weave was that?" he muttered, already moving, his natural optimism momentarily eclipsed by a prickle of instinctual alarm. His senses, always sharp, felt amplified by the strange energies of Veilfall.
From the inky blackness between two flickering lanterns at the very edge of the square, where the cobblestones gave way to the packed earth of the forest path, something low and dark scuttled into the hesitant light. It was no bigger than a badger, perhaps even smaller, but its form was a shifting, incoherent knot of shadow, its outline seeming to writhe and coalesce with every jerky movement. Two pinpricks of sickly yellow light gleamed from within the mass, fixing on the nearest source of warmth and life. A juvenile Dread Hound, disoriented and undoubtedly agitated, but undeniably a creature born of fear and nightmare, a stray splinter from the Astral Weave. It must have been drawn by some unseen, localised flicker of anxiety – a child's sudden nightmare, a surge of collective worry – a tiny, potent Fear Bloom in the Weave that had chosen this most joyous of nights to blossom into horrifying reality.
Panic, swift and cold as a winter wind, rippled through the nearest festival-goers. Another scream, closer this time, a woman's voice, sharp with terror. The creature snapped, its shadowy teeth alarmingly real, a guttural growl vibrating from its indistinct form.
Lucian didn't think; he reacted. His gaze locked onto young Timmy, Old Man Hemlock's grandson, not five paces from the hound. The boy was frozen mid-step, his face a mask of terror, his own carefully painted lantern dropped and sputtering on the cobbles, its light rapidly dying. Years of village games, of wrestling with his friends and scrambling through the Whisperwood, had imbued Lucian with a certain quickness, a self-taught martial readiness born more of instinct than training. But this was different. This wasn't a playful tussle or a race through the trees. This was a raw, immediate threat.
He pushed forward, shoving past a frozen couple, his voice ringing out, clear and commanding despite the tremor he felt deep inside. "Get back! Everyone, move away! Timmy, run to your mother!"
The Dread Hound, startled by his sudden shout and movement, turned its baleful yellow eyes on him. It crouched low, its shadowy form seeming to compress, then it sprang, a blur of darkness arcing through the air.
Time seemed to stretch, to thicken like cooling honey. Lucian felt a maelstrom of emotion surge within him – a fierce, almost unbearable wave of protectiveness for the child, for his village; a hot, defiant flare of courage that warred with an undercurrent of pure, primal fear. It was too much, a torrent threatening to overwhelm him. His hand came up, not in any trained block or practiced stance, but as if to instinctively ward off the inevitable, a desperate, futile gesture.
And then the world around his hand exploded in light.
Not the warm, gentle, welcoming light of the paper lanterns. This was a dazzling, chaotic, impossible burst of pure, vibrant colour. Ruby red, as intense and concentrated as a thousand sunsets, erupted from his outstretched palm, not just as light, but as a tangible spark, a concussive burst that made the air itself thump against his chest. Almost simultaneously, a blinding flash of pure topaz yellow pulsed outwards from his fist, so brilliant it forced him to squint, disorienting and utterly overwhelming. Flecks of emerald green and azure blue, like shattered gemstones caught in a miniature whirlwind, glittered in the air around his hand, swirling and dancing with an energy that felt both alien and intimately familiar.
The Dread Hound, caught mid-leap by this impossible eruption, yelped – a thin, reedy sound of pure shock and pain, a sound no one in Oakhaven had ever heard before. The chaotic energies slammed into its shadowy form, and it was flung backwards, tumbling end over end into the darkness from whence it came, its whimpering cries fading into the sudden, profound silence.
Silence.
A ringing, absolute silence that pressed in on Lucian's ears, broken only by the distant, suddenly lonely-sounding notes of the fiddle, which quickly trailed off into a confused squeak. The sharp, clean scent of ozone, like the air after a fierce summer storm, pricked Lucian's nostrils, mingling with the sweet aroma of honeycakes and the earthy fragrance of the surrounding woods. His hand, the one that had unleashed the impossible, tingled with a strange mixture of heat and cold, as if it had touched both fire and ice.
He stared at his palm, flexing his fingers. They looked ordinary, perhaps a little smudged with honeycake glaze, but otherwise unremarkable. Then he lifted his gaze to the shocked faces around him. Villagers, who moments ago had been alight with mirth and camaraderie, were now frozen, their expressions a stark, unsettling mixture of raw terror, utter bewilderment, and a dawning, hesitant awe. Mary, was pale as milk, her hand clamped over her mouth, her wide eyes fixed on him. Old Man Hemlock's jaw hung slack, his usual ruddy complexion faded to a pasty grey. Even young Timmy, forgotten for a moment in the chaos, simply stared, his earlier fear momentarily overridden by a child's uncomprehending wonder at the impossible display of light and colour.
Lucian looked from their stunned faces to his still-tingling hand, then back to the empty space where the creature had been. What in the name of Somnus Prime, what in all the layers of the Astral Weave, had just happened? A thrill, sharp and potent as lightning, pierced through the receding adrenaline, quickly followed by a cold, drenching wave of fear. The colours, the force, the light… it had come from him.