No one left Greyhill by their own will.
The wind didn't howl here—it muttered like an old man talking to himself. The sky never cleared, and if the soil didn't break your back by sixteen, the frostbite would finish the job before twenty.
I wasn't anything special. Just the mark all village children bore and the fading title of heir to the house of Hollowden—a name that once carried weight, now barely worth a whisper.
In the end, I was just another boy with calloused hands, half-frozen dreams, and a name no bard would waste ink on.
"Quit daydreamin', kid! Get your ass moving!"
That voice belonged to a man I hesitated to call father—Halka Hollowden.
A leech clinging to other men's triumphs, he was a monument of wasted pride and broken promises. I carried his name like a curse, heavy and unwanted.
"Yes, Father…" I muttered, scraping together the last bit of strength I had left to respond, hoping it would be enough to keep him from barking again.
As we walked the cracked dirt path back to our withering house, I found myself trapped in thoughts of the days still ahead.
One day, I would have to take my father's place—an inheritance I wanted no part of.
He was the descendant of the once-great Hollowden clan, warriors of brutal honor and unshakable pride, where weakness meant shame and strength carved your name into legend.
But my father was the clan's disgrace made flesh. A man who carried the name without earning it. He blamed others for his failures, did nothing of worth, and walked through life like a ghost clinging to the scraps of a forgotten legacy.
He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't even a man. Just a hollow name wearing the face of a coward.
I could feel the spear of hatred sink deeper into my chest with each passing day—but I said nothing. I did nothing.
At sixteen, I had hoped for freedom, maybe even a glimpse of life beyond this place. But with every sunrise, the grip tightened. Clarity didn't bring relief—it brought truth.
There was no leaving Geryhill. No entering either. What's inside stays inside. It wasn't a village—it was a perfectly sealed prison.
A prison crafted by none other than my father—the so-called "mastermind," if you squint hard enough and toss in a pair of loose air quotes.
Finally reaching the so-called house, I was yanked inside with a force that sent the firewood clattering across the floor.
"Get your damn hands off me, you brute!" I snapped, twisting away from his grip.
He was used to my sharp tongue by now. No reaction, just a grunt as he let go like he couldn't be bothered. I didn't wait around. My task was done, and I wanted nothing more than to be away from him, from that miserable place.
So I left—slamming the door behind me like it might silence the whole cursed house.
I felt no remorse for the people I called family. I was my own soul now—unshackled, untethered. I would live on my terms, not as someone's property.
After a full day spent groveling under my father's command, I finally tasted a flicker of freedom. Just one moment—that's all I needed. One chance to slip through the cracks and never look back.
And fate, perhaps tired of watching me suffer, offered it to me.
For the first time in years, the iron gates of Geryhill—the ones that had sealed us in like cattle—were cracked open. They said it was for repairs. I saw it for what it was:
An escape.
"This is my chance," I thought, heart pounding, as the first threads of a plan began to weave themselves together.
The repairs were scheduled for late afternoon, which meant I had a narrow window—just enough time to slip away before the workers even realized someone was missing.
I knew the consequences of what I was about to do. This wasn't some naive rebellion. I wasn't a coward, and I never would be. If this led to punishment, so be it. I'd meet it head-on.
The sun had already dipped beyond the mountains, casting a dull blue shadow over Geryhill. That meant one thing: Operation Get The Hell Out of This Place—or OGTHOFTS, as I called it—had officially begun.
Most people would've tried to sneak out quietly, like rats in a pantry. Not me.
I used the only tool I had left—my last name. Hollowden.
It got me through the triple-layered security stationed at the gates. They looked at me with suspicion, of course, but the weight of that cursed name still held power.
And I hated myself for it.
But pride could wait. Freedom couldn't.
From this point, all I had to do was slip past while their backs were turned — lucky for me, those idiots had left the gate open just wide enough for my skinny frame to slide through.
But just as I moved forward, I froze. Voices echoed behind me. I hadn't seen them before, but it seemed a few guards had been posted nearby, maybe expecting someone to pull exactly what I was about to try.
"Hey," one of them muttered, his voice low but clear enough to chill my spine."You ever hear that bastard Halka has a son?"
My breath caught. My heart slammed against my ribs. They were talking about me.
"He's supposed to be around sixteen or so," one of them said, and I held my breath like my life depended on it."Well, what does it matter? Kid like that wouldn't last a day outside these walls."
They burst into laughter — loud, ugly, and echoing like it was the funniest thing they'd heard in weeks, smacking their thighs like fools in a tavern.
I stayed frozen behind the corner, horrified. Their words weren't just careless—they were a curse, a mockery, and they stuck like splinters in my skin.
Luckily, their backs were turned, too lost in their conversation to notice the world around them.
I crept forward, each step heavy with the weight of what I'd just overheard. My mind buzzed, but I forced my body to move.
My cold, battered hand touched the gate for support as I eased myself through the narrow gap.
CRACK.
A twig snapped under my foot—loud, unforgiving, and perfectly timed to ruin everything.
"Did you hear that?!" one of the guards barked, and both men spun around with alarming speed, eyes scanning the dark like wolves sniffing blood.
They lunged toward the gate, half-expecting to catch someone mid-escape, charging in my direction without hesitation.
But there was nothing.
Perplexed, they fanned out, scanning every inch of the gate and its surroundings, but luck wasn't on their side tonight.
Eventually, they grumbled something about the wind and wandered off, convinced it had all been a fluke.
But where had I gone? How did I vanish without a trace?
Simple.
My bloodline ability—an ancient gift passed through the veins of Hollowdens—lets us dissolve into the wind itself, unseen and unfelt.
That's why we've always reigned supreme.
Thanks to that very ability, I slipped through the grasp of the place I once called home—a prison built by blood and tradition.
Before I dared venture further, I paused, taking in my surroundings. Towering trees reached into the pale sky, and a heavy mist crawled along the outer edge of the wall like a warning.
But there's a catch to my gift—one that weighs heavily on me.
I can't hold the ability for long. It's a fleeting escape, not a permanent shield.
That's why I save it for when it matters most—for moments where there's no turning back, when life itself hangs by a thread.
My final card.
My Ace in the Hole.
Now I stood frozen—half-expecting someone to lunge from the shadows, grab me, and drag me back through the gates like none of this ever happened.
But no one came. No shouts, no chasing footsteps. Just the towering trees ahead, wrapped in a low mist, and the pounding of my heart—louder than the wind.
This was the moment I had dreamed about for years. And now that I was here, out in the open, free at last… the world felt too big, too quiet. I didn't feel joy or victory. Just a strange emptiness.
I stared into the unknown, the silence pressing in.
What if I die out here…?
Yet I couldn't stand in one place forever. So I stepped forward—deeper into the unknown, where the trees grew thicker and the air grew heavier, like something unseen was breathing just over my shoulder.
The deeper I went, the stranger it felt. Every twisted branch above reached down like crooked fingers, and the mist coiled around my feet, clinging to the soles of my worn shoes. It should've terrified me.
But it didn't.
For once, no one shouted. No one barked orders. This was mine—my moment of silence, my first taste of something close to freedom.
Then, just as I was about to take another step—
Squelch. Squelch.
A thick, wet sound froze me. My body dropped low, instincts from years of hiding kicking in without thought. I crept toward a bush and pushed it aside with trembling fingers.
That's when I saw it.
It wasn't an animal.
It was something else—dark and ravenous, its skin like decayed leather pulled tight over a twisted frame. Its claws were long and jagged, slicing effortlessly through a corpse like it was nothing but fabric. Bones cracked beneath its hunger.
I should've screamed. Or run.
But I didn't.
I just stared… watching the carnage unfold. When I was a child, they used to whisper stories of flesh-eating demons—tales meant to scare kids. I never believed them.
Until now.
I shifted my gaze to the body.
No sorrow. No pity.
Only a spark—small, ancient, buried beneath years of silence and fear.
My flame.
And just as I took a breath, the cold struck me.
"If I'm found missing…"
Without another thought, my legs kicked into motion—I sprinted, breath ragged, back toward the only place I knew: Geryhill.
I just had to act normal.
As if I hadn't just seen a man torn open and devoured.
But when I reached the gate… there were no guards.
Only streaks of blood.
Long, smeared trails leading inside the village.
My hand rose to my chest, trembling, and I gripped my tunic with all the strength I had left.
"Then, from within the village… I heard it. A wet, dragging sound."