“The fifth necromancer in history, also known as Rey Lexcan, has finally been slain.” The man's voice rang clear and confident.

  A moment of stunned quiet. Then gasps. Then a rising tide of cheers.

  Merchants clapped, children smiled, and older folk wept in relief. The plaza erupted into joy, finally, an end to the shadow that had haunted their lives.

  But just as the noise began to settle, the knight raised a hand again.

  “I led a large division under the king's directives, we were tasked to attack The Necromancer upfront. We suffered many losses, many promising young men. I, Roman Kerger, saw first-hand the level of brutality realized by the Undead Leader, Rey.”

  There Roman stood silently, the rest of the soldiers behind him, all grieving quietly.

  The speech made many cheer, clap, sob, and drown in tears, the memories of this day and the news of the deceased brought all kinds of reactions.

  “Our prophet,” he continued, “has led us to believe the undead army may find a new necromancer as their new leader in a range of seven to ten years.”

  The joy of the townsfolk had completely stopped... the silence this time was heavier, denser and full of unease.

  This time, the knight paused, his voice caught, just for a moment. He lifted his gaze to the sky, as if searching the drifting clouds for strength, or perhaps for something more divine. Then, bracing himself, he spoke louder than before, his voice full of conviction and hope.

  “The Capital has developed new methods, ways to uncover a necromancer before they become one”

  Roman’s eyes swept across the crowd, fierce and unwavering.

  “We will root out this evil before it ever blooms. From now on, no evil shall even be allowed to grow under our watch! “

  A murmur rippled through the townsfolk. Their stiffness began to melt; smiles cautiously returned. Parents exchanged hopeful glances, children chatted excitedly.

  A final announcement was made by the knight.

  “We will stay here for a week as we need to resupply. We will leave promptly after that in the direction of the capital.”

  For the first time in weeks, perhaps months, the weight over the plaza seemed to lift, those same grim faces he always saw in town disappeared.

  But something felt wrong for Caelen, he stood there still processing the news.

  His gaze fixated on the ground, awkwardly standing in the middle of the now dispersed crowd he heard a conversation nearby, snapping him from his trance.

  A couple of rather old folks were there.

  “Methods to uncover a necromancer?” They all laugh hysterically, “lies, lies! The king promised he would find them immediately, that everyone would be safe! yet he took thirty years to kill him!”

  He dragged himself out of the plaza, questioning briefly the townsfolk.

  Although it is difficult to think of a way to discover a necromancer, if it meant being able to avoid any other monster from surging out.

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  “A monster,” he whispered to himself, reassuring himself.

  He hurried his steps towards his home, his grip unconsciously becoming stronger on his purchases, his faintly angered expression showed.

  Suddenly, a cold-frigid hand held his shoulder.

  He turned around, slightly startled, was an old man, small and wrapped in thick clothing, his head pale and nearly bald, what little hair remained frosted with snow. His brittle hand somehow stayed firm into Caelen`s arm.

  There was Mash Grim, the old prophet.

  Nowadays he was nothing but a shadow of the man he once was.

  His visible breath moved in the cold air. “Caelen Thornbook… listen to me, child. Leave this town at once. These knights won’t bring peace to good folk like you.” The words that came out of his mouth were desperate, as if he was running out of breath, as if begging him.

  He tried to nudge his arm, yet it didn't budge at all.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Grim but I have to hurry home right now…”

  “Caelen…my power. You remember, don't you?”

  “Yes…? Of course I do. “

  He laughed, nervously, “W-Well, I had one vision. After this so-called Roman appears” his tone shifts, more serious, deeper. “I saw multiple of the folks in here disappear, I’m not sure how it happened. B-But you were among those, Caelen! “

  Caelen blinked, his heart dropped.

  He tried calming himself down.Caelen told himself

  He let out a faint sigh.

  “Well. Thanks for the warning, Mr. Grim, I will be careful from now on “

  Caelen finally pried himself free of the old man’s grip as it let go, but Grim only swayed back toward the bench, shoulders hunched, eyes still with that unsettling intensity.

  He patted his shoulder that had accumulated bits of snow, then looked back at Grim, just a fragile senile man, usually he would be nearby the black smithery with his son, Harold.

  “Mr. Grim. Are you perhaps lost again?” Caelen asked.

  The old man hesitated, then gave a tiny nod, shame flickering across his face.

  Caelen sighed. “Alright. Let’s get you home.” He reached out and took the frail hand, surprised again by its wiry strength, and guided him through the street.

  The walk was slow, for surprisingly strong hands his legs were pretty weak.

  They stopped at a smithy where the heat rolled out from an open window, carrying with it the bite of burning coal and molten metal. Through the smoke-stained panes, Caelen caught sight of a broad-shouldered figure bending over an anvil.

  “Harold!” Grim yelled, his voice cracking with relief.

  The blacksmith’s head snapped up.

  In an instant he was at the door, apron dusted with ash, arms outstretched, his figure standing at at least double Caelen`s size.

  “Father! Caelen, thank the gods you brought him back.” He clapped Caelen on the shoulder with his rough, large hands. “That’s the sixth time now. I don’t know how to repay you.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Caelen said quickly. He tugged the knife at his belt free, showing it. “If anything, I’m still repaying you for this. I’ve kept it sharp, kept polishing it just like you said.”

  Harold’s eyes lit up. “Not a chip in sight! You treat steel better than half my apprentices.” He laughed, though his expression softened as he pulled his father gently inside. “Come in, come in. At least take a look around. It’s the least I can offer.”

  Caelen followed, letting an awkward laugh.

  The warmth of the forge felt oppressive compared to the freezing outside. The air was thick with fumes and sweat, the ringing of hammers blending into a steady rhythm. Apprentices waved from the bellows before returning to their work, sparks leaping at every stroke.

  Blades, shields, and farming tools lay in careful rows across heavy tables. Yet what caught his attention were the unique items he saw across a table, placed in a distant corner. Small sacks of colored stones, some faintly glowing, peeked open beside weapons of unusual appearance: an arrowhead split into barbs, a flail with jagged teeth, shapes and designs which seemed far more cruel than useful.

  He reached toward a spilled stone, black with veins of red that glimmered faintly in the forge-light. When he lifted it, the warmth surprised him, pulsing faintly against his skin.

  “Ah,” Harold said, setting aside his hammer. “That’s an amber stone. It's more of a novelty. When struck it generates a lot of heat, especially with metal,”

  “Useless so far. I thought of selling them as hand-warmers.” He chuckled, but the sound was uneasy. “Put it back, lad. Better not carry dead weight.”

  Caelen rolled the stone in his palm, feeling the faint heat sink into his skin, it had a nice feel in his numb, cold hands.

  He pocketed the stone. “I’ll hold onto it. Hand-warmer’s good enough for me.”

  Harold gave him a puzzled look but shrugged. “Your choice. And Caelen, thank you again.”

  Caelen forced a thin smile, but as he stepped back out into the cold air, he realized Grim was watching from the window. The old man’s eyes followed him, locked tight, every step he took until he turned the corner and was gone.

  The walk towards home felt a little tense, even if Grim's talk was a bunch of nonsense, he himself had seen his short visions come true before, the old man also seemed slightly lucid during his blabbering.

  There he now stood, just before the cracked door of his home.

  Outside the window were a couple of plant pots holding a pair of rosemary plants, barely grown at this point, below them were the names “Caelen” and “Robert” written in faded paint.

  He moved his hand to the handle and let it open.

  “Dad, I'm home!” Shouted Caelen as he entered through his home, only the sounds of creaking wood and squeaking hinges could be heard in the house.

  He dropped off the cut of pork in the kitchen, then left his knapsack in his room. “Dad?” He yelled again.

  Silence filled the house. Uneasiness settling in, as he had always been greeted by his father, he hurried his steps to his father’s room.

  There now he stood, in front of his father’s bedroom, his hand went in for the handle.

  The door screeched open, and he found him.