Beyond the conception by Itoro Isaac

Beyond the Conception Chapter One: The Fracture of Dawn The first sound of the morning was not the wind, nor the slow chorus of waking birds. It was the distant cry of the great horn — a call so ancient it seemed to tear through the thin fabric of reality itself. Somewhere in the far valleys beyond the hills, the horn echoed once more, lower this time, vibrating through the ground, shaking loose small stones and startling the grazing herds. Arin jolted awake, his breath sharp and uneven, heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. His straw mat clung to his damp back, the remnants of a nightmare whispering at the edges of his mind. He had seen fire in his dream — oceans of it — swallowing cities and forests, turning the sky to an oppressive shade of red. And somewhere, within that fire, stood a figure cloaked in shadows, holding something that gleamed like a star in their palm. The horn sounded a third time, and this time it was unmistakable. It was not a dream. Arin sprang to his feet, his bare toes hitting the cool, packed clay of the hut floor. Outside, the village had already erupted into movement. From his doorway he could see men running, their voices raised in warning. Women gathered their children, strapping infants to their backs and ushering the older ones toward the stone-lined wells at the center of the square. Arin grabbed the small blade he kept under his sleeping mat — a thin, curved iron knife with a wrapped leather handle — and tied it to his belt. His father’s voice rang out across the square, cutting through the panic like a blade through cloth. “Form the lines! Do not scatter!” Arin’s father, Kaelen, stood tall on the central stone platform, his salt-streaked hair loose around his shoulders, his face set in grim determination. Kaelen was not just a farmer, not just a father — he was the Keeper of the Flame, one of the few in the village entrusted with the ancient stories and rituals that had shaped their people for generations. Arin pushed his way through the crowd toward him. “Father!” Kaelen’s eyes found him at once. “Good. You’re awake. Get to the ridge and look to the east. Tell me what you see.” Arin hesitated only a moment before nodding. His father never wasted words. If he asked something, it was because it mattered. He ran through the narrow paths between huts, past neighbors shouting to one another. The smell of smoke reached him even before he cleared the last of the village fences — sharp, acrid, not the warm scent of cooking fires but something wilder, more dangerous. The ridge was only a short climb, but Arin’s lungs burned as he scrambled up the rocks. At the top, the world unfolded before him — the wide valley stretching far and green, cradled by mountains that caught the first rays of morning sun like the edge of a blade. But it was not the mountains that drew his eye. To the east, a dark stain spread across the horizon — smoke, thick and black, coiling into the pale sky. Beneath it, flashes of fire licked the ground, moving like living things. And then he saw them. Not people. Not animals. Shadows, long and thin, racing across the fields faster than any horse could run. The earth seemed to tremble beneath their passage, and for an instant, Arin thought he saw eyes — dozens of them — gleaming in the rising sun. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and tore back down the ridge toward the village. “They’re coming,” he shouted as soon as his father was in sight. “From the east. And they’re fast.” Kaelen’s jaw tightened, though his expression did not change. He turned to the others. “Bar the gates. Arm every hand that can lift a blade.” The villagers obeyed without question. Men and women alike took up spears and sickles, the tools of harvest turned suddenly into weapons. Children were pushed toward the inner circles of the village where the stone wells offered the most protection. Arin felt his pulse hammering in his throat. He had trained before — every boy had, sparring in the fields with wooden sticks under the patient eye of Kaelen. But this felt different. This was not practice. This was not a story told by the fire to frighten the young. This was real. Kaelen caught his son’s shoulder and held him still. “You remember what I told you?” Arin nodded, though his hands were sweating. “Stay low. Strike quick. Don’t let fear guide your hand.” “Good.” Kaelen’s gaze softened for a moment. “Fear is not your enemy, Arin. Forgetting who you are — that is what will destroy you. Do not forget.” Before Arin could answer, a new sound rose from the fields beyond the village wall — not the horn this time, but a high, keening wail that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The first of the creatures struck the gate a heartbeat later. The impact shook the wooden beams, splintering the outer braces. A second blow followed, then a third, until the great door of the village burst inward with a sound like thunder. They poured in — tall, gaunt figures wrapped in something that was neither cloth nor flesh, their limbs too long, their faces hidden behind bone-white masks. Their eyes glowed faintly, a sickly gold, and each carried a weapon that shimmered as though it were forged of moonlight. The villagers shouted and charged. The square became a storm of motion. Kaelen leapt down from the platform, his own spear in hand, and struck the first of the invaders through the chest. It shrieked and fell, its body dissolving into ash before it even touched the ground. Arin ducked as one of the masked figures swung for him, the blade singing through the air where his head had been. He thrust upward with his knife, catching the thing just beneath its ribs. It made a sound like tearing cloth and staggered back. Adrenaline surged through him, drowning out his fear. Around him, the battle raged. The villagers fought fiercely, but the creatures were unrelenting, and for every one that fell, two more seemed to appear. The smoke from the east rolled closer, thickening the air until it burned Arin’s lungs. And then, through the haze, Arin saw it — the figure from his dream. Standing at the far end of the square, tall and silent, wrapped in a cloak darker than night. In its hand, it held a sphere of light, pulsing softly, as though it were alive. The moment Arin’s eyes found it, the figure turned its head — and though he could not see its face, he felt the weight of its gaze settle on him like a physical thing. For an instant, the world seemed to still. And then Kaelen’s voice roared across the square. “Arin! Run!” But Arin did not run. Something deep inside him shifted, like a locked door cracking open. He felt heat rise in his chest, spreading through his arms, until his skin seemed to glow from within. The world blurred, and in that split second, he moved. Not with his legs. Not with his body. He moved with his will. One moment he was standing on the blood-slick stones of the square, the next he was standing before the cloaked figure, his knife raised. The figure tilted its head, as though curious. “Interesting,” it said, though its lips never moved. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, soft as a whisper but loud enough to drown the screams and clash of battle. Arin froze, his blade trembling in his hand. “You are not ready,” the voice said. “But you will be.” The figure raised its free hand and touched the center of Arin’s forehead. The world went white. --- Arin woke to silence. The village square was empty, save for the smoldering remains of the gate and the blackened ash where the creatures had fallen. Bodies lay still — some villagers, some not. His father was among them. Kaelen’s spear was still clutched in his hand, his face turned toward the sky as though even in death he was watching for danger. Arin dropped to his knees, his throat tight, the air suddenly too heavy to breathe. He did not know how long he stayed there before a hand touched his shoulder. It was Maerin, the village healer, her face streaked with soot and tears. “We must move the bodies,” she said softly. “Before nightfall.” Arin nodded, though he did not move. Something in him had broken — or perhaps something had awakened. The light was gone now, whatever had filled him before. But the memory of it burned in his chest like an ember. And somewhere, at the edge of hearing, the figure’s voice whispered again. “You will be ready.”