Page 1 of Forged in Fading

Chapter One

Perhaps when the world as you knew it sprouted from an unwilling corpse, it afforded you a less than positive outlook on life. The gods could have created the four other races from flowers or cake, but instead, Alvara lived in a reality where they chose a pile of sacrificed body parts.

Her boots crunched on the snow-packed path, toes no warmer than the icicles that dangled from the buildings she passed. The wooden homes and shops looked about as alive as she felt at this early hour, except for the warm glow radiating from the frosted windows.

Almost there. Whether that was a good or bad thing, she couldn’t decide. All she knew for certain was that if her father told the story of the gods butchering Vitharen again today, she might actually throw herself into the fireplace. Though that wouldn’t do much, since he likely hadn’t bothered to light it.

Or he would launch into another long-winded history of their family, insisting that her mother’s line descended from the ancient High King’s right-hand warrior. But just about every elf claimed some sort of association with Vitharen, so his words meant about as much as saying her cousin was a selkie.

The freezing wind bit at her cheeks, and Alvara tugged her fur-lined hood tighter against her head. The land already slumbered beneath a thick blanket of white snow, even though dalvi had only arrived a few weeks ago. Despite it being the harshest of the five seasons, she had always found a strange comfort in the silence it brought to the world.

Clean and crisp air flowed in and out of her lungs as she quickened her pace. Gods, had three dalvi seasons already passed since Eloisa’s and Mother’s fadings? She shifted the bag on her shoulder, and the leather dug into her muscles, sore from the morning’s training. Mikavar had pushed her harder than usual, even requiring her to wield a sword instead of her usual spear. A way to distract her mind and keep her busy. He knew what today meant.

And then there was her father. Traveling to and from the Grove of Souls by sleigh would only require the day and meant everything to her, but he always argued they should ignore the anniversary of their loss, simply because the moon would disappear from view for a few hours.

Ridiculous. It meant nothing. No great evil would emerge from the darkness. Alvara held no such belief in omens—superstitions did no good when you had little left to lose.

She rounded the corner that led to the home of her youngling years and gazed at the aging structure. It had always been small and simple, its tar-stained timber dulled from decades of harsh weather and boasting little ornamentation other than the painted white patterns framing the entry. Her parents’ hopes and dreams for their life together. How naïve Alvara had been to believe she and Pyry might decorate their own doorframe one day.

She ran her fingers down the rough weathered wood and paused on her own crude depiction of an ice bear. Much to their parents’ dismay, she and Eloisa had taken to adding their own touches to the exterior over the years. In her defense, she hadn’t been aware that the magically imbued paint would never disappear unless forcibly removed.

Eloisa’s giggles echoed through her mind, tinkling like the silver wind chimes that swayed on her father’s porch. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time to chase her sister around the house with the dripping paint brush—that is, until they had to endure days of baths and relentless scrubbing from their mother to remove the blatant evidence of their crime.

Alvara sighed and turned the house’s frigid handle, which stung like a shallow cut from a blade. As usual, her father sat reading in his favorite worn chair by the dwindling fire. She had no idea how the ancient thing hadn’t collapsed yet, especially when he did little else but sit these days. Reading and recording the history and myths of their people, using his occupation as a tarinthúr as an excuse to remain locked inside at all hours. And conveniently ignoring his other responsibility—to travel and recite the tales of old throughout the kingdom.

Alvara frowned. “You’re not reading another book, are you?” Books falling apart at the seams towered in precarious piles on almost every available spot on the floor, leaving little room for walking. The musty scent of leather and tomes that hadn’t seen the light of day in quite some time hung in the air.

Her father rocked in his chair, the creak of the wood the only noise that pierced the silence. He hadn’t even looked up since she entered.

Her throat tightened. He looked so much older. Tired lines creased his sallow skin, and where his hair had once been golden, gray streaks had taken root, spreading further each time she visited. He looked much closer to his own fading than he should, given that he was only a little over three hundred years old. Alvara didn’t even want to consider how long it had likely been since he had last eaten.

She stepped closer and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Father.” Still nothing. “Alfris.”

He startled, as if he had been wholly unaware she was even in the room. “Alvara, my dear. What are you doing here?” His gray-blue eyes, almost the color of the metal she worked with so often, looked at her, but didn’t truly see her. His mind was years, if not centuries, away.

“You know what day it is,” she said as softly as she could manage. “We should head out now if we want to make it back before it’s too dark.”

Please don’t say it.

Her father removed his spectacles and placed them on the table beside him. “You know very well there is to be a moon darkening tonight. I am not leaving, and neither should you.”

Alvara busied herself with clearing books off the floor, kicking up dust that tickled her nose. “It won’t take long, I promise. We can’t let something so small get in the way of what today means to us.”

“Come here, my little bear.”

Her grip on the tome softened at her father’s use of his nickname for her. Alvara set the book aside and settled into the chair—her mother’s chair—next to him.

He wrapped his frail hands around hers and smiled, though the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “You know how much you mean to me. How much they meant to me. But it is not in fate’s plan for me to go with you today. I hope you can understand that.”

Alvara’s eyes burned. “Yes, Father. I understand.”

No, she didn’t.

Nothing was more important today than remembering the lives of their family. But he had lost just as much as she had, and it wasn’t her place to tell him how to grieve.

“I brought you food. I’ll leave it in the kitchen. You’re not eating enough.” She pulled her bag over her head and dug out the containers she had prepared, packed to the brim with her mother’s famous stew. Though if Alvara was being honest, her own attempts never tasted the same. The meat never browned the way it was supposed to. It didn’t matter—all of it would likely spoil before her father ever touched it. His frame had thinned over her last few visits, resembling more skeleton than elf.

She would go alone.