The Unwelcome Riders

 

It began with hoofbeats.
Slow.
Heavy.
Wrong.

 

No wind carried them.
No lantern cast their shadows.

Yet the pale stone path of Embervale
trembled beneath the weight of three riders
who did not belong to any road in the valley.

 

Their cloaks hung like torn night.
Their horses exhaled steam into the cold.

No words.
No purpose.

Only the steady, deliberate scrape of leather

shifting over hidden forms.

 

At the edge of a small cottage,
a boy—barefoot, drowsy, curious—
opened the door just enough to see them.

 

One rider lifted his head.

 

He saw him.
Not the house.
Not the fence.
Him.

 

“This is not the place,” another whispered,

in a tongue the valley had never heard.

 

And just as the boy’s mother cried his name—
sharp, terrified—
the riders wheeled their horses and vanished north,
toward a line of trees where no road existed,
toward a darkness.

 

Only when they were gone did the boy close the door,
hand trembling,
heart racing faster than a child should ever know.

 

He never spoke of it again.

 

And the valley, gentle and trusting,
returned to its quiet life—
unaware that the world had just begun searching
for the child who would one day
walk into the Shrine of Greed.