The children sat cross-legged on the woven mats of Elder Bran’s longhouse, the fire in the center crackling as smoke curled toward the rafters. The walls were hung with charms of bone and ash, meant to ward off the “unseen,” though Draven always thought they looked more like chains.

Elder Bran’s single eye gleamed as it swept the circle of small faces. His staff struck the floor, silencing their whispers.

“Today,” he intoned, “we speak of the dangers of the fae.” His voice was rough as old bark, deep with contempt. “Once, they prowled these lands freely. They were clever. They were cruel. And they were ever-hungry for the weak of heart.”

A few of the younger children gasped, leaning closer. Bran’s gaze shifted, deliberately, to where Draven and Kaelen sat at the edge of the group.

“They had a taste for women,” he said, letting the word linger. “The foolish ones, the soft ones, who strayed too close to the forest. The fae would whisper to them, weave lies around them like a net, and drag them away to their courts. Slaves. Toys. Prisoners. That is what becomes of a woman who gives herself to their glamour.”

Draven’s hands balled into fists in his lap. Kaelen shrank against him, eyes darting nervously to the other children. Bran had not spoken their mother’s name, but he didn’t need to. Everyone knew.

“And what do we do for those poor lost souls?” Bran’s voice rose, sharp and commanding.

“Pray!” the children chorused, eyes bright, voices eager.

“Yes,” Bran barked. “Pray that their spirits find strength to break free. Pray that they may crawl back from the forest’s grip. And above all — keep watch. For the fae will come again. They will test you. And only the strong of will, only the faithful, will endure.”

The lesson ended with the children murmuring their prayers, hands pressed together, eyes closed. When the circle broke, the other children avoided Draven and Kaelen. Some whispered. Others giggled behind their hands. One boy muttered, just loud enough for Draven to hear, “Maybe their mother’s already got fae blood in her.”

Draven grabbed Kaelen’s arm and pulled him away before Kaelen could snap back. He had learned quickly that answering only made things worse.

The days blurred into chores. Without their mother, the house felt hollow, and so the boys filled the emptiness with work.

Draven scrubbed floors, fetched water, and bartered quietly for scraps of bread from neighbors who pitied them enough to share. Kaelen carried baskets, collected kindling, and helped with the chickens.

One afternoon, Kaelen crouched inside the coop, reaching under a hen for eggs. His hands closed around something cold and smooth. He pulled it free — and froze.

The coop smelled of straw and feathers, soft clucking filling the dim space. Kaelen crouched low, reaching beneath the hens one by one, collecting the warm brown eggs into his basket. It was a rhythm he knew well: the brush of feathers, the faint warmth of shells, the tickle of straw against his wrist.

But when his hand slipped beneath the last hen, his fingers closed around something colder. Smooth. Too large.

He pulled it free and gasped.

The egg was unlike any he had ever seen. Larger than a fist, its shell was a strange greyish-blue, mottled as though made of storm clouds. Veins of faint silver light threaded across its surface, pulsing ever so slightly, as if echoing the beat of a heart within.

The hen squawked sharply, flapping its wings in agitation. The other chickens stirred, restless, their heads darting toward Kaelen with glassy eyes. He drew back, clutching the egg protectively against his chest.

For a moment — just a moment — he swore he heard something inside. Not the dull rattle of yolk, but a soft, steady sound. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

“Kaelen?” Draven’s voice rang from outside, sharp with impatience. “Hurry up. Father’ll be back soon.”

Kaelen froze, the egg burning faintly against his skin, as though it had warmed to his touch. Some instinct deeper than words told him this was not meant to be shared. Not with Draven. Certainly not with Father.

He shoved the ordinary eggs into the basket, then tucked the strange one beneath his shirt. It was heavy against his ribs, but he held it close, careful not to let it clink against the others.

Later, in their room, while Draven scoured a pot in the kitchen, Kaelen knelt by his small wooden box — his secret hoard of treasures. A feather white as snow. A chipped marble. A whistle carved from bone. He nestled the egg among them, wrapping it in scraps of cloth so it would not roll or crack.

It pulsed faintly in the dark, like a lantern behind his closed lids.

Kaelen touched the shell one last time, his heart thudding with a mix of fear and wonder. Then he closed the box, keeping his secret sealed away.

The elder’s words clung to Kaelen like burrs.
The weak-willed are always the first to fall.
Stolen. Taken. Enslaved.

The other children had stared at them, whispering behind cupped hands, as though their mother’s disgrace had already infected her sons. Draven had kept his head bowed, jaw tight, but Kaelen burned under the weight of it.