The Glass Orphan

The full moon hung over the village like a struck bell, silent and merciless, and you pressed yourself into the shadow of the oak at the edge of the square. Your father—the man who had read you bedtime stories, who had taught you to whittle and whistle—stood in the open, his back to you, and he was not alone.

Three figures in pale grey robes flanked him. One held a lantern that burned with a light you had never seen, a greenish-blue that did not flicker. Your father spoke a word you did not know, and the air in front of him shimmered, like heat rising off a road in summer. The cobblestones beneath his feet rippled.

Your breath caught. He turned, and for a moment his face was not the face you knew. It was younger, harder, and his eyes scanned the treeline with the flat efficiency of a man who had done this a thousand times. He did not see you.

But he would, if you stayed.

The Hunter's voice came from behind you, barely a whisper, rough as bark. "Don't move. Don't breathe. And whatever you do, don't look at the lantern."