Nyx: Remnants of the Ashen Blood Chapter 3: Realm Fractures

BY Hardikkumar Joshi PUBLISHED Feb 10, 2022

Mark woke up again, but this time into the ragged confinement of his hut.

The hut sat like a mere mouse under the sprawling boughs of an ancient oak. The stony grey windowless walls were furry with moss that sparkled silvery with dew in the early morning winter light. Its roof was thickly thatched with coarse straw and a grey stone chimney stuck up like a solitary erect ear, listening for the rustle of a coming predator.

The steeple that once could be seen from anywhere in the village owing to its polished gleam no longer shined, a rusty relic of ages gone by. Bricks and cement had been eroded, washing the colours from the once beautiful building. But from within, the magic lived on.

Great halls of chandeliers and tables lay stagnant and dusty, yet held the weight of many parties, songs, and dances. The floors lay expectant, as if wishing for one last pair of boots to walk by.

He checked his neck but, to his surprise, found it well bandaged. He moved his head, grimacing with pain, and a small moan escaped his lips.

The last he could remember was the lightning, the egg, the stone, and the tentacle-headed freak. He looked at his bed and made his way out of the hut. On his way out, he passed by the kitchen and saw a cooked stew ready to be served. His foot ached, so he slowly made his way to the door and unlatched it. As soon as he opened the door, the landscape unrolled itself.

The river from the Imaruala Falls snaked past the moist slate outcropping through marshes and moss-covered mountains. Before him lay Dolandor Vare village, a cluster of brown-yellow buildings. A little away from the northernmost point of the base of the river lay Alvancar Valley.

Black smoke billowed out from the chimneys, and the smell of charcoal wafted up the looming snow-clad mountains. His hut jutted 10 feet from the diminutive land, only patches of farms as green, no bigger than a stone, could be seen from this height. The land was mostly tan as dead weeds rolled into the wind.

The Jeor River wound its way from the village towards Alvancar’s eastern edge, while sunlight streamed through the moist leaves. Far to the east, it flowed past Ralvisford and then to the remote mountain, Ulgrafard. It then ran into the sea and ended. Only god knew where.

After a brief pause, he started the descent to the river. The mountains stood renowned for their serrated edge and the lambent rays of the sun streamed onto the damp field. Upon reaching the bottom, grimacing, he dragged his feet across the water as the blurred shapes into gray masses peeked through the thicket of oak trees. He washed his feet into the cold water, feeling the soothing rhythm of the river.

The Dolandor Vare stretched towards the barren lands and the mountains, their lights shimmering in the morning light. The settlement was isolated and surrounded by wilderness. Only a few trappers and wood carvers would visit it this season.

The village consisted of wooden houses stocked with red-tiled roofs and had cobble-stoned walkways towards the entrances. Some houses had a lamp lit and molten wax on their windows to keep them warm. Occasionally, kids would come out to play nearby wells and near the river, while people gathered around to talk.

Mark heard disputes of husbands with their screeching wives while mothers ran to catch their children to call them back home. He sat there a few moments, taking in the wooden smell of the woods, then decided it was better to head back home.

His home was 5 miles away from the village on the other side of the river. He undid the bandages and soaked them in the river and disposed of them. He touched his neck and found that the bleeding was lessening and was covered with gooey green herbs. His survival was still a mystery, the way he mysteriously woke in his hut after going through all of that.

That had to wait, as there were things that he could still do, but after a quick rest. He stood up and climbed back to the hut. He slowly opened the door and was about two steps inside, but he saw two slimy figures slithering in the grass near him. He leaned into the hut and jumped out of the way as soon as a wave of flaming gas spread over him.

Two heads sprouted from a small reptilian body, small yellow eyes glaring at him, its black body shuddering. Slyvians!!!, fire poison breathing tiny snakes who can grow more heads if slashed. They were swarming more, faster and faster. He immediately took a bucket of ice nearby his hut and threw it on the ground.

They hissed, stopping there, never moving again. That ice could melt in a few minutes, so he had little time to run away. He quickly went inside and locked the door. He hurried towards the kitchen and took the stew out of the charcoal fire. Sitting down on the creaky chair, he took a sip of the stew. He found it bitter but still had great healing properties.

That’s when he heard a noise coming from the hall. He slowly dragged his feet across the wooden floor. His footsteps echoed through the empty hut. As he followed the creaking noise, he soon found himself in his sister’s room.

It had her toy figures, her sketches, and a table where his family used to sit and dine. It had a little glass window that overlooked the mountains. She had died on the same night her mother had died. The room had been locked ever since, but now it was open on its own.

Mark found that one eagle toy was thudding its footsteps. He relaxed and turned down its key, and it stopped. He was about to leave when the cradle started shaking and the wind bells started colliding with each other on its own.

A scratching sound rang under the bed. Suddenly, the temperature dropped and the window glass fogged. He was about to run when he saw that a rope was tangled in his leg and something dragged him under the bed. He clutched onto the table and cut through the rope.

Mark saw two cups attached by string, something that they used for talking to each other through the cups. He heard her faint voice through the cup and saw the other end of the cup was dragged under the bed too. He quickly grabbed it and as soon as he grabbed the other end, a hand came up on his face, sprouting from the cup.

Horrified, he blinked his eyes and started to run with the cups in his hands and saw that there was no hand coming and it was only an illusion, but the creaking voice remained.