Chapter 3 – The Black Bear
Kalo awoke slowly, as though stirring from a deep, timeless sleep. The fire before him had dwindled to little more than a few lingering embers, crackling weakly in the hearth, casting flickers of soft red light across the room. The warmth from the fading fire clung to him, but the sharpness of the morning air began to creep in. His muscles ached from the night's rest, and with a stretch, he unwound the knots that had gathered during his slumber, pulling himself into the waking world.
The sun had barely begun to climb over the eastern hills when Kalo made his way to the root hall, the great stone hearth still holding onto the last vestiges of warmth. The scent of the earth, rich with damp soil and pine, filled his nostrils as he moved with quiet purpose. The old wood floors creaked underfoot, but there was no rush in his movements. He gathered his morning’s sustenance with the reverence of someone accustomed to the rituals of solitude. A handful of acorns, finely ground, became the base of the pancakes, their nutty aroma mixing with the earthy scent of the mushrooms that had been simmering all night. He cracked eggs, their yolks bright as sunlight, folding them into the rich broth with care. When he was finished, the meal was hearty and satisfying, a true gift from the earth.
With his hunger sated, Kalo moved to the corner of the hall where his rucksack waited, the old leather bag worn from years of use. He packed it methodically, the items chosen with the precision of one who knew the wilds as well as the back of his hand. And as always, he spoke aloud to the broom, leaning against the wall. It had been his constant companion for many years, never tiring, never wavering. "I will be gone all day," he murmured, his voice thick with affection and quiet resolve. "Don’t wait up. Be vigilant. I will return at dusk."
With that, he reached for the heavy oak door, his fingers brushing its surface, rough with age and weather. The hinges creaked softly as he swung it open, and the first cool breath of dawn slipped in, carrying with it the scent of the heath. He stepped out, the door closing with a soft thud behind him, and made his way down the hill, the earth beneath his boots damp with the dew of early morning.
The heath was alive in its quiet splendor. The mist still hung heavy in the air, curling around the gnarled trees like a memory, soft and elusive. The landscape stretched before him, a patchwork of low stone walls and creeping heather, broken only by the occasional silhouette of a twisted oak. Kalo moved toward the grove, his footsteps slow, measured. There, among the weathered granite stones, stood the graves of his family, the place where they had been laid to rest many years ago. The white heather bloomed at the edges of their resting places, fragile flowers that whispered of memory and loss.
He bent down before their markers, the stone cool beneath his touch, and placed a single branch of white heather at the base of each. The flowers swayed gently in the morning breeze, their delicate fragrance rising to mingle with the earth. He lingered there for a long moment, his heart heavy with thoughts of the ones who had gone before. Their absence was a wound that never fully healed, yet the grove offered him a quiet solace, a reminder of all that was precious.
As he straightened, Kalo's sharp eyes caught sight of something amiss. The undergrowth around the graves had been trampled, crushed as though by something large, something heavy. The usual stillness of the grove had been disturbed, the earth scarred in unnatural patterns. His heart quickened as he scanned the area, his gaze drawn toward the distant granite boulders that jutted from the land like ancient sentinels. His fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger at his side, but he did not yet draw it. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
He moved cautiously, his boots silent against the earth, following the path of the disturbed undergrowth. The air was still, unnaturally so, and Kalo’s instincts screamed at him to be vigilant. The wind had died, leaving the world eerily quiet. As he reached a gully, a deep, narrow fissure carved by the stream, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. And then, from around a bend, it emerged.
A massive black bear, its fur glistening with the sheen of twilight, emerged from the shadows like a nightmare. Its eyes were black as pitch, voids of malice and madness. Its breath came in short, ragged gasps, and its massive paws tore at the earth beneath it, swiping at Kalo with a speed that belied its size. The claws raked across his coat, and a jagged pain shot through his side as the bear drew blood.
Kalo stumbled back, his breath quickening, his heart pounding in his chest. The bear retreated momentarily, but its eyes never left him. It foamed at the mouth, the madness in its gaze unmistakable. Fear gripped him, a deep, primal terror, as he tried to find his footing. His dagger was gone, lost in the chaos of the tussle, and he stood weaponless before the beast.
The bear rose up on its hind legs, its shadow towering over him. Kalo's chest heaved, and in that moment, he knew what he had to do. He extended his hand toward the sky, his voice trembling as he uttered the words, "Tengarum."
Far away, across the heath, the broom heard the call. It quivered in the corner of the hall, its magic stirred by the urgency in Kalo’s voice. With a crack of power, the door flew open. The broom shot out of the house, rising high into the sky, faster than the wind itself. Within moments, it was in Kalo's hand, no longer the simple cleaning tool it once was but the silver-glinting Heatherblade, transformed into its true form. The blade hummed with power, its edge gleaming in the early light.
With a roar of fury, Kalo charged the bear. The battle was fierce, the air thick with the sound of snarling, the crack of bone and steel. The bear swiped at him, but Kalo’s blade moved faster, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The creature fell, its massive body crumpling in a heap of broken thistles and blood. The smell of death lingered in the air, sharp and bitter.
Kalo stood over the fallen beast, gasping for breath, his chest rising and falling like the wind itself. The Heatherblade hummed in his grip, its silver surface reflecting the light of the dawning day. His old friend had saved him once again. He looked down at the body of the black bear, his heart heavy with the weight of what had just transpired.
But as the breeze swept past him, a shadow fell over his thoughts. The air seemed to shift, growing colder, darker. He looked out toward the horizon, where the faintest tendrils of smoke rose into the sky from an unknown place, an omen of something far worse. His breath caught in his throat, and for the first time in many years, Kalo felt the cold touch of fear again.
The darkness had returned.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 4 – The Smoke on the Horizon
Weeks had passed since Kalo's harrowing clash with the black bear. The creature’s claws, sharp as the thorns of the wildest bramble, had raked across his yellow chest, leaving jagged scars that had barely begun to fade. Though the wounds had healed in the fullness of time, the marks they left were more than just flesh-deep; they were a reminder of his struggle against nature itself and the fear that had once gripped him, threatening to overtake his will to survive. The bear’s fury, its breath hot and foul with rage, had been a beastly thing that seemed not just of this world, but from some dark abyss beyond. And still, its presence lingered within him, a shadow that moved when he closed his eyes.
Despite the scars and the lingering memory of that terrifying encounter, Kalo had returned to his old ways. He had mended his torn coat with care, stitching the fabric with steady hands, though the threads could never quite mend the shreds of his own heart. His hearth fire still burned brightly at night, and the broom stood as ever vigilant beside him, a quiet sentinel in the corner. His life, though scarred, had returned to its rhythm—a rhythm that spoke of quiet nights and the slow turning of seasons.
But there was something else—something subtle yet persistent. A call that had drawn him out, weeks ago, to see the smoke upon the horizon. It still hung in the air, a faint curl of grey threading through the blue expanse. The same smoke. Had it stayed? Had it come from some camp or travelers who had set up at the heath’s edge? He had to know.
So it was, on a morning heavy with the scent of the earth, that Kalo donned his rucksack, the straps biting into his shoulders as he packed his provisions. His faithful companion, Sprig, a small, anxious green asp, curled in the folds of the sack, its tiny tongue flicking out as though tasting the air. The creature’s worry mirrored his own—there was no telling what Kalo might find. But Kalo had no choice now. The pull of the unknown was far stronger than his doubts.
His feet carried him away from his hearth, steady upon the familiar earth. The heath beneath him crunched softly with each step as he ventured deeper into the land he knew so well. The brambles had grown thick and wild in the warmth of the passing weeks, but there was no urgency in his steps. No great hurry to uncover the mystery that hung over the land like the smoke in the sky. He walked with an air of quiet resolve, as though the earth itself whispered to him—warning him, urging him forward, yet never rushing.
Hours passed, the air thickening and the smoke swelling. The scent of it curled into his lungs, familiar now, and Kalo quickened his pace as the source grew nearer. A strange warmth touched the air, and the trees began to tremble as he neared the clearing. The place was still, the earth silent as if holding its breath, waiting.
And then he saw them.
A family of Kooplings moved through the tall grasses, their figures glowing in the early light like spirits in a dream. Their laughter was warm, soft as the rustle of wind through the leaves. There was a radiance about them, something tender in the way they moved with each other—so easy, so full of life. Kalo stopped, hidden behind a cluster of rocks, his breath caught in his throat. A family... His mind whispered. How long has it been since I saw such a thing?
They seemed so much like those he had once known—those who shared his blood, his kin. The memory of his own family flickered before him like a fading star, and his heart swelled with something like longing. He had not known such joy in many years, not since the days before the world had grown heavy with loss. How long had it been since he’d felt the warmth of such love, of such togetherness? Theirs was a happiness so pure, it seemed to pierce the very air with its light.
But that happiness was fleeting.
A tremor passed through the earth, as though the land itself had sensed the shift in the air. Kalo felt it, a subtle unease that made his heart flutter in his chest. The breeze died, and a shadow swept across the field, darkening the family’s light. Kalo’s breath caught, his heart quickening. The laughter, so full of life, faltered, and with it, the warmth of the moment seemed to collapse.
From the edge of the trees, they came—dark Kooplings, their figures cloaked in shadows. They moved with an unnatural grace, their eyes burning like embers. Their presence struck Kalo to his core. They were the things of nightmares, twisted, cruel parodies of what the Kooplings should have been. The same malice, the same evil that had haunted him in his youth. No... not again, he thought, a cold dread settling into his bones.
Before he could react, the attack came. A single blow, swift as the strike of a viper. The father, so strong and broad, fell in a heartbeat, his life extinguished as easily as a flame in the wind. The mother screamed, a terrible, heart-wrenching cry that cut through the air, but it, too, was silenced by the blade of the dark Kooplings. The child’s cry—sharp, high-pitched, like the last sound of a dying bird—echoed through the glade, but it, too, was cut short.
Kalo stood frozen. His limbs stiffened, his chest tight. The past flooded back to him in a torrent of emotion—his uncle’s rage, his own fear. I should do something, he thought desperately, I must help them. But doubt seized him. The dark Kooplings were no strangers. They were his own kind, twisted and warped, far beyond saving. Could he bring himself to fight them? Was he capable of standing against the darkness that lived inside him?
His hand brushed the hilt of his Heatherblade, the familiar weight offering a small comfort. The blade hummed softly, as if sensing his turmoil, urging him forward. Yet the fear, the ancient terror that had haunted him for so long, pressed against his heart like a vice.
Before he could decide, the dark Kooplings noticed him. Their leader turned, eyes like coal, lips curled into a cruel smile. The air grew cold, thick with the promise of violence.
In that moment, Kalo’s resolve broke. His Evoker’s blood surged within him, the power that had long lain dormant awakening. He reached out with his hand, pointing to two great granite boulders that lay just ahead. The earth trembled as the boulders shuddered, then with a great force, they flew toward the enemy. One of the dark Kooplings was crushed beneath the weight of the stone, and the others were thrown back, tumbling over one another like broken toys.
But it was not enough. The remaining Kooplings rose, unscathed, their eyes filled with venomous hatred. The family—the mother and child—were already gone, lost to the darkness that had taken them. Kalo’s heart sank as the last of the dark Kooplings disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
He stood there, breathless, staring at the spot where the family had once stood. The weight of what he had witnessed pressed down upon him, heavier than the boulders he had cast. Four hundred years, he had thought. Four hundred years of peace, of safety. But now he knew the truth. The darkness was not gone. It was still here, still watching, still waiting.
In the long grass, by the edge of the heath, Kalo felt small. A lone Koopling at the end of the world. The weight of his isolation crushed him. His kin were gone, his bloodline scattered. And though the Heatherblade had offered him power, it had not been enough to save them.
Alone. So utterly alone.
He sank to his knees, the smoke rising in the distance like a cruel reminder of the world beyond. The tide of darkness was crashing down upon him once more. The land was silent, as though the earth itself had abandoned him.
And Kalo—heartbroken, broken in spirit—was left to confront the crushing weight of his solitude.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
