Chapter 1: Burrowed Deep

ANWEN'S POV

Twenty years later.

Monsters rule the world now.

They don’t hide in shadows or lurk beneath beds. They sit in councils. They wear crowns. They walk our roads in broad daylight as if the world belongs to them.

Because it does.

They call themselves the Scions—magic wielders, shifters, chimerae, and creatures of every shape and size.

I used to think they were stories.

Mama told them when I was small. She said monsters roamed the woods. That they snatched little girls who wandered too far. That they carried women away to their lairs.

“Stay inside, Anwen,” she would say, smoothing my hair back from my damp forehead. “The forest is not safe.”

Papa would nod from the doorway, solemn and silent.

I thought it was all just a way to keep me inside.

Because I was always sick as a child. And, truth be told, I’m not much better now. Even as an adult, the sickness lingers—breath that comes too short, bones that tire too quickly, the faint fever that never seems to leave my skin. 

No healer has ever been able to tell why.

I never believed in monsters. Until the night they came for Mama.

They broke down our door, and Arlo dragged me to the cellar where the herbs and spices were kept, hoping their strong scent would hide me.

I didn’t see what happened. I only heard Mama and Papa fighting back.

By dawn, Arlo and I were orphans.

Mama’s stories were true. Monsters are real. And they take women—daughters, sisters, wives, mothers.

Any female they believe can still bear children.

Their females are dying. The few who survived were left barren.

So they take ours.

Some sickness swept through them decades ago—maybe longer than that. No one seems to know where it came from. Some say it was a curse for betraying the Radiants, for rising up against them.

The sound of the key sliding into the lock—metal scraping against metal—pulls me from my thoughts, and I jump to my feet.

I don’t need to ask who’s on the other side. It’s Arlo, coming home after trading for food and supplies in the village.

Every night he brings me something—a comb, a pair of shoes, pastries. I wonder what it will be tonight.

The handle is still turning when I rush to the door and yank it open. Cool evening air spills inside as it swings wide.

He had just started pushing the door inward from the other side when I threw myself at him.

“Arlo!” I chirped, wrapping my arms around him.

He barely caught himself before stumbling over the threshold. For a split second, he went rigid, then stepped fully inside and pushed the door shut behind him.

The wooden bar slid into place with a dull thud.

Only then did his arms close around me.

He hugged me tighter, squeezing me for a moment before pulling away. His hands settled on my shoulders, steadying me so he could look down at my face.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he said, his voice sharp in that familiar older-brother way, “never get the door, Anwen?”

I crossed my arms immediately.

“I don’t,” I said stubbornly. “Unless I know for sure it’s you.”

Arlo exhaled slowly, the frustration on his face softening into worry. He lifted his hands and cupped my cheeks.

His eyes were warm brown, just like Mama’s. Every time I looked at them, it felt like a piece of her was still here with us. The rest of him belonged to Papa—the strong jaw, the straight nose, even the way his brows pulled together when he was thinking too hard.

Sometimes I wondered why I didn’t look like either of them.

My hair was too light. My eyes too blue. My skin was too pale, no matter how long I basked in the sunlight beside my window. When I was younger, I used to ask Mama about it, but she would only smile and kiss my forehead.

“You’re my daughter,” she would say. “That’s all that matters.”

Arlo was still staring at me now, worry etched into every line of his face.

“We’ve talked about this, Anwen,” he said quietly, his thumbs brushing beneath my eyes. “We already lost our parents.” His voice dropped lower. “I don’t want to lose you too.”

Something tight twisted in my chest.

I forced a small smile. “You won’t,” I said softly. “We’ll always have each other. Forever.”

He studied me for another moment before letting go. Then he swung the sack off his shoulder and dropped it onto the table with a tired grunt.

“Very well,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Who’s ready to see what I brought home tonight?”

My curiosity sparked instantly. “What did you get?” I asked, stepping closer.

Arlo dug through the sack, pulling things out one by one—a small loaf of bread, two potatoes, a bundle of dried herbs tied with twine, strips of dried meat.

Then he reached deeper and pulled out something small wrapped in cloth.

He tossed it to me.

I caught it and carefully unfolded the fabric.

Inside were a few pieces of honey candy.

My eyes widened. “Arlo!” I gasped. “This must have cost you a fortune.”

He shrugged like it was nothing, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t eat it all at once,” he said. “You know what happens when you’ve had too much sweet.”

I nodded and tucked the candies safely into my pocket.

I suddenly straightened, remembering. “I made dinner,” I said quickly, almost proudly.

Arlo looked up from the sack he was unpacking. “You didn’t have to.”

His tone carried that familiar mix of gratitude and concern that always made me feel as though I’d done something wrong by trying to help.

“I didn’t want you tiring yourself out again,” he added. “You’ll end up sick.”

I pretended not to hear.

Instead, I turned toward the fireplace, where the pot had been warming near the coals. The room smelled faintly of oats and salt. It wasn’t much, but it was warm—and it was ours.

“I’m fine,” I said over my shoulder.

I grabbed the handle of the pot and started lifting it away from the fire.

Before I could take more than two steps, Arlo appeared beside me and took it from my hands. He clicked his tongue the way Papa used to when Arlo was being stubborn.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue.

Instead, I crossed to the wooden rack and grabbed two bowls, setting them carefully on the table. The wood was worn smooth from years of use—Mama’s bowls. We hadn’t replaced them. Neither of us could bring ourselves to.

Arlo set the pot down and picked up the ladle. Steam curled upward as he stirred the porridge. He filled my bowl first, then his own.

And we ate together, telling each other about our days.

When we finished eating, I pushed my chair back and reached for the bowls out of habit. But before my fingers touched the first one, Arlo’s voice stopped me.

“Leave them,” he said. “Wash up and go to bed.”

I didn’t argue.

He pushed his chair back and stood. “It’s my turn tonight to do patrol,” he said, already reaching for the thick coat hanging near the door.

Patrol.

Out in the deep forest, a handful of us were hiding from the world—families who had fled when the Supernaturals began sweeping through the villages, taking women and burning the homes that resisted.

The able-bodied men took turns walking the perimeter at night.

Watching. Listening. Making sure monsters weren’t creeping through the trees toward us.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Arlo said as he fastened the worn leather strap that held his knife in place.

“Alright,” I replied softly.

He paused, one hand on the door latch, and looked back at me. “Don’t get the door for anyone.”

“I know.”

Arlo tilted his head slightly, studying me. “If something goes wrong,” he said slowly, “what would you do?”

I answered immediately. “Go down to the cellar. Hide and don’t make a sound.”

His shoulders relaxed just a little. “Good.”

Satisfied, he opened the door. Cold night air slipped inside, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. For a moment he stood in the doorway, the darkness beyond him thick and quiet.

Something inside me twisted.

“Be careful out there,” I said.

Arlo glanced back and gave me the small, reassuring smile he always wore before leaving.

Then he stepped outside.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the night swallowed the sound of his footsteps as he disappeared into the forest.

-----

I must have been asleep for a while—long enough that the world had dissolved into a warm, heavy blur. I didn’t know how long I’d been out, only that sleep had pulled me somewhere far away.

Then a frantic shake jolted my shoulder, snapping the dream in half.

“Anwen, wake up,” Arlo hissed, his voice tight with panic.

My eyes flew open, disoriented. The shapes around me swam for a moment before settling into the dim outline of my room.

My throat felt dry when I spoke. “Arlo?” I rasped, rubbing my eyes. “What time is it?”

He didn’t answer. His face was pale in the moonlight, his jaw clenched, breath coming fast.

“The monsters… they found us,” he said.

“We have to move. Now.”