The distant island in these parts bore a curious name — Glëm. They said it had once been called something else, but the old name had vanished into obscurity along with those who remembered it. Now it was simply Glëm — a fragment of earth at the world's edge, where ships rarely troubled its shores.
Along its stony rim, where the high slopes of hills fell away into sheer cliffs above a subterranean sea of sand, there wound a narrow path. Worn by long years of use, it climbed between gray boulders and dipped into hollows choked with stiff heather. Along this path stumbled a fair-haired boy in a faded greenish shirt, a rope-tied pouch cinched at his waist. His name was Onskava — a name both rare and resonant, utterly unlike the plain appellations of the island folk.
Late evening was settling over the island. The sun had already sunk beneath the rim of the sea, leaving behind only a dull copper streak on the horizon. The western wind gathered strength, bearing the smell of salt, wet stone, and distant storms. Onskava was making his way home from the village — the island's sole human settlement, huddled in a hollow between two hills, half a day's walk from his dwelling. The journey there and back devoured nearly the entire day, and his legs throbbed from the miles.
At last the boy halted beside a wayside boulder, flat and broad as a seat fashioned by nature herself. Settling onto it, he exhaled with relief and untied the cloth bundle he'd carried tucked against his chest. Inside lay a small barley cake studded with boiled perch — still warm, fragrant with hearthsmoke. This was his payment for the day's labor. Biting into it slowly and listening to the evening stillness, Onskava found himself remembering what had happened in the village that day.
* * *
That morning he had set out for the village, carrying tucked against his chest a vial of healing remedy — a tincture of bitter roots and herbs his mother had prepared. She was known throughout these parts as a healer, sought out when ailments defied ordinary treatment. Arriving in the village, Onskava stopped before the house he'd come to find. At first glance it was no different from the rest: low-built, with a wooden roof grown over with moss, a sagging door of rough-hewn planks. But the moment the boy crossed the threshold, he knew — something here was wrong.
"Good day to you, Master Valkhorn," Onskava said with a deep bow, scarcely having stepped inside.
In the half-darkness of the house, reeking of smoke, sickness, and something bitter, stood a tall man with a graying beard and a gaze heavy as stone. Once he had been a warrior — his scars told that story, etched across face and hands, along with the rough bearing, the habit of keeping his back straight even here, in his own home, where there were no enemies.
