The First Strike

The salty spray of the harbor kissed Alice’s face, a welcome caress after the suffocating dust of the Oracle clan’s mountain stronghold. She’d found a precarious peace in Port Azure, a city that pulsed with a thousand lives, a cacophony of voices that drowned out the whispers of her past. Her once silver hair, now a stark, unnatural black, felt like a shroud, a constant reminder of the desperate act that had severed her from everything she knew. She worked in a small dye shop, her days filled with the pungent aroma of pigments and the rhythmic swish of brushes, a mundane existence that felt like a fragile shield against the looming shadow of the Night of Seeding.

But peace, she was learning, was a fleeting illusion. The memory of Elder Kaelen’s eyes, cold and unyielding, was a phantom limb, a constant ache of dread. She saw him in her nightmares, his voice a chilling echo, promising retribution. Her seer abilities, once a source of pride within the clan, were now a curse, a beacon that could betray her if she wasn’t careful. She’d learned to suppress them, to push the visions to the periphery, lest they draw unwanted attention.

One sweltering afternoon, while mixing a batch of indigo, a flicker of unease rippled through her. A sudden, sharp image flashed behind her eyes: a cloaked figure, his face obscured, moving with deliberate purpose through the crowded market. Then, a surge of cold dread – a feeling of being watched, hunted. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She’d felt this before, the prickling awareness of the clan’s relentless pursuit.