Hunting a Firefly

[Verrin]

The town sat quiet beneath a sky bruised by twilight, its cobbled streets slick with rain and memory. Mist clung to the ground like breath from something ancient and sleeping. From the northern road came a rider wrapped in black wool and leather, his boots caked with red dust from far-off lands.

Eamon Blackthorn

He dismounted before the inn, silent as dusk itself. He didn’t speak at first—just scanned the windows, watching for flickers, reflections, things that didn’t belong.

Inside, the hearth fire crackled nervously. A few locals nursed mugs, others played cards with too much focus.

I’m looking for someone,” he said, voice low and measured.

The bartender’s hands stilled. A flicker of fear passed behind his eyes. “We don’t want that kind of trouble here.”

Eamon set a small silver token on the bar—etched with a sigil too old for the townsfolk to recognize, though their bones remembered. “Not asking if you want trouble. I’m asking where they went.”

A woman seated near the hearth stood abruptly, knocking over her chair. “They left. Weeks ago.”

Eamon turned his head slowly. “They? So the firefly was here”

Eamon nodded, more to himself than to her. He reached into his coat, pulling out a small, singed scrap of parchment. A child’s drawing. A man with light radiating from his hands.

The woman gave a slight nod.

Eamon stood there a long time, the weight of the hunt pressing on his shoulders like old armor. Then he stepped outside, scanning the southern hills.

Eamon set his jaw, turned his collar up against the mist, and followed the trail.

The hunt wasn’t over yet.

[Author]

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