The Unknown Enemy.

Chapter 1.

The Light that shouldn’t be.

The sun was dipping behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the village, but for Nemon, the day was just beginning. He stretched, yawned. The low amber light of the setting sun spilled through the cottage window, making him squint It caught  the steam rising from a bowl of thick vegetable stew.

Nemon sat at the small wooden table, taking his time with his supper, the sound of his spoon scraping on the side of the bowl the only noise in the cottage. The low amber light of the setting sun spilled through the window, catching the steam rising from the thick vegetable stew and making him squint. He chewed slowly, enjoying the warmth of the hearth and the quiet presence of his wife, Elara, as she moved about the kitchen, her hands busy with familiar tasks.

“Extra bread in your pack tonight,” she said, her voice low as she wrapped a bundle in linen. She set it beside his water bottle with a firm nod. “The mountain air is getting sharper.”

“Thank you.” Nemon squeezed her hand. The skin was rough, familiar, and warm. He drained his ale and stood, the floorboards groaning under a weight they had supported for twenty years.

His ritual was a silent one. He pulled on the woollen tunic, the deep dyes of the King’s Guard marking him out, a man of standing, a man with a steady wage. It was a comfortable weight, the price of a full larder and a mended roof. Elara watched him buckle his belt, her eyes lingering on the heavy leather.

“Another quiet night, hopefully?”

“I expect so,” Nemon said, offering a small, reassuring smile. “The mountain road hasn’t changed since my father’s time. I doubt it’ll start tonight.”

He lifted his spear from the rack. The ash wood was smooth, polished to a dull, deep glow from years of care, and the steel tip shone with a mirrored edge that caught the firelight. As he turned to the door, he paused to give Elara a quick kiss on the cheek. She smelled of rosemary and woodsmoke, a scent that always felt like home.

“See you at dawn,” he murmured. With a final nod, he stepped out into the cooling evening.

The village was settling into its normal routine Woodsmoke hung heavy and sweet in the air, and the flicker of flames danced in every window. Nemon walked the length of the single street, his boots echoing on the packed earth. He passed the inn, where the pot boy was already sweeping the day’s sawdust from the step, preparing to bar the doors against the dark.

At the end of the street, the world simply ended. A tall stone watchtower stood as the final sentry before the village gave way to the jagged, silent teeth of the mountains. King Rolan had built the towers after Megalan’s uprising, a stone promise that the kingdom would never be caught sleeping again.

Raxon was waiting at the foot of the steps, his breath misting in the air. “All quiet, Nemon. Not so much as a goat on the move.”

“Sleep well, Raxon,” Nemon replied.

He began the climb. Each stone step carried him further from the muffled chatter of the village and deeper into the thin, clean silence of the heights. When he reached the top, the world opened up. To the south, the huddled homes of his neighbours looked like embers in a dying fire. To the north, the mountains stood like black giants.

Nemon set his rations on the stone ledge and leaned his spear against the parapet. His eyes immediately went to the horizon, scanning the dark peaks for the tiny, flickering amber spark of Tower Thirty-eight. This was his world: a circle of stone, a canopy of stars, and the peaceful boredom of a border where nothing ever happened.

He checked the beacon by habit. He lifted the oilskin cover from the iron brazier, finding the kindling bone-dry. He patted the pouch at his belt, the weight of the flint and steel a familiar comfort, though he hadn’t had cause to strike them in all his years of service.

The first few hours passed in a slow crawl of moonlight. Nemon paced the walkway, the leather of his boots creaking. Every few minutes, he paused at the northern wall, staring into the throat of the mountain pass. He unwrapped his food parcel, the scent of fresh bread a welcome distraction. As he ate, he looked toward the next tower in the chain. Usually, he could see the tiny shadow of the tower against the mountains But tonight, the horizon was unnervingly dark.

He knew every shape out there, the crooked line of Old Man’s Peak, the faint notch of the Devil’s Staircase. Nothing ever changed in the mountains. That was the comfort of them.

Which was why the flicker caught his eye. At first he thought it was just a trick of the dusk. A reflection. A bit of mist catching the moonlight. But then it pulsed, slow, sickly, and wrong. Not the warm orange of a beacon. Not the red of a campfire. A pale green, like swamp gas or foxfire, but brighter. Too bright.

He straightened, frowning.

The light came again, deeper in the pass this time. A brief flare, then darkness. He waited for Tower Thirty‑Eight to answer, but the horizon stayed black. That was worse than the strange light. The towers never went dark. Not unless something had gone very wrong.

 Whatever was coming down that pass, it wasn’t anything he’d been trained for. He didn’t know who they were, or what that green fire meant, or why the next tower was dark. He only knew one thing: he had to light his beacon.

His hands, usually steady enough to glue feathers on an arrow, fumbled with his tinderbox.

Strike. The first spark died in the dark. Strike. A sliver of orange hit the kindling.

He leaned in, shielding the tiny ember with his body, his breath coming in shallow gasps. A thread of smoke rose, then a tongue of orange flame licked upward. With a soft whoosh, the oil-soaked wood caught. The heat surged, forcing him to stumble back, his face stinging from the sudden glare.

He turned his back to the fire, his eyes straining toward the north. Any moment now, Tower Thirty-eight should answer. Its fire should leap skyward, a signal fire leaping from peak to peak until the whole kingdom was awake.

But the darkness remained unbroken.

No answering spark. No movement. Just the green throb in the distance, creeping closer.

Nemon looked down at the village. His lone beacon stood like a solitary, screaming eye against the night. He reached for his spear, but the wood felt cold, and for the first time in his life, the weight of his uniform felt like nothing more than wool and dye. He had lit the beacon a hundred times in drills, but never once in fear.