Later that day, Idan set a hunk of meat on a spit, turning it with slow hands as the fire threw up blue and orange-tongued flames.
When it was done, scorched on the outside, rare on the inside, the way he liked, he ate.
He accompanied the chunk of the salted, spiced venison with bread he baked himself and bitter kale harvested from his small holding.
As he savored his meal, he sat on his haunches, eyes sweeping the sunset-drenched vista, ever vigilant.
A tremble went through the air, and he paused, sensing a new presence materializing from within the whipping cold zephyr.
Who thefokkwould be becoming this way in this windswept wilderness?
Sure enough, seconds later, a silhouette glimmered into view in the gully below.
He did not walk so much as un-spool from the horizon, a bent figure in a threadbare cloak, long wild hair like ash, eyes bright as stars.
There was a gait to him that gave Idan pause.
He rose as the man limped the last few meters to the fence by the hut and leaned on it, appearing exhausted and out of breath.
Idan crossed his hands over his chest and studied the stranger, his senses, including hisSsignakht, going off.
With a twist of his mouth, he turned his back on the visitor and shifted to his fire where he plated bread and meat, plus a horn of milk.
He moved back to the man still panting by the enclosure and extended the bounty.
The older man nodded his thanks and sank to the ground, wolfing the food.
Idan returned to his spot by the open hearth, and the pair ate in silence, with the shepherd’s eyes still scanning the view.
The older man would speak when he was ready.
However, it came as a surprise when the newcomer muttered, not aloud, but into Idan’s neural cortex.
You fed me, so I’ll leave you a blessing.
Idan’s eyes narrowed on his uninvited guest. He huffed, eyes hard as flint.There are no blessings in this place, only wind, storms, and well-earned labor. Who are you?
I’m the echo of the ages and the spark of the eternity to come, and I’ll bestow you with a token regardless,the older man insisted.
In milliseconds, he shifted with uncharacteristic speed, streaking like lightning to where Idan sat, reaching across the spit, and placing two fingers on his brow.
The touch burned, yet it froze Idan’s limbs where he crouched.
He scarcely had time to register his shock when the octogenarian moved his hand to Idan’s chest.
Where a distinct glyph sat raised and dark, in the shape of an intricate Third Eye.
It pulsed, glowing and shifting with contained potency.
The older adult’s finger found the apex above the central curve of the marking, where light fractured through a gem-shaped etching like a sliver of dawn through glass.
The visitor’s eyes narrowed.
‘A Sacran symbol. Few bear it now, fewer still with the vertex jewel,’ he muttered. ‘That rare design marks a bloodline that is now extinguished. A fallen House, cast from the Seventh Heaven.’
Idan’s jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists.
What house?
