The Wisteria Accond

Chapter One

The story of the Nightborne begins, like all tales of darkness, with a single spark.

Thousands of years ago, long before the Nightborne walked this land, the world was simpler, brighter—a time of balance between light and dark, between good and evil. There were whispers then, of a great power slumbering beneath the mountains, a power that could bend the will of any man, twist the soul into something monstrous. And it was only a matter of time before someone sought to wield it.

A sorcerer—his name lost to history—delved into forbidden arts, seeking to control that power. He wanted immortality, dominion over life and death itself. But he was reckless. He didn't understand that the price of such power was far greater than he could ever pay. And so, in his arrogance, he tore a rift between worlds, unleashing a darkness that twisted his followers, the foolish and the brave alike, into something... other.

Thus, the Nightborne were born.

No longer human, yet not entirely beast, they became creatures of shadow and hunger, driven by a need to consume the life force of the living to sustain their new, cursed existence. They could move like wraiths, faster than the eye could follow, strike with the strength of ten men, and manipulate shadows to cloak their presence. It is said that their eyes—once human—became like the storm, gray and furious, with a light that would chill the blood of any who dared to meet their gaze. And from that day, the Nightborne have stalked the shadows, seeking to feed their insatiable hunger.

But, like all great darkness, they were not without their weakness.

No one knows who discovered it—perhaps a farmer, perhaps a wise woman skilled in herbs—but legend speaks of a single flower that grew amidst a field of death, untouched by the rot that spread around it. Wisteria. Its delicate lavender blooms became a symbol of hope. Someone—someone whose name has been forgotten—used it to protect our world. The Wisteria's scent could repel the Nightborne, its touch burned their skin, and its presence weakened their dark magic.

It was with this fragile flower that the unknown hero turned the tide and saved humanity from the Nightborne scourge. Wisteria grew to become a symbol of our survival, our weapon against the darkness. And ever since, we've kept it close, marking the borders of our villages with it, hanging it above our doors, planting it in every sacred place to keep the darkness at bay.

That's what the stories say, at least. And stories, like the Nightborne themselves, often hold more truth than we care to admit.

I've heard this tale a thousand times, felt the prickle of fear along my skin as a child when the storyteller spoke of the Nightborne's eyes glowing in the dark, imagined the scent of wisteria like salvation on the wind. But now, as an adult—twenty-four years old, orphaned by this very darkness—I don't have the luxury of pretending these stories are just tales.

They are my reality.

...

I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I step out of the council chamber into the brisk morning air. My breath mists in front of me, a fleeting reminder that winter is coming. The smell of freshly baked bread drifts from a nearby stall, mixing with the earthy scent of damp earth and autumn leaves. For a moment, I almost wish I could stop, buy a loaf, and pretend I'm just like everyone else. Someone who doesn't have to worry about Nightborne raids or patrol schedules or negotiating with people too afraid to step outside their doors after dark.

But I'm not like everyone else. I'm Kiera Valenwood—diplomat, scout, and, as some would whisper when they think I'm not listening, orphan.

"Oi, Kiera!" A familiar voice calls out, and I spot Soren leaning against a wooden post, his sandy blond hair catching the light of the early sun. He's grinning, the sort of grin that always looks a bit too smug for his own good. "How'd it go with the council today? Still trying to convince them we should actually do something about the Nightborne instead of just talking about it?"

I roll my eyes, but there's a smile tugging at my lips. "You know them. They'd rather build walls higher than face the fact that walls won't stop a Nightborne when they're determined enough."

Soren nods, falling into step beside me. He's a few inches taller than I am, with a build that suggests he's been trained to fight since the moment he could hold a sword. He's one of the few in our ranks who's both a diplomat and a warrior, though he leans toward the latter. "Well, at least they have you in there, giving them a hard time. I'd have lost my mind ages ago."

"That's because you don't have the patience," I shoot back, nudging him with my elbow. "You'd have stormed out in a fit of rage, demanding a duel or something."

He chuckles. "And you wouldn't? I've seen you with a blade, Kiera. You've got the same fire in you."

I don't respond to that. It's easier not to. Instead, I focus on the path ahead, winding through the cobblestone streets of our village, Oakreach. To anyone else, it might look like a sleepy, quiet place. But I know better. Behind every shuttered window is someone who's lost someone—just like me. People who live in fear, who keep their doors barred and their wisteria hanging, believing that will be enough.

"Are we heading to the outpost today?" Soren asks, his voice more serious now.

I nod. "There've been rumors. More Nightborne sightings closer to the protected zones. We need to see if they're true or just stories from people who've had a bit too much to drink."

He nods, his expression tightening. We've lost too many scouts to take any rumors lightly. I can see the tension in his posture, the way his hand rests near the hilt of his sword even when we're just walking through the village.

We head toward the outpost, passing through the market square where traders are setting up their stalls. I nod to a few familiar faces—old Maeve, who sells the best spiced wine in the village, and Tomas, a blacksmith who's known for his sharp tongue and even sharper blades. These are the people I protect, the people who make all this—this constant vigilance, this endless fight—worth it.

"Are you ever afraid, Kiera?" Soren asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

I glance at him, caught off guard. "Afraid?"

He shrugs. "Of them. The Nightborne. Of what they could do if—"

"If they break through the Wisteria Accord?" I finish for him, my voice low.

He nods.

I take a deep breath, considering my answer. "I'd be a fool not to be afraid," I admit. "But fear isn't what drives me. It's the need to protect. To make sure no one else loses their family like I did."

Soren's eyes soften. "I know. And that's why we follow you. Because you actually care."

We reach the outpost, a small, fortified building on the outskirts of the village, surrounded by thick wisteria vines that twine up its stone walls. The air is colder here, the shadows deeper. I feel that familiar sense of unease settle in my chest, but I push it down. There's no room for fear now.

"Let's get to work," I say, squaring my shoulders. "We've got a long day ahead."

And as we step into the shadows of the outpost, I can't help but feel that something—something dark and ancient—is watching. Waiting.

For what, I don't know. But I have a feeling that soon enough, I will.