The Chronicles of Vildar: The House of Distant Stars

Chapter One

Cragsmoor had always stood at the edge of uncertainty, a village wedged between the untamed forests and the ever-encroaching turmoil of a kingdom at war. The Kingdom of Vildar, once a prosperous and vast land, now teetered on the edge of chaos. Years ago, it had been united under one rule, but now the empire was fragmented into feuding factions, each vying for control of the crown. The wars had spilled over into every corner of the land, yet Cragsmoor, tucked away in its secluded valley, had long remained untouched by the ravages of battle.
The valley was a place where whispers of ancient magic and old battles lingered like the morning mist. The nearby woods were said to be haunted by spirits of soldiers who never returned from wars long past. And the burial grounds beyond the village, where villagers still paid their respects to ancestors and lost comrades, were said to hold powerful relics from those days—some cursed, some blessed, but all steeped in dark and forgotten power.
Magic, though not widely practiced, was known in the Kingdom of Vildar. It was a force that had been bound by the kings centuries ago, for fear of its overwhelming power. Ancient druids once wielded it freely, but with the rise of the monarchy, magic had been relegated to the shadows. Only remnants of its influence remained—old talismans, enchanted objects hidden in plain sight, and the occasional surge of wild power that could be felt in places like the haunted woods. These magical remnants were not so much weapons as they were memories, lingering like the echo of a war that had scarred the land.
But the land of Cragsmoor was not without its own history of bloodshed. The village had once been a battleground between rival factions, with the distant mountains serving as the backdrop to some of the kingdom's most brutal and decisive conflicts. The villagers rarely spoke of it, but older folks would tell tales to the younger children of great battles fought beneath the shadow of the Great Mountain. They spoke of the Siege of Cragsmoor, a time when the village was a strategic foothold in the kingdom's battle for control of the fertile valley. The remnants of ancient fortifications could still be seen in the hills beyond the village—ruins where the very air seemed thick with the ghosts of the past.
As the siblings gathered around the fire that evening, the distant sound of a horn carried faintly from the north. It was the unmistakable sound of a warning call from the kingdom's watchtowers, signaling the movement of troops along the border. Cragsmoor, as a part of the Kingdom of Vildar, was still technically a stronghold under royal control, but that control was weakening with each passing year. There had been no direct battles in the valley for nearly a generation, but every season brought new reports of skirmishes along the northern and southern borders. The villagers were often caught between two opposing forces—the royalists, who sought to preserve the kingdom's unity, and the rebels, who wished to see Vildar broken into independent states.
These factions, though distant, had begun to creep into the very fabric of Cragsmoor's daily life. The village was divided by its loyalty to the monarchy, with some people supporting the king's distant rule, and others secretly harboring sympathies for the rebel forces that seemed to be growing in power. But even the most fervent believers in peace could not ignore the dangers looming at the edges of their home. The magic that had been dormant for so long had begun to stir again, bringing with it rumors of dark, ancient power being awakened by those who would stop at nothing to control it.
Early morning light poured through the narrow windows of their modest cottage, casting elongated shadows over the small but cozy space they called home. Sarielle, the eldest, was already awake, moving silently about the kitchen as she prepared a modest breakfast. Her long reddish-brown hair fell over her shoulder as she chopped fresh herbs into the porridge, her movements practiced and precise. In many ways, Sarielle had become the mother they'd lost. She held the family together, watching over her younger siblings with an instinctive protectiveness that ran deeper than the bonds of duty. Draped around her neck was a locket—a precious heirloom that had once belonged to her grandmother, passed down to her from their father. It was a simple silver piece, but to Sarielle, it held the weight of countless memories and the mystery of their family's past.
In the next room, Nessa, the youngest at five years old, was just beginning to stir. She was a small, curly-haired bundle of curiosity, her innocent eyes brimming with questions about the world beyond Cragsmoor. Every morning, she would dart around the house with boundless energy, collecting small treasures—bright stones, bits of old metal, and dried leaves—which she would proudly present to her siblings as if they were rare artifacts.
Elera, the second sister, emerged soon after, greeting her siblings with her usual warmth. She was social and kind, her gentle nature a balm to the others. Elera had a special fondness for tending to the small herb garden outside the cottage, believing it brought them luck and health. With her brunette hair tied back and her cheerful spirit, she had a way of brightening the room, often singing softly as she worked, her voice filling the home with warmth.
Thalen, the third sibling, was slower to wake, reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed. Stubborn and headstrong, with a lighter shade of brunette hair, he had a rough edge about him that sometimes led him into trouble. But his loyalty to his siblings was fierce, and though he was often quick to jump to conclusions, he was also quick to defend his family. That morning, he rose begrudgingly, his mind already turning to the day's chores with a slight scowl.
Soren, the quiet and observant fourth sibling, was up before the others but remained seated by the window, a book open in his lap. With his dark blond hair falling over his eyes, he studied the pages closely, his gaze shifting every so often to watch his siblings go about their morning routines. Misunderstood by many for his silence, Soren was deeply insightful, always taking in more than he let on. Today, he was particularly absorbed in a tale of ancient warriors and lost empires, tales that hinted at the forgotten magic of their world.
Their mother had been gone for some time, her absence a wound that never quite healed. That day, she had left early for the village, saying she'd be back before nightfall. It was rare for her to leave them alone for so long, but Sarielle had reassured her that they could manage on their own. The absence felt strange, though, a hollow space that each of them noticed in their own quiet way. Sari's eyes lingered on the path outside the window, wondering what was keeping her, while Nessa clung a little tighter to her favorite toy, a worn wooden horse that had been passed down through the siblings.
In the corner of their small cottage sat a carved wooden chest, an old relic passed down through generations. Sarielle kept it locked, its contents a mystery even to her younger siblings. Rumor had it their family once possessed an ancient power, something hidden from the world, but no one truly knew the details. Occasionally, Elera would run her fingers over the intricate carvings, wondering if it was true, if there was something more than old trinkets hidden inside. Thalen, ever curious but cautious, had dared only once to ask about it, but Sarielle's sharp gaze had silenced his questions.
In the Kingdom of Vildar, magic was a force relegated to shadows and legends, practiced only by a few and often at great risk. Centuries ago, magic had flowed more freely in the land, harnessed by druids and sages, protectors of the ancient traditions. But with the rise of the monarchy, the kings had deemed it dangerous, a threat to their authority. Artifacts from this era of open magic still lingered, remnants of a forgotten past. Some were mundane—a charm for good fortune or a candle that never extinguished. Others, however, were rumored to hold immense power, capable of reshaping the land or controlling the minds of men.
The village of Cragsmoor was one of the last places where whispers of magic were still told as bedtime stories. The old woods were rumored to be haunted, and villagers spoke of hidden pathways that would disappear in the mist, enchanted to mislead trespassers. The burial grounds, too, were said to hold relics of the ancient battles fought there—tokens left by those who wielded forgotten spells and secret knowledge.
Only a few dared to seek these relics, fearing the curse of touching forbidden magic. Among them were the rare and powerful druidic artifacts, which were said to be connected to the very essence of the land. These items, woven from both nature and magic, held sway over the seasons, the weather, and even the lives of those who possessed them. For the siblings, these were tales woven into the fabric of their lives, as real and distant as the mountains.
The stranger who had appeared on their doorstep that day was no ordinary traveler. Though his cloak obscured much of his appearance, there was a strange energy about him, something that made Sari's blood run cold as he spoke. His voice was low and gravelly, with an authority that belied his worn clothes. The family could sense his urgency, but what truly struck them was his knowledge—how did he know so much about their family, their history?
Sarielle, the eldest, was a woman of caution. She was motherly and protective, with long reddish-brown hair that framed her face with an earnest seriousness. Her protective instincts were always on high alert. She had inherited her grandmother's cautious wisdom, and in times like these, where the line between friend and foe was so thin, her suspicion ran deep. Yet the man's words struck a chord. She didn't know how he knew her mother had been missing, but the urgency in his eyes told her this was no idle threat. "You have to go," he had said, his voice thick with dread. "There are forces at work, forces that will come for you. They know who you are." The way he said "you" made her blood run colder still.
Thalen, the third sibling, was ever the skeptic, with a rough edge and a tendency toward stubbornness. His lighter brunette hair, often messy and unkempt, suited his headstrong nature. He was already halfway to the door when the man had finished speaking. He was quick to jump to conclusions, sometimes reckless, but he had never been one to back down from a challenge. His brows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to argue, but the stranger's next words stopped him dead in his tracks. "Your sister, Sari—she wears a locket, doesn't she? A silver one?" Thalen paused, his mouth drying at the mention of their grandmother's heirloom, passed down from their father. No one outside the family had ever known about it, least of all a stranger who appeared out of nowhere. The sudden mention of it made the air between them thick with unease.
Soren, the fourth sibling, was the quiet observer, his dark blond hair falling slightly into his eyes as he leaned close to his books. Thoughtful and misunderstood, he had remained still the entire time, his brow furrowed in thought. He was known for his careful attention to detail and his ability to read between the lines. He had no doubt that the man knew something—too much, in fact—and it was something they couldn't ignore. Soren's gaze shifted to his older sister, Sari, looking for guidance. He trusted her judgment above all else, and her wary silence spoke volumes.
Elera, the second sibling, with her warm brunette curls and bright smile, was as bubbly and social as she was kind. She was a natural caretaker with a fierce loyalty, protective of her siblings, especially Nessa. She still held Nessa close, her arms wrapped around the young girl as she watched the interaction unfold. Her heart beat a little faster, but she knew that Sari would know what to do. If the man was wrong, they could dismiss him. If he was right... well, that would be a far more terrifying reality.
And then, there was Nessa, the youngest, a small bundle of innocence with curly blond hair and wide eyes full of wonder. She believed in the impossible, in the magic of the world that seemed so much bigger than herself. To her, the stranger was no more than a new face, someone who had come to tell them a new story. But even she could feel the unease hanging in the air, like the gathering storm that had lingered for days.
It was then that a distant horn echoed again, louder this time, followed by the pounding of hooves. They had no way of knowing, but the kingdom's army was near—moving quickly, advancing south toward the valley with orders to secure it. The stranger had come to warn them, and though his words were cryptic, the urgency in his eyes—and the sudden arrival of the troops—made them realize they had little choice but to trust him. The siblings shared a glance, and in that moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them.
Sari stood first, her resolve hardening like steel. "We don't have time to waste," she said, her voice steady. "If he's telling the truth, we need to leave. Now."
Thalen, still skeptical but unwilling to challenge his older sister, grunted and nodded. Soren's calm gaze shifted to the path ahead, the unknown stretching out before them. And Elera, ever the optimist, squeezed Nessa's hand, her voice reassuring. "We'll stick together," she said. "We've always faced the unknown as a family, and this won't be any different."
They hurriedly gathered what few supplies they could manage, stuffing belongings into worn satchels. As they worked, the sounds outside grew louder, the haunting echo of the horn reverberating in the cold night air. The rumble of hooves was no longer distant; the ground itself trembled under the force of the approaching troops.
Sari looked to the stranger, her voice tight. "Are they coming here?"
The man's expression darkened as he glanced over his shoulder toward the horizon, where the darkness seemed to thicken like an approaching storm. "They are close," he said, his voice low. "Closer than you know. You've heard the rumors about the kingdom's descent, the rise of those who seek to harness ancient powers that should remain buried. They've come for more than just land."
"What do you mean?" Elera asked, clutching Nessa's hand a little tighter.
The stranger's gaze softened as he looked at each of them, the weight of what he had to say evident in his eyes. "Your mother... she tried to protect you all. She knew things, secrets even I wasn't aware of until recently. But they've grown bolder. They'll stop at nothing now. Those troops—they serve a faction that has no mercy. If they find you, they'll take you... or worse."
A cold shiver ran down Sari's spine. She thought of her mother's last days, how she had whispered warnings about dangers creeping into the valley, about the gathering of dark forces from the north and east. Sari had thought those were only stories, but now, under the stranger's unwavering gaze, they felt like prophecy.
"Do they have her?" Soren's voice was barely a whisper, but his words hung heavy in the air. "Our mother—is she..."
The stranger hesitated, a shadow of grief passing over his face. "I don't know," he said quietly. "But I know they were searching for her. They took many, those who resisted, those they feared could disrupt their plans. It's possible she's been taken, or..."
"Or what?" Thalen asked, his fists clenched, a fierce protectiveness flaring in his eyes.
"Or she's... gone," the stranger replied, his voice hollow. "The troops that ride tonight—they are known for leaving nothing behind. They've leveled towns in their path, taking what they need and burning what they don't. They show no mercy, not even to women or children."
Sari closed her eyes for a brief moment, fighting the rising tide of panic. She could feel her siblings' eyes on her, their trust and fear woven together in that single, fragile moment. Her heart ached, but she forced herself to stay calm. They needed her strength now more than ever.
"But if they've already come through Cragsmoor," Elera whispered, "why haven't we heard anything else? Why can't we see anything from here?"
"They move under cover of darkness," the stranger replied, glancing back toward the village, now swallowed by the deep shadows of night. "They strike swiftly, and by dawn, they're gone. They're headed for the burial grounds, likely searching for... artifacts, remnants of power. They believe your family holds knowledge or items that could tip the balance of the war."
"Is that why they want us?" Thalen asked, still skeptical but beginning to understand the gravity of the situation.
The stranger nodded. "Yes. You carry a legacy—one that runs deep in these lands, one that was long hidden to keep you safe. But now, with the wars raging, every faction wants an advantage. If they know you're here, they'll come for you. And if they find you... it will be too late."
Outside, the sounds grew louder—the sharp bark of orders, the metallic clank of armor, the rhythmic pounding of hooves drawing nearer. Sari took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision that lay before them.
"What will happen if we stay?" Nessa asked, her small voice trembling.
The stranger's gaze softened. He crouched down to her level, his voice gentle but firm. "They will take you. They'll use you as a bargaining chip, or worse, as a weapon. Your family's knowledge and gifts—they'd exploit them, twist them for their own ends."
Sari clenched her jaw, her hand instinctively reaching for her locket. She knew they couldn't stay—not if there was even the smallest chance that what this stranger said was true.
Without another word, she motioned for her siblings to follow. They moved quickly, each step carrying them farther from the only home they had ever known, and into the dark, unknown world beyond.