Excerpt from Chapter One, Twin Moons of Eldradune
The small house lay in a secluded valley, cradled deep between the towering, ancient peaks of the Peruvian Andes, where stone and sky had warred since the first age of the world. The sun, heavy and red with the labor of its descent, sank toward the western ridgeline, casting long, broken shadows across the land. They reached toward the house and gathered around its weathered walls, lending it a watchful, almost predatory aspect, less a place built by human hands than a presence that had waited there for years, patient and knowing.
Lex stood upon the slope above it, still as one of the weathered stones scattered across the mountainside. He ran his fingers through his thick, sandy blond hair and let his gaze roam with measured care. He had come to reconnoiter the house, to read its angles and silences, to learn what it would not willingly tell. Yet even before his boots touched the valley floor, he knew the land itself would be his first informant.
The vegetation surrounding the house bore the unmistakable signs of violence. Young trees and saplings lay split along their length, their bark torn open and peeled back by a force too powerful and deliberate to belong to any natural storm. This was not the work of wind or rockfall, nor the careless hunger of grazing beasts. It was force applied with intent, leaving wounds that spoke of intrusion rather than accident.
Lex moved among the broken growth and placed his hand upon one of the sundered saplings. The wood felt damp and warm beneath his palm. Frowning, he gripped the trunk and pulled. The fibers parted with a wet sound, surrendering as though the cedar tree had already been weakened from within. Thick sap welled up from the exposed wood and ran downward in glistening trails, gathering at the base like spilled blood. In the slanting light of dusk it shone with a sickly luster, too vivid, too alive for something that should have been dying.
He circled the house, reading the ground as one might read a weathered page. The earth was uneven, scarred by old slides and newer disturbances. Stones lay turned where they should not have been, and patches of rot clung to rock and root alike. He crouched once to examine a dark smear upon a stone, finding it tacky and foul, reeking of fruit long sealed in a barrel and left to spoil. He wiped his fingers clean in the grass and rose, his expression grim.
Beneath the smell and the silence, Lex felt another sensation. A faint tremor moved through him, not through the air or the ground, but somewhere deeper, carried through bone and sinew. The nearer he came to the house, the stronger it became, tightening within him like the drawn string of an unseen instrument. He did not yet understand it, only that his instincts refused to ignore it.
It was then that memory, unbidden yet vivid, rose in Lex’s mind, stirred by the broken trees and wounded earth. Long ago, in a time he did not name and a place he did not offer freely to thought, he had walked among those who called themselves keepers of the natural order. They were scholars of root and stone, of leaf and breath, and they spoke in the careful cadence of people who listened more than they declared. From them he had learned not merely survival, but understanding.
The vibration strengthened, a quiet pressure gathering within him in recognition of what the wounded land had revealed. Lex lifted his eyes once more to the front door. It hung crooked on its hinges, swinging slightly in the mountain breeze. The splintered wood and deep gouges in the frame told him the door hadn’t simply been broken; it had been forced outward by some unknown force. He approached slowly, his rifle at the ready, and its mounted flashlight cut through the growing darkness. The stench intensified as he neared the doorway, turning his stomach. It was a blend of burnt flesh and something worse: a sour chemical tang that stung his throat.
Lex crossed the threshold with measured care, drawing the door inward just enough to slip through. He raised the flashlight and let its pale beam cut into the darkness. What it revealed stole the breath from his lungs.
Inside, the light fell upon a scene of absolute carnage. The first body lay sprawled just beyond the entrance, the man seemingly cut down while trying to flee. His limbs were twisted at angles no living joint could endure, bones forced beyond their purpose and left where they broke.
The skin across his chest and face was charred black, split open in places to reveal glimpses of muscle beneath, cooked and rigid, its sheen dull and unnatural.
Lex knelt beside the corpse, his expression tightening as he studied the damage. These were not the burns of hearth fire or lamp oil. There was no pattern of spread, no scorching of the surrounding floor or walls to match. The destruction began deep within the man’s chest cavity, radiating outward, as though flame had been born inside him and torn its way free. Whatever had done this had not burned the body. It had unmade it.
Copyright © 2025 by A.D. Solomon
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About the Author
A.D. Solomon is a fantasy author hailing from a small town in the Tennessee River Valley. After serving in the military, he continued his career supporting Special Operations before founding his own consulting business upon completing his studies. Now a full-time writer, A.D. has previously ghostwritten books and short stories and has embarked on crafting his own series. When he’s not weaving tales of fantasy, he enjoys hiking, playing music, riding motorcycles, training dogs and helping with the Veteran community. He’s happily married to the love of his life, who continues to be his greatest support.
