A Mystery in Firth
Lucas jolted awake as summer sun slashed through his curtains like a rogue spell, painting gold stripes across his tangled sheets. He groaned and kicked free of the mess before squinting at the walls plastered with posters: The Hobbit’s Misty Mountains, Narnia’s wardrobe, a creased Magic: The Gathering promo from a tournament win. No sports idols or pop stars most twelve-year-olds chased here. His desk sat like a battlefield, laptop flickering with last night’s game, Magic cards fanned out with frayed edges from battles with his online crew, Seattle to Sydney, the squad that hauled him through pixelated quests when this nowhere town fell flat. Joints popped as he stretched, wondering if they’d rope him into Elden Ring today, when his mom’s voice sliced through the haze.
“Lucas! Breakfast!” she barked from downstairs, sharp enough to pierce plate mail with her no-nonsense tone.
He sighed and rolled off the bed, shuffling down in pajamas, hardwood cool under bare feet. His mom stood at the stove flipping pancakes, dark hair knotted in a sloppy bun. Syrup and coffee scents hung thick in the air, a trap he couldn’t sidestep. He slumped into a chair as she slid a plate over, steam curling up like a taunt.
“Morning, Lucas,” she said, peering over her mug with narrowing eyes. “Outside today. Real friends, not your screen pals. You’ve been a cave troll all summer, either here or at that card shop with those weirdos.”
“They’re not weirdos,” he mumbled, spearing a pancake as syrup oozed. “Just don’t vibe with anyone here. Locals are all skateboards and cat-chasing, boring. I’d rather raid with the squad.”
Her eyebrow arched, unimpressed. “Eat, then out. Back by five. Phone’s charged, call if you’re stuck. No dodging.”
Lucas scowled out the window at the small-town street glaring back, lawns and mailboxes, no dragons, no stakes. He shoveled the last bite, plotting a room retreat, but her stare pinned him, a Counterspell with no escape. Upstairs, he ditched pajamas for cargo shorts and his go-to tee, black with an open book and a dragon bursting out in fiery ink. Phone pocketed, he eyed his Magic deck box, tempting as hell, then left it. If he was banished outdoors, he’d hit his one refuge: Eric’s Comics & Cards.
The walk downtown blurred by, sleepy main street, bakery puffing sugar, hardware store droning, then his spot at the corner. He shoved the door, bell jangling, and sucked in the scent of old paper, plastic sleeves, dust that felt like home. Shelves towered with comics, glossy covers winking under fluorescent hum, a glass case gleaming with rare cards he’d never afford. Eric, wiry and gray-bearded, glanced up from a stack of new arrivals, grinning like he’d been holding court for him.
“Lucas!” Eric’s voice hit warm, laced with a jab. “Sun too loud out there? Heard my Pope story yet?”
“Nope,” Lucas fired back, nipping the ramble he saw coming. Eric was a constant; after-school pitstops always ended here, the guy spinning yarns like a bard who laughed at his own punchlines.
Eric’s eyes sparked as he clapped his hands. “Me and Vick, backpacking Europe, Vick’s all Catholic, so Rome’s the prize. St. Peter’s Square, I’m eyeballing statues, fountain splashing, when guards with halberds roll up. They shove us to the ropes, and here’s the Popemobile, Pope waving, me flapping back like an idiot, thinking he’s clocked me. He cruises by, baffled, and I turn, Vick’s vanished, everyone’s kneeling, crossing themselves. Just me, sticking out like a dope in a sacred tide.”
Lucas smirked despite the itch to bolt. “Catholics kneel. Obviously.”
Eric laughed, smug. “Not me, kid. Anyway, comics are late, here to duck the glare?”
“Mom’s orders,” Lucas said, toeing the worn carpet. “Gotta ‘socialize’ all summer, squad’s probably raiding without me. Got anything good?”
Eric tilted his head and ducked under the counter. “You’ve rated books for me, folks trust your taste. This came in, twists, maybe choices you’ll face.” He slid over a leather-bound tome, script swirling on the cover: The Sanctuary of Isla. Below it, an etched Kelpie, scaled horse with a rippling mane, loomed sharp and alive.
Lucas’s pulse kicked. “Choices? Like a game?” He snatched it, heavier than it looked, and flipped past the title, prologue blurring under his thumb. The paper smelled of rain, crisp, not the shop’s stale funk. “Sanctuary of Isla,” he muttered, hooked, and shuffled to the sagging couch, sinking in.
The shop’s drone, Eric’s rustle, the light’s buzz, all melted as he cracked Chapter 1, wind whispering, damp earth rising. He blinked, snared, but kept reading.
Dawn bleeds red over the Dornoch Firth, a razor slash across the Highlands, mist rolling thick as smoke off the stream slicing the glen. Finlay stands barefoot in the shallows, water lapping cold at his knees, dark hair slicked wet and wild, sticking to his brow like ink smears. He flicks his wrist, and the stream shivers—ripples coil upward, twisting into threads of silver mist that snake around his fingers, alive, hungry. Scales ripple across his skin, green-black and gleaming like wet shale, hooves silent on the streambed, a kelpie’s grin splitting his face—sharp, reckless, like he’s taunting the world to notice. The air hums, low and electric, tugging at his chest, and the mist tightens, a noose of shimmering vapor he bends with a twitch, dawn’s light splintering off it like broken glass. Then a bang cracks the hush—sharp, gunshot-loud, echoing from the village downstream—and the mist crashes down, soaking him cold. He bolts, scales fading to pale skin, hooves to sneakers slapping mud, the hum dulling to a smug whisper as market chatter swells, drowning his spark.
“Not bad,” he murmured, wrist twitching as the mist tightened, a hum thrumming in his chest, the stream tugging alive. This pull, this rush, he’d felt it forever, smothered under his mom’s “Blend in, Finlay. Hide it.” Today, alone, he let it fly.
A bang shattered the hush, sharp, bouncing from the village downstream. Finlay froze, mist crashing down. “Not good,” he muttered, hauling onto the bank. Scales faded to skin, hooves to sneakers, smaller, human, raw. The hum dulled, market chatter swelling as he bolted home.
He dodged the village square, head down, jeans damp at the hems. Vendors barked, kids laughed, then a shout sliced through.
“Finlay!” Mara burst from the crowd, pale, eyes wild, grabbing his arm with a bruising grip.
“Mom?” His gut dropped; she never ran, never frayed like this.
Her voice iced him colder than panic could. “No time, grab essentials.” A car crunched gravel outside as he sprinted to his room, dodging Warhammer figs on his dresser, stuffing shorts and underwear into a bag. Mara shoved the door wider, her face hardening.
“We’re leaving,” she hissed, low and tight. “Now.”
“Where?” He tripped as she yanked him toward the cottage door.
“Home, then Isla, answers there.”
“Isla?” His brain raced, an island west, why now? “What’s going on?”
She didn’t reply, jamming a sweater into his bag, hands shaking. “Reapers,” she said, voice taut. “Heading south, attacks north of us.”
“Reapers?” His chest clenched. “What are they?”
Her eyes met his, soft, then steel. “Thought we had more time, we’re out.”
