The sun dipped lower on the horizon, painting the edge of the sky in russet and gold, as though the entire heavens had been brushed with fiery embers. The small hamlet, a scattering of stone-and-timber cottages around a modest manor, seemed to hold its breath in the hush of approaching twilight. Each squat building had a roughly thatched roof and crooked walls that bore the character of years—brightened here by new repairs, darkened there by old scorch marks from times long past. Although the hamlet was rarely the stage for grand events, life within its unassuming bounds carried on with a gentle resilience.

  A faint breeze meandered between the buildings, stirring the scents of fresh hay and simmering stew that wafted from hearths within. Yet amidst this quiet was the distinct metallic rasp of a chisel at work. Arien knelt beside a wide wooden table set up just outside his modest workshop. His focus was intense, every muscle in his neck and shoulders taut with concentration. The table bore a half-finished wash basin, its metallic curves reflecting the dying light of the sun. He guided the chisel along a delicately etched rune, pausing now and then to wipe away fine flecks of metal filings. Overhead, swallows dipped in the crisp air, their silhouettes darting across the sky in search of insects before nightfall.

  Beside Arien, a flicker of pale blue light glimmered—a mana crystal pulsed within an iron stand, reacting to the subtle manipulations of magical energy that Arien coaxed into the rune. The crystal’s glow, though faint, provided a steady counterpoint to the deepening shadows of dusk. Now and then, a slight hum accompanied his movements, echoing the thrumming heartbeat of arcane power infused into the basin.

  Lila stood nearby, leaning against a wooden post. She was dressed simply, her earth-toned tunic and trousers cut for comfort rather than style, yet there was a clean elegance to the way she carried herself. Her hair, caught by the amber rays of the setting sun, took on a lustrous sheen, as though polished mahogany. She handed Arien a fresh crystal with a small smile, the gesture so natural and fluid that one might have thought they’d worked together for years—which, in many respects, they had.

  “Careful with that line,” Lila teased, her tone playful as she passed the crystal from her steady fingertips to his calloused palms. “One wrong curve and you’ll turn this into a basin of despair instead of purification.”

  Arien’s lips quirked into a grin, and he glanced sideways at her. The corner of his brown eyes crinkled with humor as he responded in a low, warm voice, “Despairing goats might be an improvement. At least they’d stay out of trouble.”

  Lila’s gentle laugh was soft and mellow, like a spring breeze through tall grass. The sound of it lifted Arien’s heart, and for a moment, all tension seemed to dissolve into the hush of approaching evening. Their comradely banter felt second nature: the two of them had become a reliable pair for nearly every odd job in the hamlet. If someone needed a tool repaired, if a warding rune required reactivation, or if communal items like this wash basin needed new enchantments, Arien and Lila were the first to be called. Payment often arrived in the form of warm bread, fresh eggs, or a deep nod of gratitude, and both found satisfaction in the sense of belonging and purpose these tasks provided.

  Arien finished a deft sweep of the chisel along the rune’s curve, then set his tools aside. He brushed the fine metallic dust from the runic lines with the edge of his sleeve, revealing the freshly carved rune beneath. The pattern glowed faintly with pale lines of enchantment. “That’s the last line,” he said, exhaling with a mix of pride and relief. “Time to infuse it.”

  Just as he reached for the mana crystal on the table, a low rumble drifted into their ears. At first, it was distant—little more than a whisper in the air. But gradually, it swelled, becoming the unmistakable creak of overloaded wagon wheels and the methodical clatter of horses’ hooves pounding the packed dirt road that wound through the hamlet. Lila stiffened, her gaze snapping toward the small window of the workshop. The last wagon train they’d seen had been near harvest season—this was no time of year for large-scale trading.

  “Wagon train?” she asked, her voice undercut with curiosity and something akin to worry. “This time of year?”

  Arien frowned as he wiped his hands on his trousers. His mind sifted through possibilities, quickly coming up short. “Not harvest season,” he agreed. “And that... that doesn’t sound small.”

  Setting aside their work, they both left the workshop, following the thickening crowd of villagers who had emerged from their homes at the sound of the commotion. Wooden doors banged shut, curious faces peeked from windows, and children clutched their mothers’ skirts. The hamlet’s single dirt street was a narrow, winding path lined by lopsided fences patched with spare boards. From here, the source of the racket was soon visible: a train of seven large wagons rumbled into sight, the likes of which hadn’t passed through in years. The wagon wheels were reinforced with strips of iron, groaning under the weight of heavy cargo. Each wagon was covered by a well-worn canvas canopy, lashed down tight, with bulging goods stacked almost to the top.

  Thick-chested horses led the caravan, their flanks gleaming with sweat. Muscles rippled under their hides, testifying to the grueling journey they had likely endured. The animals’ hooves kicked up clouds of dust that hung in the golden beams of the setting sun, drifting slowly back to earth in swirling motes. A hush fell over the villagers, a shared instinctive caution in the presence of so large a band of strangers.

  The men driving the wagons looked rugged and road-worn, their clothing simple but heavily patched and stained by long weeks of travel. Some wore wide-brimmed hats, shadowing faces crisscrossed with old scars and lines from squinting against sun and wind. Leather vests, belts studded with copper rivets, and boots caked with dust gave each man a rough, itinerant air. Arien studied them with narrowed eyes, every nerve on edge. A few tunics were accented with embroidered patterns that signaled something more ominous. He recognized certain vibrant feathers tucked into hats and crimson sashes knotted at waists—subtle markers of the Bloodbound Empire of Xochiral.

  This empire, which lay far beyond the hamlet’s immediate trading partners, had a fearsome reputation. Mercenary caravans, emissaries of shadowy cults, and ambitious traders—Xochiral’s presence often spelled trouble for simple folk. The men in these wagons seemed determined to pass as ordinary travelers, yet their imperial tokens betrayed them. Near the front, two men stood out in stark contrast to the rest. One wore a towering headdress decorated with iridescent feathers—brilliant greens and reds that flashed in the last rays of daylight. The second man wore a necklace of jagged bone shards, each toothlike shard carved with obsidian inlay that caught the light with ominous reflections.

  Arien swallowed hard, a knot of apprehension coiling tight in his gut. He remembered Xochiral zealots he’d encountered in a larger town some months ago, their hollow smiles and razor-sharp cunning leaving a mark on his psyche that had yet to fade. Now, that memory resonated with a foreboding new weight as this wagon train rumbled to a halt in the hamlet’s main square.

  From the direction of the manor, Darrin, the hamlet’s squire and de facto authority, strode forward. He was a large man, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, wearing a sturdy linen tunic belted at the waist. Gray streaked his dark beard, and lines of worry creased his forehead, evidence that his responsibilities were many and his burdens heavy. He carried himself with a composed confidence, aware that every villager was watching him, waiting for his lead.

  “Welcome to our hamlet,” Darrin said, loud enough for all to hear. His tone, though courteous, carried a firm edge. “Quite the convoy you’ve brought. What’s your business here?”

  The crowd leaned in, curiosity rippling through them like wind in tall grass. One of the Xochiral men stepped forward, smiling with a polished but vacant charm. His eyes slid over the villagers as though trying to gauge every soul gathered there. “Trade,” he announced, sweeping an arm toward the wagons behind him. “We’ve come for grain, salted meats, and perhaps a few... rarities.”

  A hush seemed to settle over the hamlet. Darrin crossed his arms over his broad chest, the sturdy muscles in his forearms flexing. “This is a simple farming community,” he replied evenly. “You’ll find no rarities here, only honest goods.”

  The man’s smile remained, though a faint hint of sardonic amusement touched his features. “Honest goods,” he repeated, sounding almost wistful. “Well, they’re rarer than you think these days, Squire.”

  Most of the onlookers remained silent, though the undercurrent of unease ran strong. Their initial curiosity was giving way to guarded suspicion. Soon enough, one by one, villagers slipped away to return to their tasks, leaving only a handful of watchers lingering. Arien and Lila exchanged uneasy glances and retreated back to the workshop, the half-finished wash basin still waiting for its final infusion of magic.

  Inside, the aroma of metal filings and fresh wood shavings wrapped them like a familiar blanket. The workshop itself was modest, with shelves lined by small vials of etching solution, jars of powdered crystals, and chiseled wooden stencils that Arien used for replicating runic patterns. A single high window let in the fading twilight, painting the interior in dusty shades of gold and bronze.

  “Something’s off about those wagons,” Arien said in a low voice, setting down the mana crystal he’d been about to use on the basin. The faint hum of arcane power ebbed and flowed around them, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was the same subtle sense he got whenever powerful or dangerous magic hovered near.

  “You think?” Lila shot back with a soft snort of sarcastic laughter. She knelt by the basin, running a fingertip along the newly carved rune. Her touch was gentle, as though comforting a frightened animal. “I’ve never seen a train that large, let alone one with Xochiral markings. They make me uneasy.”

  Arien pressed his lips into a grim line, remembering half-whispered tales of blood rites and strange rituals in Xochiral territory. He took a deep breath and forced his mind back to the task. Steadying himself, he placed his hand over the rune, channeling a precise pulse of mana through his fingertips. The pattern glowed brighter, lines flaring with pale sapphire light that began to radiate through the metal. A hum rose in pitch, signaling that the enchantment was taking root.

  With a final push, Arien completed the infusion. The basin’s surface shimmered, then settled into a gentle glow, the enchantment humming like a satisfied cat. “Done,” he exhaled, forcing a tight smile.

  “Let’s see what else is happening.” Lila’s gaze flitted to the door. She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her lips pressed in concern.

  They made their way down the short hallway connecting the workshop to the main house and then stepped out the front door into the small courtyard. Light from the setting sun fell across their faces in slanted beams, lengthening shadows around their feet. By the time they reached the wide doorway of the common hall—a sturdy building near the center of the hamlet—a scene of tense discussion had replaced the earlier spectacle in the street.

  A handful of villagers, including Darrin and some gray-haired elders, stood around one of the long communal tables within the hall. The table itself was polished from years of use, bearing the faint scars and scratches of many shared meals and gatherings. Spread out on its surface were ledgers and notes detailing local goods—barley, salted pork, vegetables in storage, the typical stock of a farming settlement. Two of the Xochiral men, presumably leaders or at least spokesmen, stood across from Darrin. Their measured voices and the rustle of paper underscored a polite but uneasy negotiation.

  Soft lanternlight illuminated the men’s faces, revealing their inscrutable dark eyes. Occasionally, their thin smiles flickered, never quite reaching genuine warmth. Arien’s footsteps faltered as he recognized one of them as the man wearing the feathered headdress from before. That man turned at the slightest sound, meeting Arien’s gaze with a knowing expression. Time seemed to slow, and the space between them might as well have been inches rather than yards.

  “Ah,” the man in the headdress murmured, his voice as smooth as oiled silk. He dismissed Darrin mid-sentence and focused solely on Arien. “Are you... Bran?”

  A hush rippled across the hall. Even the elders, who had been studying the ledgers intently, looked up in abrupt confusion. Tension crackled through the air. Darrin rose from his seat, his broad form like a protective wall between the Xochiral men and Arien. “No,” he said firmly, placing a hand on the table for emphasis. “This is Arien. Bran isn’t here.”

  A flicker of disappointment crossed the Xochiral man’s face as he regarded Arien for a long moment, his black eyes searching for something. “Are you certain?” he pressed, the question laden with doubt.

  Darrin’s tone turned brisk. “Quite certain,” he asserted, crossing his arms. “Arien is a smith’s apprentice and a Runeweaver.”

  For an instant, Arien stood rooted in place, his heart hammering so loudly he half-expected everyone else to hear it. The intensity in the Xochiral man’s gaze set Arien’s nerves alight, as though the stranger might pry secrets from him with a single look. At last, the man with the headdress turned away, returning his attention to the negotiation with a subtle shift that dismissed Arien’s presence as abruptly as it had fixated on it.

  Arien exhaled, shoulders dropping as he realized he’d been holding his breath. His eyes met Lila’s across the hall, and her anxious expression mirrored his own. Without a word, Arien backed away and slipped out of the common hall, each footstep echoing the rapid beat of his pulse. Outside, he drew in a calming lungful of the cool evening air and set off toward the apothecary, where his aunt, Ael, would be. She had a way of steadying him, even when every nerve in his body vibrated with alarm.

  The apothecary was housed in a building of stone walls and a slate roof, chosen for its cool interior that helped preserve delicate herbs and medicinal plants. The moment Arien burst through the wooden door, it banged against the stone walls with a hollow reverberation. A pungent mix of dried sage, lavender, and thyme curled around his nostrils. Rows of jars, labeled in Ael’s neat handwriting, lined the shelves, while bunches of herbs hung from the rafters, rustling softly in the draft.

  Ael glanced up from behind a broad workbench where she was grinding a handful of dried leaves. She was a woman of serious countenance, slender but with an indomitable presence that made people think twice before crossing her. Angular cheekbones framed her intense green eyes, and her silver-streaked black hair was braided tightly behind her head.

  “They’re here,” Arien said, voice trembling with the urgency he’d tried in vain to contain. “The ones from Xochiral. A whole wagon train, at least seven wagons. They’re loaded with goods, and the men—the men are wearing feathered headdresses and sashes. One asked if I was Bran.”

  Ael paused, mortar and pestle held mid-motion. She regarded him for a heartbeat with an inscrutable gaze, then resumed grinding with methodical steadiness. “And the squire?” she asked, not looking at Arien directly but rather at the mortar’s contents.

  “He said exactly who I am,” Arien replied, tone clipped with frustration. “He told them my real name, told them I was a smith’s apprentice, a Runeweaver—everything. And they acted like they were searching for someone else. Someone named Bran. They recognized me for a moment, or thought they did.”

  Ael set the mortar down carefully on the wooden counter. The muted sound was at odds with the tension throbbing in the room. She wiped her hands on a linen cloth and met Arien’s gaze head-on. “Then you should do nothing out of the ordinary,” she said, her voice crisp. “They’re outsiders, not our concern. Don’t give them a reason to become one.”

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  “But—” Arien began. A thousand protests surged through his mind. He wanted to say that these men were dangerous, that they might harbor ill intent, that their presence was more than a mere inconvenience. But as he locked eyes with Ael, her calm, unwavering stare silenced him. He suddenly felt like a frantic child under her measured scrutiny.

  “Arien,” she said firmly, cutting him off. “They’re an annoyance. Don’t encourage them to be a catastrophe. Do your work and stay out of their affairs. That’s how we protect ourselves.”

  He clenched his teeth against a surge of helplessness. “All right,” he muttered, finally averting his eyes. The apothecary was too small to contain the tension roiling inside him. Even the comforting smell of crushed herbs and the familiarity of Ael’s presence couldn’t smooth his fraying nerves.

  The day wore on without further overt drama, though the simmering undercurrent of unease never quite dissipated. Arien remained with Ael in the apothecary, hands occupied with grinding, mixing, and bottling the simplest remedies. The mortar’s repetitive grind and the rustling of burlap sacks filled the otherwise still air. Now and then, voices drifted in from the street: a snippet of conversation about the wagons, rumors about Xochiral customs, idle speculations about their wealth or their darker proclivities. Yet no shouts of alarm or calls to arms came, and gradually the afternoon sank into the slow, steady rhythms of everyday life.

  Arien found some solace in the tasks that demanded precision: measuring out herbs for poultices, ensuring the right ratio of water to dried bark for teas, or checking on jars of salves that needed stirring. Ael eyed his work at intervals, occasionally admonishing him when he ground the bark too finely or allowed his anxiety to seep into the mortar’s contents.

  “Stop grinding so hard,” she chided, noticing how his mortar had turned a once-coarse mixture of tree bark into a near powder. “You’ll turn that bark into dust before its essence can do any good.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, loosening the tense grip on the pestle. The apology hung in the air, a testament to how rattled he truly felt. Outside, the echoing creak of wagon wheels reminded him that the travelers were still there, discussing trade terms and likely gleaning more information about the hamlet and its people.

  When the sky had fully transitioned to twilight, with a thin crescent moon rising above the rooftops, a call resounded through the hamlet—an invitation to the communal evening meal. It was a daily tradition in these parts, a chance for everyone to gather under one roof, share a hearty spread of food, and exchange gossip or stories.

  Ael hung her apron on a wooden peg. Smoothing out the wrinkles of her practical gray dress, she steeled her expression. “Come along,” she said to Arien, in a voice that brooked no argument. “No sense in skulking in corners.”

  Arien followed her out into the crisp night air, noting the gentle hush that had settled over the village. Lanterns glowed like fireflies along the main street, illuminating the path to the common hall where supper would be served. The building was humble but inviting, its high-beamed ceiling and rough-hewn wooden tables forming the heart of the hamlet’s collective spirit. Townsfolk were already filling the benches, the clatter of wooden cups and platters blending with the soft murmur of conversation.

  Entering the hall, Arien inhaled deeply, savoring the aromas of spiced stews, roasted meat, and honey-glazed vegetables wafting through the space. Iron chandeliers hung overhead, casting warm light across the crowd and flickering flames that danced on the stone walls. A handful of children ran between the tables, squealing in delight as they played a haphazard form of tag underfoot.

  Ael glided toward the serving area, her sharp eyes scanning each dish arrayed in ceramic bowls and wooden trays. She tested the stew, gave a subtle nod of approval, then adjusted the sprinkling of salt in a large roasting pan of vegetables. Cooking was not her primary trade—she was, after all, the hamlet’s resident apothecary—but she approached the evening meal with the same exacting standards she gave to her herbal concoctions.

  Satisfied, Ael motioned for Arien to find a seat. He settled near the center of the hall, where he spotted Lila already seated. She gave him a small wave, though she looked uneasy. Her eyes strayed repeatedly toward the far end of the hall, where a group of unfamiliar men stood. It was easy to guess who had drawn her attention. The Xochiral visitors, or at least a select few of them, had joined the communal meal.

  The men wore the same road-beaten clothes, though now their feathered headdresses were set aside on the bench, and their obsidian necklaces caught the candlelight with sharp glints. They ate with a sort of voracious efficiency, as though every bite counted. The two leaders, in contrast, displayed more composure, their practiced politeness revealing neither hunger nor impatience as they sampled the local fare. One was the man with the resplendent headdress, the other the man with the bone necklace. Both carried themselves like men used to commanding a room, even one that wasn’t theirs.

  “They’re even stranger up close,” Lila murmured to Arien, leaning in so as not to be overheard.

  “Strange doesn’t cover it,” he replied. He risked another glance at the men. A swirl of dread and curiosity filled him. “They don’t look like they came all this way just for trade.”

  Before they could say more, a sharp rap rang out as Darrin stood, staff in hand, at the head of the hall. Conversation died down immediately. The staff was a simple oaken rod, polished and worn from years of use in ceremonies and communal gatherings. It gave a steady beat to his deep voice.

  “Friends, neighbors, and honored guests,” he began, his gaze panning across the crowd. The hush in the hall was profound. “Tonight, we gather, as we always do, to share the fruits of our labor and the strength of our fellowship. With guests from distant lands, it is especially fitting to offer our thanks to the gods who guide our hands and watch over our ways.”

  At that, a wave of quiet reverence passed through the villagers. Heads bowed, and the only sound was the faint crackle of the hearth. “Let us honor the divine who sustains us, whose blessings make possible every morsel on our tables.”

  Darrin lifted his staff, its polished wood gleaming under the lantern light, and began the Ardalis blessing. “Emashir, the Vital Root,” he intoned, voice echoing. “Who blesses our soil with abundance and ensures the bread upon our tables. To him, we give thanks for the fertility of our lands.”

  A soft murmur of agreement resonated in pockets around the hall. Some traced small runic symbols in the air, an old tradition signifying gratitude. Others simply bowed their heads.

  “Zhulmar, the Anchor of Earth,” Darrin continued. “Protector of our cliffs and forests, whose strength shields us in the fiercest storms. May his resilience be our own, firm underfoot even when the world shakes.”

  Arien’s gaze flitted toward the Xochiral men. Most sat stiffly, hands clasped or pressed to the table, as though uncertain of how to respond to these foreign deities. A few exchanged uncertain glances, and one looked down at his plate as though ashamed. The two leaders, however, neither bowed their heads nor twitched in discomfort. They maintained small smiles—calculated masks of neutrality.

  Darrin’s recitation of gods continued methodically. “Nimmathil, the Weaver of Streams,” he said in a clarion voice that rose to the rafters. “Whose waters bring life to our fields and quench our thirst. Tamaru, Keeper of Boundless Horizons, who guards the wide steppe beneath the open sky.”

  Arien, whose initial nerves had settled into cautious concentration, began to notice a subtle tension building among the visitors with each invoked name. Their shoulders tightened; the set of their jaws grew more rigid.

  “Eryndal, the Verdant Sentinel,” Darrin pressed on, “whose forests grant us balance and renewal. Akar-Nammu, the Foundation of Plenty, who fosters harmony between field and city alike.” He paused, letting the series of names hang in the charged silence. Then his tone shifted, quieter but more deliberate. “And Uruqil, the Veil of Green.”

  That name carried a weight in many parts of the world, for Uruqil was venerated differently depending on the region. Here, the villagers regarded it as a gentle caretaker of living things. But for Xochiral ears, the name might ring with different connotations. Several visitors twitched in their seats, and one man clenched his teeth audibly.

  A bead of sweat slipped down Arien’s temple. The hush was now electric, crackling with intangible tension. If any illusions remained about a peaceful, casual dinner, they were shattered by the next name Darrin spoke. His voice dropped to an almost hushed register.

  “And to Itzhalmu, the Rooted Tyrant,” he said, each syllable carefully enunciated. “Who reminds us that all power has its price. That none may wield dominion over the land or the living without reaping the consequences of hubris.”

  The effect was immediate and profound. The name of Itzhalmu—an entity associated with primal hunger, blood-soaked renewal, and old, choking roots that demanded sacrifice—seemed to ripple through the Xochiral men like a live current. The two leaders exchanged a quick, charged glance, and for a fleeting moment, their thin smiles widened into something nearly feral—like predators scenting fear. The rest of their men reacted in stark contrast: some shrank back, faces going pale, as though they’d just been forced to remember something best left in darkness. One man’s hand clutched the edge of the table, knuckles whitening under the strain.

  Arien’s stomach clenched. Though he couldn’t read the intricate tapestry of Xochiral beliefs, the mention of Itzhalmu obviously touched a nerve. Looking around, he saw that many of the villagers also sensed the tension, though they might not have understood its exact meaning.

  Darrin completed the blessing, his final words echoing with a resonant authority. “To all the gods, we give our thanks and our reverence. May their guidance shape our hands, their wisdom light our path. Let us partake.”

  With that, the hall released a collective breath, though the tension still coiled beneath the surface. Cutlery scraped against wooden plates and bowls, signaling the practical resumption of mealtime. Serving ladles dipped into steaming pots. The comforting clank of pewter cups filled the air, joined by the low hum of conversation as villagers tried to restore normalcy. Yet an undercurrent of unease remained, especially whenever eyes flickered toward the Xochiral men.

  Arien and Lila exchanged glances as they reached for their utensils. He took a spoonful of stew, but his appetite was overshadowed by the scene he had just witnessed. A swirl of worry churned in his mind, clouding the savory taste of thyme and pepper on his tongue.

  Gradually, the mood in the hall lifted. Familiar jokes and neighborly chatter wove themselves back into the tapestry of communal life. Children giggled as they balanced chunks of bread on their spoons, or tried to stealthily swipe extra slices of honeyed loaf. A fiddler struck up a low, tentative tune from a corner of the room, testing the waters of merriment. The delicate notes fluttered through the air, tangling with the murmurs and setting an almost pleasant background refrain.

  Despite these attempts at normalcy, Arien’s gaze kept returning to the two Xochiral leaders. Their behavior stood out in sharp relief against that of their companions. Whereas many of the men ate as though starved, gulping down mead and shoving stew into their mouths with little decorum, the leaders sampled the food with measured, almost indulgent slowness. It was like watching hawks feign disinterest in a flock of small birds, all the while evaluating when to strike.

  At one point, Darrin leaned closer to the leaders, gesturing subtly toward another table where a lanky villager named Bran once used to sit. Bran, a traveling tinker who had parted ways with the hamlet months ago, was apparently the name that had so piqued the Xochiral man’s interest. Arien saw the leader glance in that direction, eyes flickering with a momentary flash of recognition or frustration. The faintest grimace crossed the man’s lips before he resumed his calm fa?ade.

  Then, with a flick of his hand, the leader gestured to the richly arranged spread before him: roasted carrots glistening with honey, thick slabs of pork, and a loaf of crusty bread with a pungent herbed butter. His voice, when it came, was a sonorous baritone that carried effortlessly above the muted conversation. “This is exceptional fare,” he remarked, his accent rounding the syllables with an exotic lilt.

  Darrin inclined his head, broad shoulders loosening as he acknowledged the compliment. “Our apothecary, Ael, often adds her own touches to the cooking,” he said, raising his voice so that it projected easily across the hall. “Her knowledge of herbs goes beyond remedies. She has a knack for making our humble meals shine.”

  At this, the villagers closest to Ael turned to look at her. Seated a few tables away, she rose with unhurried grace, the chandeliers’ glow accentuating the silver strands in her braided hair. Her green eyes caught the light with a subtle gleam. She inclined her head politely, though her posture held a coiled vigilance.

  The Xochiral leader’s reaction was swift and unmistakable. His eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering momentarily across his sharp features, only to be replaced by a more calculating expression. “Truly, a meal fit for kings,” he intoned, placing a slice of roasted carrot onto his plate with deliberate care. “And emperors.”

  Ael paused a comfortable distance from the head table, folding her hands in front of her. “It’s just solid food for the honest folk of these parts,” she replied evenly. “Nothing more.”

  There was a pregnant silence, broken only by the continued clatter of cutlery from the rest of the hall. The leader’s thin, deliberate smile didn’t falter, though a subtle tension rippled under his cool demeanor. “If this is common fare, then your honest folk are more fortunate than most,” he said. “Even the immortal sorcerers of the far realms would be blessed to dine on such meals.”

  Ael’s face remained impassive, not a flicker betraying her thoughts. “I wouldn’t know anything about kings, emperors, or immortal sorcerers,” she said. Her voice, though calm, held a faint edge of steel. “We farm, we mend, we cook... We leave such matters to grander folks.”

  The leader chuckled, a low, almost pleasant sound that failed to conceal his underlying tension. His posture spoke volumes: he was a man used to control, to being humored or even feared. Seeing Ael’s unbowed stance and minimal response seemed to leave him slightly off-balance. He lowered his gaze back to his plate. “A shame,” he murmured, turning his attention back to the food. “Perhaps we could learn something from the resilience of this place.”

  All the while, Arien watched the exchange with his heart in his throat. A fleeting pang of pride for Ael mingled with worry about how the Xochiral leader had spoken—both praising and probing in the same breath. Still, no open conflict arose. If the tension was an undercurrent, it remained below the surface for now.

  Slowly, the rest of the gathering reasserted itself. People resumed their chats, comforting themselves with the routine of good food and good company. The fiddler’s music took on a livelier tune, coaxing a few to tap their feet against the wooden floor. A couple of old men debated local fishing spots, and a group of children giggled while comparing the sizes of their wooden spoons. The Xochiral men, for their part, continued to devour everything in front of them, though a handful glanced nervously at their leaders whenever the conversation pivoted to mention of the gods or any matter beyond mundane trade.

  Arien tasted his stew, trying to identify the hint of thyme and rosemary that lent the dish a homely comfort. Yet every bite felt heavy in his stomach, weighed down by the memory of the earlier confrontation. Around him, Lila was similarly subdued, occasionally nudging him with her elbow when she caught him staring too long at the visitors.

  “You’ve barely touched your stew,” Lila murmured, leaning close so no one else could overhear. Her dark hair brushed against his shoulder, and he caught the faintest whiff of lavender soap. “Don’t tell me the great Arien is losing his appetite now.”

  He forced a grin, though it felt hollow. “Just saving room for dessert,” he teased back, trying to muster some semblance of normalcy.

  Lila’s expressive eyebrows rose skeptically. “Sure,” she replied, her voice laced with dry humor. “That sounds believable.”

  Neither said aloud what they both knew—that the presence of these men, with their hushed words and disquieting aura, had shaken the sense of safety and predictability the hamlet usually enjoyed.

  In a far corner of the hall, Ael resumed her routine. She inspected the remaining food, pushing a few dishes aside to prevent cross-contamination, her gestures as practiced and cool as ever. Once she was satisfied that every villager had eaten their fill, she started gathering the leftover portions into a large woven basket. Occasionally, she asked a young helper to pass her a clean cloth or a clay jar, speaking with a low, efficient tone that brooked no dawdling. The leftover food would be delivered to an elderly villager who had been feeling ill, as was custom for those who couldn’t attend the communal meal.

  Feeling the eyes of at least one of the Xochiral men on them, Arien and Lila stood and joined Ael in this task. Together, they portioned out small bowls of stew and slices of bread. They added a handful of roasted vegetables and a wedge of cheese, all neatly wrapped in cloth to keep them warm. The faint smell of cooked onions and garlic clung to their hands, but Lila offered no complaint.

  Arien noticed that Ael’s hands moved with uncharacteristic haste, even if her face remained neutral. Her breathing was controlled, as if she were wrestling with some inner tension. Perhaps she had her own reasons to be wary of the Xochiral presence. If so, she kept them closely guarded.

  Once the basket was ready, Arien slid the handle over his forearm. Lila folded a smaller parcel in a thick cloth, her watchful gaze darting around to see if anyone was paying too much attention. The hum of conversation and the lively fiddle tune washed over them, yet Arien could not shake the sense that someone in that hall was noticing their every move. He offered a silent prayer that they would make it through the night without incident.

  “Ready?” Lila asked in a near whisper, adjusting her grip on the parcel.

  Arien nodded, giving her a brief, reassuring smile. “Let’s go. We’ve still got a rune to fix after this, too,” he murmured, feigning a normalcy he didn’t quite feel.

  They weaved through the hall, skirting around neighbors who chatted contentedly over second helpings. A handful of villagers waved goodnight, while others were too engrossed in their conversations to notice them depart. By the time they reached the door, Arien spared one last glance at the table where the Xochiral leaders sat. They hadn’t moved, but their eyes flicked toward him. He felt that burning sensation of being watched, a primal instinct that prickled across his skin.

  At last, Arien pushed open the heavy door of the common hall, stepping out into the crisp night. The two of them were met by the gentle hush of the sleeping hamlet, a quiet so profound it made the lingering tension of the hall feel like a world away. The moon had risen higher, illuminating the rough dirt road in pale silver. A faint wind rustled the branches of a solitary oak at the edge of the square, carrying with it the subtle fragrance of autumn leaves and distant chimney smoke.

  Shoulders tense, hearts still pounding with the memory of watchful eyes and cryptic words, the two stepped out into the cool embrace of the night, the sounds of the common hall receding behind them as they made their way toward the elder’s cottage.