The cool mist blanketed the narrow path as Arien and Lila made their way toward Mrs. Halwen’s cottage. Thin curls of vapor rose from puddles along the trail, spiraling into the night air. The pathway itself, comprised of dirt and pebble stones weathered by years of foot traffic, formed a dark ribbon leading out of the hamlet’s glow. Each footfall pressed fresh impressions into the damp ground, releasing the fragrance of moist earth beneath their boots.

  Behind them, the lanterns of the hamlet glimmered faintly, their light receding into soft, golden orbs swallowed by the damp air. A few faint silhouettes of thatched rooftops looked like smudges of deeper darkness against the rolling countryside. With each step, the earthy scent mingled with the faint sweetness of dew settling on leaves in the hedgerows that bordered the farmland. Occasionally, a stray night bird let out a tentative rustle, its wings flapping just out of sight, adding a haunting quality to the already mysterious stillness.

  Arien and Lila walked in silence for a stretch, the hush weighing on their shoulders like a light but persistent burden. The surrounding farmland looked subdued in the muted glow of the moon, which hung low and hazy behind drifting clouds. Off in the distance, farmhouses and barns stood like silent watchers, their shapes vaguely discernible through the veil of fog. The fields themselves smelled of turned soil and the soft decay of late-harvest remains, a cozy yet somber aroma unique to autumn’s end.

  Slowly, the cottage emerged through the haze, a solitary silhouette nestled amidst sprawling farmland. Its thatched roof, darkened by moisture, appeared to sag slightly under the weight of the evening’s humidity. Dimly lit by the warm glow of a single window, it looked like a lantern in the gloom—an inviting beacon urging them forward. Smoke curled lazily from the small stone chimney, dissipating into the darkness above.

  “Spooky, isn’t it?” Lila teased, her voice barely above a whisper. Pale breath condensed in front of her lips before vanishing into the mist. “Almost like one of those tales Mrs. Halwen likes to tell.”

  Arien smirked, adjusting the basket of food in his grip. He wore a cloak lined with fleece that was damp around the hem from the wet air. “If this is spooky, you’d never survive a real ghost story.”

  “Bold words from someone holding the snacks,” Lila shot back, her lips curving into a playful grin. Beneath her cloak, she clutched a small satchel—just in case they needed to bring back any of Mrs. Halwen’s herbal remedies or advice for the village. Overhead, a breeze stirred the treetops, and droplets collected on the brim of Lila’s hood, rolling off in tiny rivulets.

  They reached the wooden door, its surface worn smooth by years of weather and care. Faint lines etched into the wood told silent stories of storms, scorching summers, and frosty winters. Arien knocked gently, the sound barely cutting through the fog and into the quiet around them. It was enough, though, for inside the cottage they heard a shuffle—slow but deliberate footsteps approaching. The door creaked open, revealing Mrs. Halwen, her figure framed by the inviting light of the hearth.

  The old woman’s face broke into a smile. Her silver-streaked hair framed sharp eyes that sparkled with recognition. Lines etched across her features spoke of both hardships weathered and laughter shared. “Ah, there you are, my two late-night heroes,” she greeted, her voice warm and slightly raspy as if from years of hearty conversation and occasional scolding. “Come in, come in. You’re letting the mist in!”

  They stepped into the cottage, where the warmth of the interior seemed to envelop them like a heavy quilt. It contrasted sharply with the damp chill outside. The first thing that greeted them was the comforting scent of burning wood and simmering herbs. Sturdy wooden floors gleamed faintly, evidence of dedicated upkeep. The walls were lined with shelves—some packed with jars of preserves in colored glass, each label written in a neat, looping hand; others stocked with neatly folded linens that carried the faint smell of lavender satchels tucked among them. Tiny trinkets and knickknacks adorned the mantel and windowsills: polished river stones, small carved figurines, and a few clay pots shaped by unskilled but loving hands.

  A cushioned armchair near the hearth looked lived-in and welcoming, its old upholstery worn but clean, the seat bearing the shape of its familiar occupant. The flames dancing on the logs cast a cozy glow on the stone walls and gave flickers of life to the modest but treasured décor.

  Lila set the basket on the small dining table in the center of the room. A simple, spotless cloth covered the wooden surface, and the basket bumped lightly against a vase filled with dried wildflowers. “We brought tonight’s meal,” she said, her voice bright with the satisfaction of a task completed. She began unpacking the food with a practiced efficiency—steaming bread, savory stew tucked in a heavy ceramic container, and a side dish of roasted vegetables. The aroma spread instantly, mingling with the cottage’s mild herbal fragrance.

  “Bless you both,” Mrs. Halwen said, easing herself into the armchair with a groan that spoke of stiff joints and tired muscles. “My bones aren’t what they used to be. Going out in this weather feels like asking for trouble. Back in my day, though, nothing kept me from an evening out—dances, bonfires, a little mischief under the stars...” Her voice trailed into a thoughtful chuckle, eyes momentarily distant. “Those were the days.”

  Lila’s expression softened as she arranged the food. Steam rose from the containers, and she relished the comforting feeling of warmth against her cheeks. “Sounds like you had quite the adventures,” she said, genuine admiration in her tone. She glanced around, imagining a younger Mrs. Halwen dancing by a bonfire. “Maybe you’ll have to tell us some stories someday.”

  “Oh, don’t tempt me, girl,” Mrs. Halwen replied, her laughter filling the room. The sound was husky yet warm, punctuating the crackle of the hearth. “You’d be here all night listening to how I bested the boys at their own games and charmed the lot of them besides.”

  Arien chuckled softly as he moved to the hearth. The closer he got, the more acutely he noticed that the fire was not as strong as it should be. The runes etched into the stonework above the mantle were faded, their intricate patterns dulled by age and soot. He crouched, setting down his bag of tools, a small pouch made of leather, and rummaged inside until he found a slender brush.

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  “The fire’s barely working,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “These runes are overdue for a refresh.”

  Mrs. Halwen waved a hand dismissively, though her gaze lingered with interest on Arien. “That old thing’s been sputtering for years. You’re welcome to give it a try, but don’t expect miracles.”

  Arien smirked, exuding a subdued but unwavering confidence. “We’ll see about that.” He blew gently on the runes, dislodging some of the soot, and then set to work cleaning them. Each careful stroke of the brush revealed more of the swirling lines. Some patterns looked serpentine, others geometric, all culminating in a design that guided magical heat through the hearth.

  Lila and Mrs. Halwen watched, briefly entranced by the methodical rhythm. Lila, setting out dishes of stew and bread, glanced over her shoulder, her brow furrowing with mild curiosity. The scraping sounds of bristles against stone provided a gentle undercurrent in the toasty room.

  “How’s it going over there?” Lila asked as she poured tea into a clay mug for Mrs. Halwen. The steam wisped upward, carrying the delicate, grassy smell of chamomile.

  “Almost done,” Arien replied, focusing intently on his task. He took up a small chisel, running its fine tip along the worn grooves, deepening and sharpening the runes. Tiny flakes of stone fell, their sound just audible over the fire’s crackle. “The runes are solid—they just need a little help.”

  Mrs. Halwen sipped her tea, eyeing Arien’s movements appreciatively. “You’ve got a good hand for this, boy. Steady and sure. Reminds me of my late husband—though he never had half your knack for it. He tried, mind, but the results were always a bit unpredictable.” She chuckled, a fleeting look of fond exasperation passing over her face.

  Arien smiled faintly, finishing the final curve of the pattern before wiping the stone surface clean. Then, closing his eyes for a moment, he let out a slow breath, channeling a small pulse of mana into the freshly carved runes. The patterns glowed with soft luminescence, the lines coming alive with warm, radiant energy. In response, the fire in the hearth roared upward, infusing the cottage with a more intense but still comforting heat.

  Lila grinned, setting down the tea kettle to clap her hands softly. “Looks like you’ve worked your magic again.”

  “Just doing what I can,” Arien said, accepting a mug of tea she offered. The ceramic felt wonderfully warm against his palms, and he inhaled the steam, letting the mild herbal aroma calm his senses.

  Mrs. Halwen allowed her head to rest against the back of her armchair, a pleased sigh escaping her lips. “You two make a fine team,” she said, looking between them with approval. “It’s good to see young folks taking care of the old ways. The world could use more of that.”

  Emboldened by the renewed blaze, the flames reached higher, casting dynamic shadows on the wooden floor. Painted earthenware bowls on the shelves appeared more vibrant in the enhanced glow, their colors leaping from the old clay. A sense of calm and camaraderie spread through the small group, the promise of a peaceful evening filling the space.

  The trio settled in. Lila and Arien helped Mrs. Halwen gather a few plates and bowls so they could all share the freshly delivered meal. In the shifting half-light, the old woman’s wrinkled hands moved with surprising nimbleness, retrieving spoons and knives from a drawer. She insisted on setting the table herself. It was her way of keeping her independence; Arien and Lila respected that, allowing her to place the utensils and cups just the way she liked.

  Outside, the mist pressed against the window, swirling in unseen eddies each time the breeze exhaled. The faint glow of the moon occasionally broke through the cloud cover, but it did little more than glimmer on the drifting fog. The absence of other sounds—no distant laughter, no cart wheels from the main road—made the night more profound.

  Soon, the three gathered around the small table for a quick meal. Between bites of stew and sips of tea, they chatted about the day’s events: the market stalls in the hamlet selling late-season produce, the local children practicing folk dances for the upcoming harvest festival, and the traveling merchants who rarely ventured down this little side road. Eventually, though, a companionable silence descended, leaving only the muted cracks and pops from the hearth to fill the air.

  Mrs. Halwen stood once the last of the food was finished, favoring her right knee as she slowly crossed to her armchair. She lowered herself carefully, the worn cushions sighing beneath her small weight. Lila followed suit, sitting cross-legged on a thick woven rug near the hearth, her shawl draped over her shoulders. Arien leaned against the stone ledge of the fireplace, the heat radiating at his back.

  The fire hissed softly, casting long, flickering shadows. Lamps placed at intervals around the room glowed with gentle light, their wicks trimmed so the flames danced with minimal flicker. From outside came the distant call of a lone owl, a mournful note that seemed to drift across the fields before fading into the hush.

  Mrs. Halwen’s eyes, sharp as ever, darted between the two younger visitors. A mischievous smile touched her lips, and the lines in her face arranged themselves into an expression both grandmotherly and vaguely predatory. She tapped the edge of her rocking chair with the tip of her cane, a light, rhythmic sound that punctuated the silence.

  “You know,” she began, her voice adopting a particular lilt that made Lila and Arien exchange knowing glances, “a night like this isn’t meant for quiet conversation. No, no… It’s a time for stories—dark ones, the kind that crawl under your skin and keep you looking over your shoulder well after you blow out the candle.”

  Lila raised an eyebrow. “Trying to scare us, Mrs. Halwen?” she asked, though the brightness in her eyes revealed that she was intrigued rather than intimidated.

  Arien pretended to rub his arms as if chilled. “Trying?” he echoed with a chuckle. “She’s probably got us half-spooked already, and she hasn’t even started.”

  Mrs. Halwen’s laughter crackled, each note like a small log snapping in the flames. There was an energy beneath it, something reminiscent of a wise old raven cackling at a private joke. “Oh, hush,” she said, waving her cane at them as though to swat away their banter. Then her voice dipped into a low whisper, the syllables curling through the warm air like the tendrils of smoke from a dying ember. “This isn’t just a tale. This is a lesson.”

  Her eyes gleamed with dramatic intent, reflecting both the orange flicker of the fire and something older, something that put Arien and Lila on edge. The corners of her mouth drew up, lending her features a vaguely lupine quality in the dim light. Despite her frail appearance, a certain gravity emanated from her, holding them captive.

  She leaned forward on her carved cane, knuckles whitening. The candlelit shadows elongated and turned spindly, as if they too leaned in, eager for her next words. She spoke them slowly, relishing every syllable. “Have you heard of Itzhalmu, The Rooted Tyrant?”

  All at once, the air felt heavier. Outside, the wind seemed to pause, and the branches that had tapped casually at the shutters now fell silent. Within the hush, Arien and Lila exchanged uneasy glances. The name itself carried a weight, as though something ancient and dangerous stirred at its mention.

  “Across from her, Arien and Lila—two children wrapped in patched cloaks and burdened with the weight of rumors—fell into a hush,” Mrs. Halwen continued, seamlessly moving into her story. She let out a theatrical sigh. “Outside, past this cottage’s warped windowpanes, the wind sighs through old pines, as if the entire forest holds its breath.” She paused again, letting a brief, sharp silence punctuate the looming dread. The lamps flickered, and the walls seemed to close in just a touch, the logs in the hearth shifting with a low crackle.