The slow turning of seasons in Greywood brought a steady, comforting rhythm to the hamlet’s life. Winter’s chill, with its pale skies and the hush of drifting snow, inevitably gave way to the tender blooms of spring. Buds of pale green erupted along fences, and the chilled earth softened to let tiny shoots poke through. Then came the warm bustle of summer, when the sun rose early and lingered late, bathing the hamlet in golden light and coaxing tall grass and wildflowers from the surrounding meadows. Finally, autumn arrived once again, the late afternoon sun casting elongated shadows across fields laden with ripe barley and wheat. There was a particular scent to this time of year, one that seemed to seep into every crack of Greywood’s old buildings: a mix of crisp morning air, the damp richness of turned earth, and the sweet, mellow perfume of harvested hay. Barns bulged with the season’s bounty, their wooden frames groaning softly under the weight of stacked sheaves, and villagers moved in a careful, unhurried synchronization, ensuring every grain sack was secured. This was the cycle of their world—predictable, maybe even dull to outsiders, but comforting in its familiarity to those who called Greywood home.
Arien stood at the wagon, muscles taut as he hefted yet another sack of grain into place. He was no longer the small child who once hid behind Aunt Ael’s skirts whenever a stranger passed by. Long hours spent hauling produce and tending to the animals had lent a wiry strength to his frame, his once-slender arms beginning to show the faint outlines of muscle. His broadening shoulders spoke volumes of the labor he had shouldered over the past year. Each movement drew the whisper of rough fabric against his skin, and when he straightened, he could feel a bead of sweat rolling slowly down the side of his temple. He paused to wipe the back of his hand across his brow, but the crisp autumn breeze did little to fully dispel the warmth that still radiated from his exertion.
As he finished tightening the ropes to secure the load, he squinted at the horizon, where the dirt road melted into rolling farmland. Something caught his eye—a single figure strolling toward the hamlet. The figure’s silhouette danced against the glare of the sun, and the gait was peculiar: part swagger, part theatrical flair, like an actor on a makeshift stage. An irrepressible grin spread across Arien’s face as realization dawned. Only one man in the wide world walked that way. Kael, the wandering teller of tales, was returning to Greywood.
In a burst of excitement, Arien let the rope slip from his fingers and jogged down the road. His boots kicked up small clouds of dust, and the late-afternoon sunlight gave everything a gilded edge. As he closed the distance, he began to notice more details: Kael’s staff, carved from a twisting branch of yew, tapped the dirt in a measured, almost musical beat. The old man wore layered clothing in muted colors—browns, mossy greens, and faded grays—each piece patched in places, suggesting hard travel. While Kael’s face wore its usual irrepressible grin, Arien couldn’t miss the weariness that shadowed his eyes. It was subtle, a heaviness around the edges of his gaze, as if he’d seen something he wished he hadn’t.
“Well, if it isn’t Arien,” Kael called out, voice echoing along the otherwise quiet road. The warmth in his words was familiar, but this time there was a hint of relief behind it—like a man finally laying eyes on a safe harbor after a long voyage. “Look at you. You’ve sprouted up like a weed in my absence. I could swear you were still knee-high to a grasshopper the last time I came through.”
Arien chuckled, skidding to a halt just shy of crashing into the old man. Now that he was closer, he could see the fine lines at the corners of Kael’s eyes, deeper than before, telling silent stories of restless nights or battles with worry. “And here I was thinking you’d been kidnapped by one of your own stories. What’s it been now, a year? Two? No one’s kept proper count.”
“Time,” Kael mused, scratching his chin with a theatrical air, “has a habit of slipping right through a man’s fingers. One day, you’re trading tales on the summer solstice; the next, you’re trudging through early autumn, wondering how it got so cold so fast.” He winked, though there was a guarded quality to his grin, as if part of him refused to let go of some unspoken burden. “I see you’re already loading wagons and lifting sacks. If you keep up this pace, you’ll have a back like a plow horse before you’re done growing.”
Arien laughed, a bright sound in the hush of the late afternoon. “I’m working on more than just my muscles. I’m also growing a beard, you know.”
“A beard! So that’s what that fluff on your chin is supposed to be?” Kael teased, taking a gentle poke at Arien’s jawline. “I’d call it more fuzz than beard. But give it time, lad. Respectable’s overrated, anyway. Let it have some character—some wildness.”
They walked together back toward Greywood, their conversation flowing easily. Kael was all questions about the harvest, the changing weather, and the gossip of the hamlet. Still, Arien noticed the slight hesitations in the old man’s words, small pauses that didn’t fit Kael’s usual, freewheeling manner. Arien’s curiosity piqued, but he kept his observations to himself. Sometimes, a secret was like a seed—it had to be coaxed into the open at the right moment.
As they neared the apothecary, a well-kept cottage painted in pale ochre with a small herb garden out front, the door creaked on rusted hinges. A figure stepped out into the waning sunlight: Ael, Arien’s aunt and the hamlet’s resident healer. She was tall, with a no-nonsense posture that could make grown men shrink back if they’d done something foolish. Her green eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, instantly locked onto Kael. They narrowed in unmistakable annoyance. She stood silhouetted by the evening glow, arms folded over her chest, elbows jutting out like warning signs.
“Well, look who finally decided to crawl out of whatever hole he’s been hiding in,” she said, her words clipped. Her voice carried easily in the still air, as crisp as dried leaves crackling underfoot. “I thought perhaps you’d gotten yourself lost—or worse.”
Kael responded with a theatrical bow, sweeping his patched cloak aside. “Ael! Always a pleasure. You’ve a talent for making a man feel welcome, I must say.” His wide grin remained in place, but Arien detected a flicker of old discomfort in Kael’s eyes. Perhaps they’d parted on sour terms the last time he was in town, or maybe there was some older grudge. Ael did nothing to mask her irritation.
“Welcome isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” she shot back. She tapped her foot on the threshold in a staccato that matched the thrum of Kael’s staff. “It’s been too long. And if I know you, you’re here to stir up trouble once again with your tall tales and unasked-for opinions.”
Kael pressed a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “Ael, how you wound me! I’ve done nothing but wander the realm, gather stories, and bring them back to my dear friends. This is how you greet me?”
Arien stifled a grin. Ael and Kael’s exchanges always reminded him of two feral cats hissing at each other, each too proud to back down. Yet, behind Ael’s curt words and Kael’s dramatic banter, there was a tension, an energy that felt old and familiar. It didn’t seem entirely hostile—more like a dance with carefully measured steps.
Ael sighed, her lips set in a hard line, but her tone softened a fraction. “You’ll be in the common hall tonight, I assume? Spinning your tales during supper in exchange for a full belly?”
“That’s the custom, is it not?” Kael flashed a mischievous wink. “Stories for bread, or so they say. And mine are worth at least a loaf—or two.”
Arien watched them warily. Kael rested a casual hand on his staff, as though ready to defend himself from any further verbal barbs. Ael simply frowned and turned back to the apothecary door, as though concluding that Kael wasn’t worth the effort of a more pointed retort. She paused, her shoulders rising as if she might offer some parting remark, but then merely shook her head.
“Arien,” she snapped, suddenly remembering he was there. The abruptness in her tone made him straighten. “You can finish unloading that wagon, can’t you? The last thing we need is feed sacks left out overnight.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Arien answered, hurrying to obey. He threw one last curious look at Kael. The old man returned his gaze, eyes glittering with amusement, and then leaned back against the apothecary’s wooden railing. He seemed at ease, almost as though he enjoyed ruffling Ael’s feathers. Arien had seen that grin before in travelers passing through: men who thrived on the unpredictability of the open road and the endless possibilities each new horizon offered. He suspected Kael’s carefree manner was partly an act, a well-honed persona worn like a favorite cloak. What lay beneath remained to be discovered.
As the day wore on, the autumn sun dipped lower. Long shadows crisscrossed Greywood’s streets, and the promise of a chilled night’s breeze made every villager mindful of the hearth waiting at home. Kael spent the afternoon drifting in and out of the apothecary, leaning in the doorway to chat with passersby or humming snatches of an old tune while Ael tried to ignore him. Occasionally, his laughter would ring out through the open window, a stark contrast to Ael’s clipped, terse responses. Arien, busy stacking crates of produce, couldn’t help glancing over every few minutes, half certain an argument might erupt at any moment.
Inside the apothecary, the scents of mint, rosemary, and fennel mingled with the medicinal bite of ground bark and dried flowers. Shelves lined the walls, holding jars of various shapes—some large enough to hold dried leaves by the handful, others small and delicate, shimmering with liquid extracts in colors from deepest emerald to pale yellow. Ael moved among them with quiet efficiency, her every motion displaying years of practiced familiarity. Kael, by contrast, seemed to fill the space with an uncontainable energy, joking about the dryness of her herbs or prodding her for gossip. Now and then, Arien caught snippets of conversation:
“Honestly, Kael, if you so much as knock over one jar—”
“You wound me, dear Ael. A traveling minstrel never disturbs the stage upon which he performs, you see.”
“Be quiet. You’re hardly a minstrel.”
Arien suppressed a grin at their back-and-forth. In a place as small as Greywood, interactions with outsiders often brought either suspicion or relief, depending on the stranger’s demeanor. But Kael was no ordinary passerby. He was part rascal, part historian, part entertainer. His tales had once captivated Arien so thoroughly that the boy used to forget his chores just to listen. Now, perhaps, Arien was old enough to glimpse how Kael’s apparent recklessness hid deeper wisdom—or deeper hurts. Still, the tension between Kael and Ael felt thick, like the heavy humidity before a summer storm. He wondered if the storm would ever truly break.
Evening finally settled in earnest, and with it came a noticeable drop in temperature. The harvest bustle slowed, and villagers drifted toward the common hall, drawn by the prospect of a hearty supper and a seat near the comforting glow of lanterns. Arien finished his chores, dusted himself off, and followed the general flow of people. He passed the blacksmith’s forge, dormant now except for the lingering smell of hot iron, and the small chapel that served as a place of worship for those who prayed to the old gods or the new. All around him, Greywood exuded a sense of well-earned calm, as though the hamlet itself sighed in relief after a day’s work.
The common hall of Greywood was a long, solidly built structure at the village’s center, its beams painstakingly hewn from local timber that darkened to a rich patina after decades of hearth smoke. The enormous double doors were thrown open, letting the warmth of lanterns spill into the cool night air. Inside, the atmosphere was welcoming: thick wooden tables lined the floor, worn smooth by countless elbows, and benches crowded close. The ceiling was high enough that a tall man could wave a banner and not disturb the rafters. On a raised hearth near the far wall, a fire crackled with an inviting hiss, its flames reflecting off large copper pots that simmered with stew. The aroma of cooked vegetables, braised meat, and fresh bread created a tapestry of scents that enveloped anyone who stepped inside.
Arien wove through clusters of neighbors exchanging the news of the day. Conversations rose in a gentle clamor, underscored by the clink of wooden mugs and the shuffle of feet on the wide-planked floor. He spotted Kael at the center of a small circle—already entertaining a group with sly jokes and stories. Kael’s staff rested against the wall, the twisted yew seeming to shimmer briefly in the firelight, as though it held a magic all its own. One of Kael’s hands was in constant motion, swiping small morsels of food from whichever plate was left unguarded. Now and then, he’d pop a bite into his mouth and flash a conspiratorial grin at the unsuspecting victim of his culinary theft.
Arien took a seat near them, setting his hands on a sturdy oak table. The thick stew placed in front of him smelled of rosemary, onion, and a hint of pepper. Steam rose from the bowl, fogging his view momentarily. He dug in with silent gratitude, feeling the warmth spread from his belly out to his limbs. All around him, people chattered, the mood like a blanket of comfort they shared against the chill outside.
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Suddenly, a sharp voice sliced through the relaxed air. “Kael!” It came from behind Arien, and he turned to see Ael, her posture rigid as she glared at the old traveler. She stood near the table’s end, illuminated by a lantern so that every facet of her displeased expression was visible. Her green eyes flicked to the half-eaten morsels of bread in Kael’s hand. “If you’re so desperate for more food, you need only look at your own plate.”
Kael popped the last of the stolen roll into his mouth with ostentatious relish. “Ah, but this was a tastier morsel by far,” he declared, tapping a crumb from his lips. “Forbidden fruit, as they say, always tastes sweeter.”
Murmurs rippled through those watching the exchange. Some smirked, some shook their heads. Ael scowled, but Arien noticed a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, almost as if she was fighting a smile. Kael’s charm could be as intrusive as it was alluring, but even Ael, iron-willed as she was, occasionally betrayed the flicker of amusement. Arien, stifling a laugh, resumed eating, though he kept a keen ear tuned to their banter.
The meal wore on, and gradually, the conversations dwindled to a lower hum. Bowls were pushed aside, crumbs scattered across the tables like forgotten confetti. The communal mood shifted: people settled more deeply into their seats, their appetites sated, their hearts warmed by drink and the presence of neighbors. Lantern flames grew steadier, as if encouraged by the hush, and the thick logs in the hearth popped and crackled with an almost languid contentment.
At length, Kael rose from his seat, retrieving his staff from where it leaned. He tapped it lightly on the wooden floor, three times, setting a curious resonance through the room. Even those who hadn’t been paying attention lifted their heads. The dais at the front of the hall—a simple, raised platform built so traveling performers or important speakers might address the whole crowd—beckoned like a stage. Kael moved toward it with a slow, practiced grace, each step falling into the hush that now settled fully upon the villagers.
“Now then,” Kael began, voice rich and resonant, “I’ve had the pleasure of your bread, your company, and perhaps a few other morsels I pilfered along the way.” A soft ripple of laughter answered him. “It’s only fitting that I repay such kindness. Let me share a story—one that reaches back further than the oldest oak in this village. A story of gods and men, of alliances forged and broken, and of a terror that nearly tore the world asunder.”
A hush enveloped the hall. Arien felt himself lean forward unconsciously, an old excitement bubbling in his chest. He remembered being a small child, gazing up at Kael with wide eyes as the old man wove tales of heroes and monsters. Even though Arien had heard a handful of Kael’s stories, this one felt heavier, as though the words themselves carried the weight of truth in them. The lanternlight seemed to dim, or perhaps it only flickered in tune with Kael’s low, measured voice.
“Four centuries ago,” Kael said, letting the words roll with grave importance, “five kingdoms stood together—though not by preference. Each had its own banners, its own customs, its own prides. Yet all were unified by necessity, for they faced a foe that threatened every scrap of land, every soul who trod upon it. Their names were Ardalis, a land of proud warriors whose rolling plains glowed like gold beneath the sun; Skarndal, the harsh northern realm of icy peaks and bitter winds; Veyndral, the glittering kingdom set along the southern coasts, known for pearl-divers and unstoppable fleets; Eldrakar, a realm of vast steppes and deserts, where the wind sang over endless dunes; and Thalindor, the Sylvan Dominion, whose ancient forests whispered secrets older than time. Five kingdoms, five great peoples, all joined to fight a single enemy: the Bloodbound Empire of Xochiral.”
A faint rustle ran through the listeners. The name Bloodbound still carried weight, generations later—merchants and mercenaries from that empire sometimes passed through, though rarely. Their reputation was ambiguous at best, sinister at worst. Kael let the reaction wash over him before speaking again.
“In those days,” he continued, “the Bloodbound were more than just a sprawling empire of steel and cunning. They served a god whose hunger knew no bounds—a being called Itzhalmu, the Rooted Tyrant. Envision if you will a towering figure, his flesh woven of living bark, veins coursing with molten sap that glowed like molten gold. Twisted roots emerged from his lower body, coiling and burrowing into the ground with each step he took, as though draining the land’s very lifeblood.”
Goosebumps prickled along Arien’s arms. He imagined the deep groan of wood shifting against wood, the stench of damp earth, and the ominous glow from within that bark-like skin. Others in the hall exchanged uneasy glances. Even if it was only a story, Kael’s words felt too real.
“Itzhalmu promised his followers power—dominion over weaker nations and immortality in a shattered world. All they had to do was spill blood in his name. Blood to feed the roots, to feed his hunger. Their armies swept across the land, bolstered by cruel sorceries, by unholy blessings. One by one, the five kingdoms realized they would each be devoured if they tried to stand alone. And so the alliance was forged.” Kael paused, letting the gravity of it settle. “But forging an alliance is one thing—winning a war is another.”
He went on to paint a picture of the battles that ensued. The villagers listened, rapt, as he described plains turned to red mud under trampling armies, storms swirling overhead as if the sky itself wept for the dead. War machines from the north met arcane bombardments from the Bloodbound sorcerers. Brave cavalry charges from the south were swallowed by monstrous, rootlike tendrils that erupted from the ground. Skirmishes in the deserts of Eldrakar left entire caravans vanished without a trace. Each detail felt more vivid than the last: the screams of men locked in battle, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the flicker of magical flames dancing against the night sky.
“Then came the day,” Kael said, his voice gaining a somber edge, “when it all converged on the plains of Eldrakar. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers stretched from horizon to horizon. Banners of bright hue snapped in a wind thick with the smell of sweat and fear. On the other side, the Bloodbound stood silent, their dark armor etched with cruel symbols, their spears glistening with eerie enchantments. And in their midst loomed Itzhalmu. A living colossus of twisted bark and seeping gold sap, crowned by leafless branches that rattled like bones in the wind. His hollow eyes glowed green, and every breath he took sent thick spores drifting across the battlefield, each spore as deadly as poison. Warriors quaked at his unearthly moan—a sound that seemed to resonate from the bowels of the earth.”
A heavy silence blanketed the hall. Even the crackling hearth seemed subdued, as though the flames burned quieter out of respect for the ancient tragedy being relived.
“But amidst the horror, there were heroes,” Kael said. “Two immortals, it is said, walked the battle lines that day—a man and a woman whose names have long been lost to time. They channeled blessings from unknown gods, weaving protective barriers that shimmered like spun moonlight. Their presence alone kept hope from collapsing altogether. Yet hope still waned. Itzhalmu was too large, too terrible. To face a god directly is to feel the weight of eons pressing down upon your mortal flesh.”
Arien felt his pulse quicken. His imagination ran wild: the ground trembling under the root-god’s steps, entire ranks of soldiers reeling back from that golden, toxic sap that glowed with an unholy life of its own.
“And so it was,” Kael said, “that one man changed the course of history: the Steward of Starboard, they called him—a hero born of ice and northern steel. While armies clashed and fear rippled like disease, he stepped away from his lines, boots squelching in the bloodied mud, and confronted Itzhalmu alone. A fool’s gesture, you’d think. But the moment his sword was raised, a radiant brilliance pierced the gloom. A light so pure that even the spores drifting on the wind dissolved, and Itzhalmu’s hollow eyes flared in what might have been shock or pain. No one knows how the Steward found that power or who granted it. Some say it was an artifact from an ancient temple, others that it was his own undaunted spirit. All we do know is that the Rooted Tyrant recoiled, truly wounded for the first time. His once-unbreakable bark cracked, sap leaking like divine blood onto the battlefield.”
Arien found himself gripping the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. He could almost hear that moment of stunned silence on the battlefield, that hush when mortals realized a god could bleed. The villagers around him seemed similarly affected; many wore expressions of silent awe.
“The Tyrant was not slain,” Kael clarified softly. “But wounded, humiliated, undone. He tore himself free from the soil, leaving trails of roots behind, and vanished into the horizon with a final, earth-shaking roar. Leaderless and terrified, the Bloodbound army scattered like leaves in a sudden gale. Thus ended the greatest threat our world had ever known—or so we believed.”
A collective exhalation swept the hall, as if the villagers themselves had emerged from that ancient battle. The echo of Kael’s words lingered. A log in the hearth shifted, sending a flurry of sparks spiraling upward.
Kael’s eyes roamed the room, gauging his audience. They were enraptured, but a faint sadness tugged at his features. “I say ‘so we believed,’” he continued, “because the gods are not so easily dismissed. Itzhalmu’s physical form was carried away, sealed in wards, exiled from mortal lands. But his hunger never faded; it merely slumbered. The Bloodbound Empire shrank, retreated to the edges of civilization, but its zealots clung to their twisted faith. They whispered prayers in shadowy corners, seeking to reawaken their master. And so rumors spread across the continents: what hidden power had the Steward of Starboard discovered? Did it lie in an artifact that could be stolen or replicated? Or was it something intangible, like the flicker of indomitable courage that lies buried in every mortal heart?”
Kael paced the dais, his staff tapping against the floor, each hollow thud almost like a heartbeat. “Some said the Steward was no mortal at all, but a stray shard of divinity, cast into human form for that pivotal moment. Others insisted the real heroes were those who marched bravely into battle, no illusions of immortality to shield them. The truth is scattered across dusty scrolls and half-remembered songs. Perhaps the gods, seeing what mortals were capable of, decided to recede. Or perhaps their power was drained in that final conflict, making them shy or unable to meddle again in mortal affairs.”
A ripple of unease moved through the audience. They had grown up with prayers to older deities, lighting candles at shrines for good harvests, safe births, and mild winters. The idea that these divine forces might have turned their backs—or been wounded so deeply that they dared not interfere—sent a collective shiver through them.
“In any case, the plains of Eldrakar became a scar upon our world,” Kael said, settling his staff again. “The very ground was tainted by the battle’s blood and sorcery. Heroes carried on, their souls etched with nightmares no amount of peacetime could erase. And we remain in a fragile peace, never quite sure when the next threat, mortal or divine, might rear its head.”
He paused, allowing silence to claim the hall like a final punctuation. Even the popping of the fire seemed subdued, as though the crackling wood listened attentively. Eventually, Kael’s face softened into a knowing smile—one that acknowledged both sorrow and hope. “But that,” he said, voice gentle yet firm, “is a story for another night. For now, my friends, let us raise our cups to those who stood upon the bloodied fields of Eldrakar and defied a force that believed itself invincible. May we honor their courage and remember that gods do not rule unchecked. Mortals have a say as well—and sometimes, it is our voices that ring loudest in the end.”
Cheers erupted, a release of tension and awe. Mugs of cider clinked together, frothy and sweet, the foam splashing onto calloused hands. People who moments before had been on the edge of their seats now shared in the camaraderie of being safe, warm, and alive. In that moment, Kael’s tale felt less like a distant legend and more like a reminder of the strength they each possessed.
Arien wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, only now realizing how intense the story had made him feel. His heart pounded as if he’d run a mile. At the far side of the room, Ael watched with an expression Arien couldn’t quite decipher—something between resignation and faint admiration. Though she might scoff at Kael’s dramatics, she could not deny the power in his storytelling.
Gradually, conversations resumed. People drifted from the enthralling hush of the dais back into more mundane talk: the next day’s chores, the repairs needed on a fence, the rumor that the blacksmith’s daughter had caught the eye of a traveling minstrel. Kael descended from the dais, staff tucked in the crook of his arm, grin firmly back in place. Several villagers stopped him to compliment the story or press him for more details. Kael doled out scraps of conversation and humor, but Arien noticed the old man’s gaze flit occasionally toward the door, as though part of him wished to slip out into the cool night.
Arien himself lingered at the table, the remains of his stew now cold. Snippets of Kael’s story kept looping in his mind: the horror of Itzhalmu, the question of how a mortal might confront a god. He found his gaze sliding toward the flickering lanterns, half expecting to see some shadow move—some echo of that ancient god’s shape. Of course, all remained mundane. Yet the unsettled feeling deep in his chest refused to vanish.
At length, Kael made his way over. He dropped onto the bench beside Arien, leaning the staff against the table. “You look like a lad lost in thought,” he observed, his voice much softer than before.
Arien ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just… That story felt different. Darker than the others you’ve told me.”
Kael’s eyes reflected the lanternlight. “Because it is. We live in a world shaped by old battles, Arien. Even if those battles ended centuries ago, their echoes remain.”
Arien nodded thoughtfully, remembering the fleeting sadness that had crossed Kael’s features when he first arrived in Greywood. Perhaps it was knowledge of these old terrors that haunted him. Or perhaps there was more—stories yet untold.
Across the hall, Ael hovered near the hearth, arms folded as she listened to a neighbor prattle about herbal remedies. Now and then, her gaze flicked to Kael. Whenever it landed on him, she narrowed her eyes, the faint lines in her forehead deepening. Something unspoken tied them together. Arien wondered if it was a shared memory of something painful, or if their paths had once crossed in a way he could never have guessed.
Before he could question Kael further, a group of children rushed over, clamoring for the next tale. They hung off Kael’s every word, tugging at his sleeves and demanding heroic sagas or comedic yarns about trickster animals. Kael laughed and gave Arien a brief shrug. “A teller’s work is never done,” he said with a wry grin, then turned his full attention to the children, adopting a playful tone that had them giggling within moments.
Arien quietly excused himself, stepping outside to draw a lungful of the cool, night air. The stars shimmered overhead, each one a tiny beacon against the vast expanse of darkness. The sturdy timbers of the common hall loomed behind him, the noise of chatter and laughter spilling through the open door. From a distance, the wind carried the faint calls of nocturnal birds. And somewhere, beneath the tapestry of the night, he wondered if there truly were echoes of gods still stirring in the world. If ancient powers could be reawakened by the misguided fervor of a few.
He sighed, letting the tension seep from his shoulders. At least here, in this moment, Greywood was safe and stable. The harvest had been good, the barns were full, and no monstrous silhouettes lurked on the horizon. Returning inside, he reminded himself that daybreak would bring its own concerns—feeding livestock, stacking produce, and assisting Aunt Ael with her apothecary errands. Life moved on.
