As the sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the distant Quartz Mountains, long shadows stretched across the fertile plains of Ardalis. Rays of dying light gilded the tall grasses with a gentle glow, revealing the shifting palette of colors that heralded twilight. In the far distance, the mountains seemed forged of amethyst and rose quartz, their craggy summits catching the final embers of daylight. These peaks, whispered by travelers to be older than mortal memory, had witnessed centuries of change across Ardalis. They stood as silent watchers over the land, a boundary between known and unknown, their slopes said to hide strange creatures that slunk through hidden caves long forgotten by humankind.
It was in the rural heart of this kingdom, amid rolling hills and meandering streams, that Greywood took root—a hamlet sustained by fertile soil and enduring traditions. The surrounding fields were lush with wheat, barley, and rows of vegetables waiting for the harvest. Ancient oaks and elms dotted the roadsides, their branches swaying in a soft evening breeze. The sound of creaking boughs merged with the gentle coo of doves, and every breath of wind carried the green scent of fresh leaves and damp earth.
Within this pastoral hush rose a single structure that had always felt special to Arien: a modest apothecary shop, made of timber and clay, leaning companionably against the trunk of a towering willow. The shop belonged to Ael, an herbalist and rune-carver whose soft-spoken wisdom was revered in the hamlet. Arien’s earliest memories blossomed in the dim recesses of that apothecary, a small sanctuary of knowledge and craft tucked near the heart of Greywood. In those days, time seemed fluid—moments stretched or contracted as though governed by its own arcane patterns, measured not by the tolling of distant bells but by the slow drying of herbs and the careful mixing of powders. Within these wooden walls, the scents of lavender, thyme, and lemon balm mingled with the tang of powdered minerals, coalescing into a heady perfume that marked Arien’s childhood as indelibly as ink on parchment.
The apothecary’s exterior was humble: a single story of timber and sun-baked clay, with a roof of overlapping shingles. A small window—its uneven glass panes glinting in the golden twilight—glowed with the warm flicker of lamplight from within. From the outside, one might glimpse the silhouettes of jars upon shelves, each containing powdered roots, dried flowers, or shimmering dust gleaned from precious minerals. Some of these substances came from local fields, gathered at dawn when dew still kissed the petals; others arrived from distant lands, brought by traders who wove their way across Ardalis to swap wares in Greywood’s humble marketplace.
Inside, the snug shop smelled of old wood, carefully-preserved botanicals, and something faintly metallic—like the ghost of hammered steel. On high shelves, row upon row of vials vied for space. Some were shaped from colored glass that caught and refracted every stray beam of light. Others were plain earthen vessels sealed with cork stoppers, each marked with careful runic symbols that glowed faintly. The deeper one ventured into the store, the more easily one noticed the hush that pervaded it, as though the bustle of the outside world dared not intrude upon Ael’s quiet dominion. Tiny wooden boxes engraved with runic sigils—ranging from protective wards to subtle illusions—offered whispered hints of her skill. Within those boxes lay secrets gleaned from old tomes, from mentors in distant cities, and from the sage-herbalists of Vinestre, a place renowned for merging herbal healing with runic enchantments. Ael’s mastery of that ancient knowledge was woven through every corner of the shop, lending the space an air of gentle reverence.
Ael herself moved through the shop with confidence and grace. Her silver-streaked hair shone like spun moonlight in the warm lantern glow. She wore simple robes of muted green, embroidered at the collar with delicate vines that seemed to writhe when one glanced at them sideways—an optical trick or perhaps a slight enchantment she had sewn into the thread. She used to say that the best wards were those so understated that people barely noticed them, but that subtlety was as crucial in magic as in medicine. Long, dexterous fingers sifted through bundles of herbs, weighed powdered minerals on a small set of brass scales, and rearranged vials in meticulous order. Her clear, measured gaze missed nothing. Even the rowdiest of villagers—men who returned from the fields crusted in sweat and dust—lowered their voices in her presence, struck by the quiet authority that emanated from her. The runic amulets she wore shimmered in gentle hues—soft blues, greens, and sometimes silver—testimony to her skill. The faint pulse of that glow was a steady reassurance to those who sought her remedies.
Arien, no older than four summers at the time of his most vivid early recollections, was small for his age, with bright eyes that drank in every detail. Often, he perched on a high stool at one of the low counters, his legs swinging aimlessly in the air. The stool wobbled whenever he shifted his weight too abruptly, but Ael never scolded him for fidgeting—she seemed to understand his restless curiosity. Today was no different: from the vantage of his stool, Arien could see the amber glow of a hanging lantern reflect off the jars that lined the shelves. He watched Ael’s every move, enthralled by the way she measured each ingredient with unwavering precision.
He longed to reach out and touch everything he saw: the vials etched with golden filigree, the smooth rune stones that glowed under her fingertips. So many mysteries beckoned from every dusty corner. When, in his excitement, he craned forward for a particularly ornate bottle, Ael’s calm but firm voice caught him: “Arien, sweetheart,” she said, arching an elegant eyebrow, “if you’re so eager to learn, perhaps you might help me properly instead of testing my patience.” With that, she slipped a mortar and pestle in front of him. Next to it was a handful of dried crimson berries waiting to be ground into powder. “Try not to crush your thumb again,” she added gently, though the twinkle in her eyes hinted at amusement rather than reproach.
Arien grinned, a mischievous gap-toothed smile. “What if I use magic to grind them faster?” he asked, still brimming with boyish enthusiasm. He remembered the day before, watching Ael channel a hint of runic energy to stir a cauldron without using her hands. The swirl of glowing symbols above the brew had been mesmerizing, and he had dreamed about it all night.
Ael’s expression softened. She leaned in closer, so that Arien caught the subtle perfume of thyme clinging to her sleeve. “Magic is a craft, not a shortcut,” she said, a note of caution in her voice. “To shape it, you must respect it. It’s a pact between you and the powers of the world. If you try to force it without proper care, it can slip from your grasp or worse—twist into something unintended.”
Arien frowned, nodding. Despite his youth, he sensed the seriousness in her words. Determined to prove himself, he took the pestle and began carefully grinding the berries. The rasp of stone against dried fruit filled the hushed room, punctuated by the muffled crackle of the shop’s lantern flame. With each turn of his wrist, a crimson powder slowly formed, its color vivid and alive under the lamplight.
When the last glimmer of sunlight finally surrendered to night, Ael snuffed out the front lantern and guided Arien to the village’s community hall. Though it was only a short walk along a cobbled path illuminated by the moon and a handful of torches, the evening was alive with sounds and scents. Crickets chirped in the tall grass, weaving a symphony of night. The gentle hush of a breeze through the nearby orchard brought the sweet smell of ripening fruit. The summer air was still heavy with warmth, carrying with it the promise of a bountiful harvest. Greywood, settled as it was between a winding stream and gentle slopes, seemed to bask in this late-hour serenity.
The community hall itself stood as a testament to communal resilience. Its walls were built of dark beams braced by plaster, each wooden plank bearing the grooves of age. Inside, the flicker of oil lamps revealed long tables laden with simple but nourishing fare: roasted tubers still steaming in clay dishes, loaves of bread drizzled with honey, and stew that smelled of thyme and onions. The room thrummed with cheerful noise—clinks of spoons against pottery, laughter of farmers fresh from the fields, and the scuffle of boots on well-worn floorboards. Tapestries hung along the walls, portraying heroic figures from times long past: women in flowing robes taming serpents with runic sigils, griffon riders in swirling capes, and warriors driving back monstrous silhouettes in some ancient battle.
Darrin, the local squire tasked with overseeing the village’s day-to-day defenses and serving as liaison with the distant lord of these lands, stood at the head of the main table. Broad-shouldered and earnest, his brown hair curled at the nape of his neck, still damp from washing away the day’s sweat. He raised his arms, gathering the attention of the assembled villagers for the evening’s blessing. His baritone voice was both comforting and solemn as he invoked the gods revered in Ardalis—deities of harvest, hearth, river, and sky. His words rose and fell like a gentle tide, carrying with them the unspoken gratitude and hopes of the hamlet’s people: good weather, healthy livestock, and the continued blessings of a peaceful existence. Beyond the open doors, the song of cicadas joined his prayer, their hum vibrating in the velvety night air. Even the distant babble of the stream seemed to hush, as if the land itself paused to listen.
Ael moved gracefully amidst the gathered crowd, offering soft-spoken greetings. She sampled a spoonful of the roasted carrots, gave a mild comment to the cook—an older woman named Grena with arms like oak limbs—then pinched a bit of bread. A flicker of her wrist as she swallowed suggested she was gauging the effect of certain seasonings on the communal meal, the way a smith checks the temper of steel. Though she carried no official title among the villagers, her presence commanded a quiet respect. She rarely raised her voice, but everyone knew that behind her eyes lay a well of knowledge that stretched beyond the mortar and pestle, beyond the boundaries of Greywood itself.
Arien followed her through the throng, nearly lost in a sea of grown-ups. Though only four years old, he remembered these moments vividly: the murmured conversations, the pockets of laughter, the flicker of lamp flames dancing across the tables, and the sense of shared purpose that filled the hall. Farmers spoke of yield projections and boasted of near-record harvests, tinkers told tall tales of roads leading to far-flung lands, while weavers displayed small swatches of newly dyed fabrics for bartering. Watching them felt like stepping into a living tapestry, each thread a distinct story that intertwined with the others.
When the meal ended and the diners trickled out into the balmy darkness, Arien and Ael returned to their lantern-lit haven. In the apothecary, Ael resumed her meticulous craft. She bent over a rune-inscribed amulet fashioned from polished birchwood, whispering incantations that coaxed soft blue light to emerge from the etched symbols. The runes flickered, like miniature constellations carved into the surface. Arien was drowsy from dinner, yet he remained enthralled by the glimmer. Ael murmured about how runes were shaped from old magic that coursed through the land’s leylines—thin strands of power that lay beneath field and forest, mountain and stream.
This knowledge had been hammered into the implements of Greywood by Tharvik, the village’s rune-smith. Tharvik’s shop, near the heart of the village, was easy to find by day: the ringing of his hammer against the anvil punctuated the daily rhythms of Greywood. The pungent smell of molten metal and forge-fire floated around his workspace, twisting with the subtle, ethereal fragrances of the runic shards he embedded in his creations. It was said that Tharvik’s grandmother had once studied with dwarven blacksmiths in the far-off city of Deepmaw, forging a connection between earthen metals and arcane energies, a bond that Tharvik continued in his forging tradition. Although few truly understood the intricacies of runic magic, all recognized that Tharvik’s blades never dulled prematurely, his nails never rusted, and his plowshares cut cleaner through even the toughest soil.
--
Sleep tugged at Arien’s consciousness. He dozed off in the apothecary’s corner, bundled in thick wool blankets and lulled by the comforting chirp of night insects. Dreams claimed him gently: he saw endless fields of golden wheat rippling beneath a shining sun, the stalks dancing in a breeze as though beckoning him onward. Strangely luminescent runes drifted across the sky in swirling patterns, sparkling like fireflies at twilight. He stirred once or twice, only partially aware of Ael’s soft chanting as she worked into the night, her voice weaving gentle threads of magic into the quiet atmosphere. In those moments, the apothecary’s lamplight flickered across the shelves, and the runic symbols on Ael’s amulets glowed with a heartbeat pulse.
In her solitude, Ael watched Arien with a protective gaze. Though she rarely spoke of it, she had long suspected that a peculiar magic clung to the boy, responding to him as though he were a lodestone attracting stray sparks of arcana. In Greywood—where life was simple and daily concerns revolved around livestock, harvests, and communal gatherings—the depth of his potential might remain hidden. Yet she felt the currents of destiny swirling around him, like an undertow in a placid river. The rest of the village saw him as a curious child with a knack for mischief; only Ael noticed how the runes sometimes flickered when he came too close, or how certain potions glowed a shade more vibrant in his presence.
Outside, all was still. The cicadas had given way to the gentle trill of crickets. The slender moon rose higher, lending its pale silver wash to the slumbering cottages and farmland. It was in this hush that Greywood recharged, its people resting so they could rise before dawn to tend fields or livestock. Yet the hush held secrets only the night understood. In the starlight’s embrace, a silent hush pressed against the windows of the apothecary as if time itself paused to peer in.
When morning arrived, Greywood awoke to the sweet tang of dew on the grass and the cheery calls of the village roosters. In daylight, Arien roamed the hamlet with three friends close to his heart: Bran, Hyrik, and Lila. Bran, the miller’s son, shared Arien’s boldness, though his courage sometimes skirted the edge of recklessness. Hyrik could mimic the call of any bird with uncanny precision, whistling in a lilting, layered trill that made crows cock their heads in confusion. Lila, whose father kept beehives along the orchard’s edge, was the swiftest runner of the bunch; her long braids streaming behind her, she darted through alleyways and meadows as though the wind itself propelled her. Together, the four children explored every secret corner of Greywood. They raced around the stone well in the center of the village, climbed haystacks behind the barns, and forded shallow parts of the stream in pursuit of adventurous illusions conjured by childish imaginations.
Tharvik, when not at his forge, watched over them with a quietly amused demeanor. He had no children of his own, so perhaps he saw in their games a reminder of simpler times. If a child scraped a knee or bruised a shoulder, the rune-smith would pause his work to rummage in his shop for a small cloth or salve, or occasionally use a minor ward to soothe the pain. On more than one occasion, he caught Arien staring in wonder at the sparks that flew from the red-hot iron. Sometimes Arien swore he saw little motes of dancing light swirling about Tharvik’s workshop, flickering from the runic symbols etched into the blacksmith’s anvil. Ael called them “rune-spirits,” intangible embers of ancient magic that occasionally manifested under the intense energies of forging. They were rarely seen by those without a natural affinity for the arcane, which only added to Arien’s sense of wonder—and to Ael’s guarded concern.
--
One particularly sweltering summer day found the four friends near the mill’s pond. The sky was a broad expanse of cloudless blue, the sun a bright orb that baked the fields until they shimmered with waves of heat. A sweet breeze rustled the wildflowers at the water’s edge, carrying the scent of clover and hay. Bright dragonflies buzzed around the shallows, their iridescent wings flashing gold and green. Nearby, the wooden blades of the mill turned with steady creaks, as water from the narrow canal kept them in constant motion.
Bran, never one to pass up the chance for fun, had suggested they become “River Pirates,” though a more accurate description might have been “Pond Adventurers.” He had cobbled together a makeshift raft from old planks bound by rope. It sank a little in the middle, letting water slosh around their ankles, but the children couldn’t contain their glee. Each held a stick as though it were a swashbuckling sword. They found a scrap of cloth—an old apron from the bakery—to serve as their pirate flag, tied to a sturdy branch.
“Stand fast, ye cowards!” Bran cried dramatically, brandishing his stick like a cutlass at some invisible foe. His voice echoed across the still surface of the pond, drawing a few startled frogs to plop into the water. Lila, unimpressed with the pomp, responded by flicking a palmful of cool water into Bran’s face, laughing when he sputtered. Hyrik chimed in with mock cries for surrender, waving his own stick threateningly.
Arien, enthralled by the sheer silliness of it all, waved the makeshift flag in wide arcs. He could almost feel a thrill of magic in the air—sunlight dancing off the water, runic energy pulsating in the deeper pockets of his imagination. Their boat rocked precariously each time one of them shifted position, and each wave they created sent little ripples dancing outward. The children’s laughter carried across the pond, blending with the distant hum of the mill’s wheel. Summer in Greywood seldom felt more alive than at such a moment.
But as if to remind them that joy and danger often share a fragile boundary, a single misstep changed the tenor of the day. Hyrik lunged too forcefully in a mock duel, and Arien—startled—lost his footing. He tumbled backward off the raft, arms flailing, and plunged into the warm green water. Initially, there was only the shock of submersion and the taste of murky pond water. He resurfaced, sputtering, expecting giggles and extended hands to haul him back. And for an instant, that was exactly what greeted him: the other children laughed, though a bit nervously, and attempted to paddle closer on the shaky raft.
However, fate seemed to intervene cruelly. In trying to rebalance, Hyrik and Bran shifted their weight in the opposite direction, causing the raft to tilt dangerously. Arien thrashed, his feet seeking the muddy bottom, only to discover that it sloped more sharply than he remembered. The soft pond-bed sucked at his toes. His small body slipped further, and panic seized him. The churn of water closed around his ears, muffling the world above. His lungs strained as he tried to scream.
In that underwater haze, the sunlight fractured into dancing, liquid shards. For a heartbeat, Arien thought he saw something near the water’s edge—a figure, tall and impossibly thin, wearing what looked like a mantle of living shadows. The air around it was distorted, like heat ripples rising off hot stone. Though the figure had no distinct face that he could discern, Arien felt its gaze fix on him, remote and unfeeling, as though it belonged to no living thing. A primal jolt of terror surged through him, more alarming than his immediate struggle for breath.
He opened his mouth to yell and instead swallowed a mouthful of gritty water. His arms flailed, chest tightening, vision swimming. Then, in a dizzy blur, strong hands seized him by the back of his shirt and dragged him up. The rush of cool air against his face felt like a revelation. Coughing violently, Arien realized he was back on the bank, the grass prickling his arms.
Tharvik knelt over him, worry etched into every line of the smith’s broad face. Water dripped from Arien’s hair and clothes, forming dark patches on the grass. The other children stood nearby, trembling in equal parts shock and guilt. The blacksmith’s hands pressed lightly against Arien’s chest, coaxing a final sputter of water from his lungs. For all his muscular build, Tharvik’s voice shook just slightly as he commanded Arien to breathe, breathe, that’s it, lad, breathe. Once he was certain the boy’s breathing returned to normal, Tharvik looked to the others. Shame flushes coloring their cheeks, Bran, Hyrik, and Lila turned away from Arien’s coughing form.
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“Off with you,” Tharvik barked, not unkindly. “Let the boy catch his breath. Go back to the village and tell the others what happened.” Chastened, the children fled, leaving footprints in the damp grass.
For a few moments, Arien just lay there, the sun beating down on his cheeks, the distant hum of insects returning to the world of his senses. Beyond the drone of dragonflies, he heard his own heartbeat, thudding in his ears. He closed his eyes to block out the memory of that eerie figure in the water, but it clung like a stubborn burr in his mind. Though part of him wanted to believe it was only a hallucination—an illusion conjured by panic—another part whispered that it was more real than he cared to admit.
“Can you stand?” Tharvik asked softly, offering a sturdy arm. Arien nodded, wobbly-kneed, and let himself be lifted.
The walk back to the village was a blur. While Tharvik carried him with care, Arien noticed the hush in the air. Even the birds seemed subdued, their calls timid. Villagers paused in their chores to watch the small procession, relief evident on their faces to see Arien still breathing, albeit soaked and dazed. The old shrines to the harvest gods stood as they always did, humble stone markers draped with fresh flowers and straw dolls. Even if the gods had intervened, no sign of it showed now. The rustle of wind in the orchard carried on, indifferent to mortal troubles.
At last, they reached the apothecary. Ael was there within moments, having stepped outside at the sound of Tharvik’s hurried footsteps. A single, encompassing look at Arien told her what she needed to know. She ushered both Arien and Tharvik inside, where the lingering warmth of the day clung to the herbal-laced air.
“Set him down by the fire, quickly,” Ael instructed, moving with purpose toward the back of the shop. Arien coughed, still tasting the murk of pond water. He settled onto a small stool near the hearth, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Ael returned with a vial of pale green liquid that pulsed with a subtle, runic glow. Uncorking it carefully, she pressed it to Arien’s lips.
“Drink,” she murmured. The potion tasted bitter, but almost immediately, warmth spread through Arien’s lungs. His tight chest loosened, and the chill that had gripped his limbs subsided. Next, Ael produced a small healing stone—translucent quartz etched with swirling runes that glowed faintly. She laid it against Arien’s forehead, and he felt a gentle pulse radiate through his body, relaxing his tensed muscles.
Tharvik stood by, removing his thick apron and setting it aside. Though he was never one for lengthy speeches, his concern radiated in the way his calloused hands fidgeted at his belt. “He’ll be fine,” Ael assured him. “I’ll keep him here for the night.” Tharvik nodded, relief sagging his shoulders. He murmured a soft thanks and a promise to warn the other children against such reckless play, then departed, the door creaking closed behind him.
Ael turned back to Arien, a hint of panic still flickering in her green eyes. “That was careless, Arien,” she scolded, though her voice quivered. “You could have drowned.” She dabbed gently at his damp hair with a towel. “This village has little room for such foolishness,” she continued more quietly. “There’s no need to add heartache to these good people’s lives.” Yet in her gaze, Arien saw the reflection of fear. She was not angry merely at his carelessness—something deeper gnawed at her.
“I’m sorry,” Arien managed, his voice raw as he coughed again. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat.
“That’s enough talking for now,” Ael said gently. “Rest. Let the potion and the healing stone do their work.” She passed a steaming mug of tea into his hands—a simple brew of chamomile and mint, topped with a swirl of honey. He sipped slowly, his nerves calming.
Night draped Greywood in a soft cloak soon thereafter. The apothecary’s front window was shuttered, and a single lantern burned on the main counter, shedding gentle light across the wooden walls. Herbs, hung from wooden beams overhead, rustled faintly whenever a draft stirred the air. The hush felt nurturing—an embrace of warmth and safety.
Sometime later, as Arien lay propped on a cushioned cot, he found his mind drifting back to the pond. The memory of dark water and that silent, looming figure blurred at the edges, yet it remained too vivid to be a mere dream. Gathering his courage, he told Ael about what he had seen: a tall presence, cloaked in intangible gloom at the pond’s edge, watching him with utter indifference. He described how it felt ancient, as if it came from a place beyond human comprehension.
Throughout his halting explanation, Ael’s face grew taut, concern pinching her features. She listened, neither dismissing him nor filling the silence with easy assurances. When he finished, she rose to fetch a glowing rune stone carved with careful lines that Arien recognized as wards of protection. She set it near his cot, letting its pale luminescence spill over him in gentle waves.
“Perhaps it was a trick of the light,” she began, voice calm, though Arien could detect an undercurrent of worry. “When you’re frightened, your eyes can mislead you. Water can twist shapes into something they’re not.” She paused, noticing that he was trembling slightly. Leaning in, she placed a reassuring hand on his cheek. “We’ll talk more in the morning. For now, sleep, sweetheart. You’re safe within these walls.”
Arien wanted to argue, to insist he hadn’t been imagining things, but exhaustion weighed down his eyelids. The combined effect of the near-drowning, the tension in his limbs, and the balmy warmth of the shop lulled him toward slumber. Ael gently brushed his hair back and placed a quick kiss on his forehead. Her voice dropped to a whisper, “May the runes protect you, Arien.”
He drifted off, half-aware of the herbal scents swirling around him—the calming notes of lavender, the sharper tang of rosemary. Distantly, he heard the creak of the shop’s front door as Ael likely stepped out, perhaps to speak with Tharvik or to gather fresh night-blooming herbs from her small garden. In the privacy of his mind, Arien confronted the haunting memory of that figure anew, the sense of an old, emotionless gaze. A ripple of apprehension shuddered through him. Was he truly safe here?
Sometime after midnight, he stirred. A breeze slithered through the cracks in the apothecary’s wooden walls, making the hanging bundles of herbs sway. Their shadows danced across the floor like silent watchers, a faint rustle echoing in the hush. For a moment, Arien almost thought he saw the silhouette from the pond creeping in the corner. He reached for the rune stone at his bedside. Its mild glow steadied his heart, reestablishing the warmth in his chest.
Unable to banish the unease entirely, he pressed the stone close against his cheek and settled back under his blankets. Eventually, his breathing slowed, and dream-images floated past: swirling runes, swirling water, and a single, silent shape looming under a moonless sky. Yet instead of terror, a calm curiosity filled him, as though the runes in his dreams were trying to tell him something important.
Morning light gradually filtered through the narrow window, casting timid rays upon the wooden floor. Somewhere outside, a cock crowed. Slowly, Arien blinked awake, noticing the protective ward still softly lit on the small stand beside him. A comforting, herbal scent drifted from a nearby pot of brew. Ael must have awakened an hour earlier, as usual, to begin her day’s tasks—grinding herbs, sorting deliveries, quietly chanting runic blessings to fortify the shop.
A soft knock on the front door was followed by the sound of hushed conversation. Ael returned a few moments later, her brow furrowed. Seeing Arien awake, she set aside the parcel she carried—likely the day’s supply of freshly cut sprigs—and approached him. “Good morning,” she said softly, though her eyes still held the remnants of worry.
“Morning,” Arien mumbled, sitting up. He felt stiff, as if a heavy weight had lain on him through the night. Gingerly, he set the protective stone aside. His mind flitted back to the previous day: the panic, the water, and that shape. Even the memory quickened his pulse.
Ael crouched beside him, searching his face. “How do you feel?” she asked. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling them itch, but otherwise, he was unharmed. She seemed relieved when he managed a small smile. Though they did not speak further about the pond or the shadowy figure just yet, Arien sensed that the subject remained in the air, unspoken but potent.
--
For the moment, life in Greywood continued as it always had—peaceful, predictable, and rich with small comforts. The villagers sowed their seeds and tended their animals, mothers hung laundry to dry in the early breeze, and children ran errands between the mills and shops. The clang of Tharvik’s hammer rang out, a familiar metronome in the tapestry of daily sounds. Grena the cook fussed about the size of the season’s root vegetables and boasted about her new recipe for turnip stew. Bran, Hyrik, and Lila, chastised by the narrow escape at the pond, tiptoed around Arien for a few days, offering him half-apologetic smiles whenever he passed. He did his best to return a grin, wanting to restore the fragile normalcy of their friendship, though the memory of nearly drowning lingered in his thoughts.
However, the figure by the water’s edge seemed etched into his mind like a rune carved into stone, beyond easy erasure. The days that followed found Arien unusually subdued, his laughter quieter, his willingness to wander beyond Greywood’s immediate borders diminished. He often sought the safety of Ael’s shop or lingered by Tharvik’s forge, content to watch the comforting routine of the blacksmith’s craft. If either adult noticed his unusual mood, they said little, offering him gentle smiles or small tasks to keep him occupied.
Occasionally, in the hush of midday when the village’s older children worked or napped, Arien slipped away to the meadow behind the apothecary. The grass there was sun-warmed, studded with daisies and clover. Blue butterflies flitted around, occasionally settling on his arm or his bare toes. In these quiet pockets of time, he would lie back and watch the clouds drift across the sky, half expecting to see runes scrawled in the vapor. He would reach out a small hand, remembering how Ael once explained that magic flowed like invisible threads through the world, waiting for skilled hands and open hearts to guide it. He pondered if the presence he saw was also drawn by that same flow. And if so, why had it revealed itself in such a menacing manner?
Late one evening, about a week after his rescue, Arien gathered enough courage to raise the subject with Ael again. He found her in her usual spot—bent over a workbench, carefully measuring powdered herbs. Soft lamplight cast her shadow on the wall, making it sway gently with her movements. He edged closer, voice timid. “Ael… do you think there could be… beings out there, watchers… older than the gods we pray to?”
Her hands paused in their task. The mortar and pestle grew silent. She set them down gently, turned, and studied him with searching eyes. “Why do you ask, Arien?”
He looked at his feet, wondering if he would sound foolish. “The… person by the pond,” he whispered. “They felt… old. Not like you, not even like the old men in the village. They felt like something that doesn’t belong here.”
Ael sighed, a crease forming on her brow. The lamplight caught the silver in her hair, making it shine like frost. “There are spirits in this world,” she answered slowly, as though choosing her words with care. “And there are old powers, old creatures that roam places we barely understand. Some bear no kindness toward mortal folk. But Greywood is a humble village; it rarely draws the attention of such forces. Let us hope it was nothing more than a trick of your frightened mind.”
She paused, letting her words settle. “But if something truly stared back at you, if you felt that presence, then we must remain cautious. Perhaps we can craft a protective talisman for you. Just in case.”
That small acknowledgment lent Arien a sliver of comfort. At least she did not dismiss him outright. Over the following days, Ael devoted part of her time to forging runes in a thin strip of copper. She carefully etched symmetrical shapes reminiscent of swirling water, anchoring them with angular characters representing grounded earth. The copper piece was then looped around a slender leather cord to be worn around Arien’s neck. When she showed it to him, her voice carried both hope and caution. “This should help ward off ill influences,” she said. “At the very least, you’ll feel a bit safer. Remember, though, that true safety also comes from being mindful and careful.”
Arien nodded, sliding the talisman over his head. It felt cool against his skin. He sensed a soft thrumming whenever he touched it, akin to the steady pulse of distant waves upon a shore. Whether it was genuine magic or simply reassurance didn’t matter—he felt more at ease.
--
Life settled into a semblance of normalcy again. The harvest season approached, bringing a swirl of anticipation. Farmers watched their fields with anxious pride, waiting for the exact moment to begin cutting the heavy heads of grain. The orchard’s trees bore plump apples, and Lila’s father donned protective gear to gather honey from the fat-bellied hives. In the village square, discussions about upcoming festivities filled the air. There was talk of organizing a small harvest celebration: games for the children, storytelling by the elders, a communal feast to honor the gods for the year’s bounty.
At times, Arien would still catch glimpses of something peculiar—a fleeting shadow by the wood line at dusk, a swirl of darkness in his peripheral vision near the stream. But whenever he turned to look directly, there would be nothing but rustling leaves or the reflection of a cloud drifting overhead. Whether his imagination had been permanently seeded by that day at the pond or there was indeed something skulking in the edges of Greywood, he could not say. He confided in Ael each time, and though her face would tighten with worry, she maintained a tranquil facade, offering him extra wards or reminding him to stay within the village boundaries unless accompanied by an adult.
Some nights, he woke from dreams that left his heart pounding—a sense of an infinite darkness, a presence that lurked just beyond sight. In these dreams, the runic wards glowed too bright or too dim, and he found himself unable to interpret them. Other times, runes lit the darkness like a thousand tiny stars, forming patterns he could not decipher. He never glimpsed the figure clearly in these dreams, only the certainty that it was near. Yet each morning, the sun’s light banished the fear, and the everyday clamor of Greywood—blacksmith’s hammer, farmers’ conversations, cackling chickens—drew him back to a simpler reality.
Even so, that underlying tension did not fully vanish. It was a bruise hidden beneath daily routines, a creeping specter that occasionally tugged at his consciousness. Everyone around him, from Bran’s loud laughter to Lila’s relentless teasing, seemed vibrant, delightfully ordinary—untouched by the brush of the uncanny. He tried not to let on just how deeply the memories rattled him, preferring to maintain the friendships he cherished. And indeed, for several weeks, he managed to lose himself in the childlike joys of Greywood: racing Lila across the orchard, watching Hyrik coax sparrows to perch on his finger, and letting Bran spin outlandish tales about the time his father’s millstone cracked and nearly flooded half the town.
Still, in quiet moments, Arien caught himself staring at the copper runic pendant around his neck, tracing the grooves with a fingertip, pondering the energy it radiated. He sometimes attempted small feats of magic—like trying to heat a cup of water with a whispered incantation or coax an ember to flare in the hearth. Most attempts fizzled before they began, but once or twice, he felt a ripple stir the air, as if the runes etched into his mind—nurtured by Ael’s teachings—were responding. Yet something about the memory of that shadowy figure stayed his hand, reminding him that magic was not just a game.
Ael observed these subtle signs without lecturing him overmuch. Occasionally, she would guide him, placing her hands lightly over his, showing him the stable posture or mindful breath that allowed energy to flow more naturally. “Intent matters,” she would say. “You can’t grip magic with fear; it slips away or lashes back. Guide it gently, like water in a channel.”
At dusk, when they closed the apothecary, she would reinforce protective runes on the windows and doors, not just for Arien’s sake but to shield the entire shop’s precious stocks from petty thieves or wandering beasts. She never mentioned the figure from the pond again, yet Arien noticed she spent more time perfecting wards than usual. Sometimes, after he had supposedly gone to bed, he would wake to the sound of her chanting softly, the faint shimmer of light from beneath the door betraying her nighttime work.
Despite the creeping disquiet, the rhythms of the village marched toward the harvest. Men with scythes fanned out across the fields, chanting old work songs to keep their pace. Women gathered baskets of apples from the orchard, while children trailed behind, snatching windfalls and sneaking bites of the sweet fruit. The honey from Lila’s father’s hives was thick and golden, capturing the essence of the season in each jar. In the midst of this activity, Arien found small joys: nibbling on a fresh honeycomb, helping Grena slice vegetables for a stew, or picking wildflowers to tuck behind Lila’s ear. Each moment was a balm on his lingering fears.
--
Then, as the final sheaves of wheat were bundled in the fields, the villagers prepared for the customary harvest feast. Makeshift decorations were hung in the community hall—wreaths of dried vines, bright ribbons that children raced around with, scattering laughter. Tharvik crafted a polished metal bracket to hold extra torches, ensuring the hall would be well-lit after sundown. Women embroidered cloth banners showing scenes of abundant fields, while the men built trestle tables that would groan under the weight of the night’s meal. Even Darrin, usually somber in his duties as squire, allowed himself a measure of excitement, instructing the local musicians to practice lively tunes in the evening.
On the day of the feast, the sun rose bright and clear. The air carried a crispness that foreshadowed autumn’s approach but still held summer’s lingering warmth. Children ran from house to house, collecting bread, pastries, and baskets of produce to be brought to the grand gathering. Arien, dressed in a clean linen shirt Ael had stitched for him, felt a growing sense of anticipation. More than once, he clutched the copper talisman under his shirt, hoping this day would pass without any unnerving occurrences.
After midday, the villagers converged on the hall, bringing together the harvest’s bounty: roasted vegetables glistened with oils and herbs, golden loaves of bread steamed invitingly, and a succulent roasted boar, glazed with honey, became the centerpiece. The aroma of the feast filled the building, mingling with the sweet tang of cider. Laughter echoed off the rafters, weaving a tapestry of communal cheer. Children dashed around the tables, playing impromptu games of tag while a fiddler tuned his instrument in a corner.
Ael, calm as ever, carried a tray of small but potent herbal tonics she had brewed for the older villagers prone to winter ailments. She wore a layered shawl embroidered with protective runes, the threads catching the lamplight with subtle sparks. Arien stayed close to her side, greeting neighbors and weaving in and out of clusters of cheerful chatter. Every now and then, he glanced at the open door, half-expecting some ominous silhouette to appear there. But only more villagers arrived, their arms laden with covered dishes and giddy smiles.
The evening’s festivities commenced in earnest with singing and storytelling. Darrin said a final prayer of thanks to the gods, raising a mug of cider to toast their blessings. Then Tharvik, amused by the attention, was coaxed into recounting a saga of forging a sword for a traveling knight—a blade that had supposedly struck down a monstrous wraith in the depths of the Quartz Mountains. The children, including Arien, listened wide-eyed, enthralled by the idea of wraiths that prowled ancient tunnels. The blacksmith’s voice was low and resonant, mesmerizing them as he described forging runic wards that glowed with each hammer strike.
As the night wore on, music filled the hall. A fiddler, a flutist, and a drummer joined forces to create reels that set toes tapping. Laughter rang out, and the small space brimmed with warmth despite the cool air drifting in through the windows. Arien danced with the other children, letting the swirl of merriment lift his spirit. For a while, at least, he almost forgot about the darkness that had troubled him.
When plates and cups were at last emptied, the laughter quieted, replaced by the gentle murmur of full bellies and satisfied hearts. Folks began drifting home to rest before the next day’s labor, each giving thanks to neighbors and exchanging well-wishes. Ael tapped Arien’s shoulder, signaling that it was time to leave. They slipped into the night, its hush a stark contrast to the lively commotion they had just left behind.
They returned to the apothecary under a sky freckled with countless stars. The paths were lit by lanterns set on posts at intervals, their flames casting pools of gold amid the darkness. The old shrines to the gods glowed faintly with small candles left as offerings. Greywood felt almost magical in those moments—a sanctuary of light in a vast ocean of night.
Inside the shop, Ael lit a single lantern and barred the door. Arien, exhausted from the feast, rubbed his eyes. He was on the brink of sleep even as he changed into simpler clothes for bed. Ael placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You look ready to drift away,” she said with a fond smile. “Here.” She guided him to his familiar cot. The air still carried the ambient fragrances of the day’s brewing—a medley of peppermint, chamomile, and something else tangy.
Once he was tucked under the quilt, she knelt beside him. For a moment, motherly concern flashed across her face. “Rest well,” she whispered, brushing a final kiss on his forehead. “You did well tonight—no trouble, no fear.” Arien barely managed to nod, his eyelids drooping.
He found himself slipping into a deep, comforting darkness. Yet as he lay half-awake, he thought he heard a faint breeze stirring outside the shuttered window. The night was otherwise still—no chirping insects this late, no distant murmur of villagers. He listened. Footsteps? Perhaps only a trick of his tired mind.
But the recollection of that shadowy watcher at the pond rose unbidden. For an instant, his heart pounded. He clutched the copper talisman under his shirt, feeling its rune-scribed surface against his palm. He told himself that between the wards carved on the apothecary door, Ael’s magic, and his own protective amulet, no ill being could harm him here.
Gradually, his pulse slowed. The comforting scents enveloped him: lavender, thyme, drying overhead in clusters that swayed with every subtle air current. The presence he had glimpsed felt distant now, as though overshadowed by the day’s warmth, the communal joy, and Ael’s gentle wards.
And soon, his breathing evened into sleep, lulled by the faint glow of the lantern. He dreamed of simpler things: swirling motes of light dancing above ripening fields, the runes from Tharvik’s forges shining like constellations, and a soft voice—Ael’s voice—teaching him words in a language older than the oldest oak.
Outside, Greywood slumbered beneath stars as numerous as grains of harvested wheat. The gods of field and flock kept their silent vigil. Yet Arien knew, in the secret corners of his heart, that something else was watching too—and that knowledge settled over him like a shadow in the gentle glow of the rune stone.
