As Arien and Lila stepped away from the old cottage’s crooked doorframe, the night seemed to close in around them, thick and clinging, like a damp shroud that had been draped across their shoulders. A clammy breeze wove through the tall grass of the fields, stirring the wild stalks in a low, hissing sigh. The air smelled of wet earth and decaying leaves, an autumn chill that lingered in the back of the throat. A thin band of moonlight pierced the rolling clouds, bathing the landscape in a pale glow that illuminated the warped fence posts and the uneven ruts of the muddy path. Where the light failed to reach, darkness pooled in fathomless pockets, making every step forward a venture into the unknown.
Each time Arien’s boot crushed a brittle tuft of grass, he imagined the earth sighing beneath him, as if the ground itself objected to their trespass. A faint suggestion of something sour—maybe rotting vegetation or stagnant water—mingled with the damp scents on the wind. The cottage behind them, with its sagging roof and broken shutters, creaked once more, a weary groan that seemed to usher them onward. Even the doorframe, warped and leaning, looked as though it were ready to collapse back into the night. Pale lantern light still flickered in one small, greasy window, hinting at the presence of Mrs. Halwen inside. Arien could almost picture her hunched by the narrow hearth, mending some ragged shawl or stirring a pot of strange herbs while she recalled the monstrous tales that had sent him and Lila out into the darkness with trembling hearts.
Lila clung to Arien’s arm. Although her grip was warm through the rough cloth of his sleeve, her fingers trembled like delicate bird claws. He felt her heartbeat in that touch, a rapid cadence that matched the flutter of her anxious breaths. Her pale face, framed by dark hair that reflected faint moonlight, looked up at him with a mixture of trust and lingering unease. He tried to look composed—to adopt that half-grin he had once seen on a traveling swordsman who bragged of slaying trolls in a single strike—but the edges of his smile quivered in spite of himself. If Lila noticed his uncertainty, she said nothing. Instead, she leaned into him more as though seeking refuge in his presence.
He tried to speak with bravado, as if words alone could banish whatever illusions might be creeping at the corners of their minds. “Honestly,” he whispered, forcing a slight chuckle, “I’ve waded through puddles nastier than those old tales.” His voice fell flat in the clammy air, the sounds swallowed by the thick hush that spread across the field. He might as well have been talking to himself; Lila barely nodded, her eyebrows knitting in silent doubt. Beneath her trepidation, he could tell she was listening closely, hoping to find courage in his voice.
They walked on, each step a careful test of the uneven ground. Their lantern—a small, battered thing—offered only a wavering glow, casting elongated shadows on the grass that appeared to shift of their own volition. Clouds drifted across the moon, turning the world into a murky wash of silver and black. The faint outline of distant pines rose at the horizon, an inky forest boundary that seemed to beckon them with tall, sentinel-like silhouettes.
Moments later, the mist thickened, drifting in coils that lapped around their ankles. At first, it was only a soft haze, ghostlike tendrils curling around the edges of their vision. But with disturbing speed, the fog gathered weight, creeping higher until it obscured Lila’s knees, then her waist, clinging to Arien’s legs with a chill that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. The air became unnaturally quiet, as though the night itself were holding its breath. The rustle of grass and the faint chirps of nocturnal insects vanished, replaced by a silence so dense it pressed on their ears.
Suddenly, a profound hush enveloped them, more than mere silence—this was a pressing force against thought itself. Arien’s breathing became erratic as the world flickered at the edges of his vision. Fear clawed at him, raw and visceral, even though nothing overtly threatening stood before them. He felt Lila’s fingers loosen on his arm. Her eyelids fluttered, and she swayed, her petite body folding as if overcome by a sudden weakness.
“Lila!” he choked out, voice ragged. Panic jolted him out of the stifling oppression in his mind. He caught her before she fully collapsed, her knees giving way on the sodden earth. Her head lolled against his chest, and he sensed how fragile she felt in that moment, like a delicate porcelain figure that might shatter with a harsh touch.
A wave of nausea roiled in his belly. His mind reeled with the sense of something ancient and malignant hovering in the space around them, digging tendrils into his consciousness. It felt like a predator picking at his very essence, far removed from the disciplined hum of runic magic he had studied. This presence was wild, feral, and hungry. Forcing his eyes open, he clung to a single thought: protect Lila.
His vision cleared just enough to see dark shapes coalescing in the fog. Men—half a dozen or more—drifted into view with uncanny stealth. They wore tight-fitting leathers that devoured the moonlight, their boots silent on the wet ground. Hooded cloaks concealed their faces in shadow, but their postures spoke of lethal prowess. Arien strained to see them clearly, noticing glints of metal at their belts—dagger hilts, short swords, or possibly throwing knives. Each heartbeat drummed in Arien’s ears, a frantic hammering that underscored his growing terror.
Two of these figures stepped forward. Unlike the others, they stood tall and straight, their bearing coldly regal. Arien felt a pang of recognition when he observed a certain insignia subtly worked into their garments: these were leaders of the Xochiral, an elusive sect rumored to practice forbidden arts. Tales of them drifted through tavern gossip and travelers’ murmurs like cautionary fables—men and women who communed with entities older than the mortal realm, seeking power beyond mortal ken. Now these figures were here, close enough that Arien could detect the faint copper tang of blood clinging to them, along with the damp, mossy scent that wafted from the rest.
Arien’s pulse thundered as he knelt by Lila, his eyes flicking between the men. Struggling against the crushing force in his skull, he dimly registered one of them muttering, “Have they found…?” The voice trailed off in the overwhelming clamor of Arien’s own panic. His vision wavered, the silhouettes of the men bending and warping in the corners of his gaze. He would have called out—demanded answers, threatened them, pleaded for mercy, anything—but words failed him.
Then, with sudden abruptness, the oppressive pressure receded. The suffocating silence shattered. Arien felt a rush of air fill his lungs as if he had been drowning and had finally broken the surface. The men jerked their heads, turning as if startled by some new presence. Confusion flickered across their faces, visible now in faint moonlight where the mist curled away from them.
A shape emerged behind Arien. At first it was no more than a blurred outline in the swirling fog, but recognition flooded him before the figure came fully into view. It was his aunt—Ael—moving toward them with a predatory grace that belied her usual calm. Her long cloak caught the wisp of the breeze, giving her the appearance of floating. In the uncertain light, her silver-streaked hair gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, and her eyes shone with an inner fierceness Arien had never before witnessed.
No incantation passed her lips, no runic words shaped themselves in the air. Instead, she leveled an unspoken power at the assembled men, an authoritative presence that rippled across the clearing. Immediately, the Xochiral’s psychic assault—whatever vicious spell they had been weaving—snapped. The men stumbled, some gripping their temples as though struck by a hammer. Their menacing composure drained away, replaced by disbelief and fear.
Arien felt a fierce gratitude and awe, as though he were witnessing a side of Ael no one else had ever seen. Even though her abrupt arrival left him dizzy with relief, he understood the implicit command in her narrowed gaze: take Lila and leave. Get her to safety. He swallowed his protest, swallowing down the urge to stay and help. The set of her jaw told him everything he needed to know: she had the situation under her control, and his interference would only disrupt the delicate balance she was summoning.
Gathering his remaining strength, Arien scooped Lila into his arms. She was light yet heavier than he had expected—her limp form a reminder of what was truly at stake. Fighting the squelching ground beneath his feet, he trudged away from the looming confrontation. The mist swirled in ghostly shapes behind him, as if it yearned to pull him back to the place where ancient shadows collided with mortal wills. The last glimpse he caught of Ael was her silhouette, arms slightly raised, commanding the very air around her to bend to her will. Then the fog closed between them like a curtain.
Arien’s feet found the faint path leading to the apothecary. He nearly slipped on patches of mud, his breath coming in ragged gulps. A metallic taste lingered on his tongue—fear, adrenaline, and the memory of that suffocating psychic force. With each step, the cottage receded further into the distance, its single lantern glowing like a lonely star in an ocean of mist. Finally, the small building that served as both shop and home came into view. The door creaked as he shoved it open, half stumbling inside with Lila still in his arms.
The room smelled of dried herbs and old wood, the familiar scents of lavender, sage, and chamomile drifting through the air. Shelves sagged under the weight of glass vials filled with potent extracts, powders, and salves, each labeled in Ael’s precise script. Bundles of dried flowers hung from the rafters, forming a canopy of muted color. A single rune-carved lantern flickered on a corner table, casting dancing shadows that elongated across the wooden floor.
“Hold on, Lila,” he breathed, carefully laying her upon a low cot near the back wall. Her skin felt clammy, and her breathing remained shallow, though not as dire as before. Memories of Ael’s lessons in basic healing flitted through his mind, but his heart pounded too wildly to organize them into coherent action. Summoning a shred of composure, he remembered the amulet—its leaf-shaped stone set in silver, said to channel healing energy when guided by the correct rhyme.
Hastening to the front counter, he rifled through a box of linen-wrapped items. At last, his fingers closed around the cool silver frame of the amulet. He returned to Lila’s side, kneeling beside her, and held the stone over her heart. His voice wavered as he intoned the gentle rhyme Ael had taught him years ago. The words were quiet, half-lost in the drumming of his pulse, but they seemed to resonate in the small apothecary nonetheless. The stone glowed a faint, comforting green, a ripple of warmth pulsing along Arien’s arm and into Lila’s motionless form.
For a moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath. Then a hint of color rose in Lila’s cheeks, and her breathing evened out. Though she did not wake, the tension in her brow smoothed. Relief flooded Arien, leaving him almost dizzy. The fear that had coiled in his belly receded enough to let him breathe without that knot of terror strangling each inhale.
He watched over her, crouched low and alert. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows, scattering the lamplight into diffused halos. The murmurs of distant voices reached him as a faint melody of alarm—a note of confusion that drifted through Greywood’s empty lanes. He thought he heard footsteps out there, perhaps belonging to townsfolk who had woken to the commotion or who had felt some shift in the night’s energy. But no one knocked on the apothecary door. No one called out.
For what felt like an eternity, Arien sat vigil, raking his fingers through his dark hair and trying not to let his gaze stray too frequently to the window. Visions of Ael standing alone among the Xochiral haunted him, stirring a silent turmoil in his chest. He forced himself to have faith in her unmatched skill and mastery, remembering the severity of her tutelage in the runic arts. If anyone in Greywood—or beyond—could stand against such an unknown threat, it was surely Ael.
Still, unease settled over him like a weight. He had glimpsed something in those men’s eyes: a resolve that didn’t waver even under duress. Their presence was no accident, and whatever drew them to the hamlet likely ran deeper than a mere altercation with a meddling pair of youths. He brushed a piece of Lila’s dark hair away from her face, noting her skin felt warmer now. Perhaps that meant she was fighting her way back to consciousness. Perhaps it meant she, too, had confronted a force beyond her comprehension.
When at last Lila’s breathing steadied, Arien allowed himself a small exhalation of relief. The apothecary’s lamps flickered in a draught, sending a ghost of movement across the jars and pots on the shelves. He rose and moved to secure the shutters, making sure the latch caught firmly. The thought of the Xochiral returning made his blood run cold. Yet he reminded himself: if they came, what good would a bolted window be against them?
The night stretched on. A swirl of half-formed thoughts crowded Arien’s mind, and he paced the small interior, stepping over an old wooden stool and rummaging aimlessly among the shelves. He glanced into an adjacent storeroom where bandages, sacks of flour, and crates of medicinal supplies were stacked in neat rows. An unspoken dread rippled through him each time he recalled the men’s silent formation. The swirling midnight grass. The hush that had clamped down on his thoughts like jaws. He found that each new memory of it brought a fresh wave of goosebumps, as if the air itself had grown colder.
Some time later—Arien couldn’t say if it was minutes or hours—the door opened. A gust of chill air swept into the apothecary, making the lantern flame sputter. Ael entered with the measured composure that always made her presence so commanding. At a glance, she appeared entirely unruffled. No fresh cuts or bruises marred her weathered hands, and her cloak draped about her as though she had simply been out on a brisk errand. Yet Arien, having known her all his life, recognized a subtle tension in the lines of her shoulders. He heard it in her breath, barely heavier than usual, but tangible enough that it betrayed she had done something far more taxing than a nightly stroll.
She spared only a passing glance at Arien before her gaze landed on Lila. Without a word, she glided across the floor, her boots somehow not making the slightest squeak. She set down a bundle of herbs on the nearest table, releasing a gentle rustle of dried leaves. Arien caught the pungent aroma of feverfew and night-blooming jasmine as they tumbled together.
Ael’s eyes flicked from Lila’s face to the healing amulet cradled in Arien’s hand. A faint nod of approval softened the set of her jaw, though her voice was cool when she spoke. “Well,” she said in a tone that carried across the silent space, “my apprentice grows bold in my absence. What have you done here, Arien?”
He wanted to surge forward, to bombard her with questions about the Xochiral, about the crushing force he had felt, about how she managed to drive them away. But his frustration knotted his words, and so he settled on the simplest answer. “I gave her the amulet,” he said quietly, unsure if his trembling voice would betray him. “She wouldn’t wake—there was a spell, or something.”
Ael knelt beside Lila, pressing the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, her brow furrowing. Then, as though satisfied, she pulled the blanket more securely around Lila’s shoulders. “Well done,” she remarked. “Her condition is stable. She’ll recover soon enough.”
Arien bristled at her calmness. “She collapsed,” he insisted, wanting to emphasize how dire it had felt. “We were being attacked. Lila—she just fainted, but I could feel something tearing at my mind—”
Ael cut him off with a level stare. “And now you’re both alive,” she said, her tone brisk. “Whatever frightened you is gone. You must learn to appreciate that fact and conserve your strength for battles you can actually fight.”
Every line in Arien’s body went rigid at her dismissive stance. “I felt that pressure,” he said, his throat tight. “It was real—it wasn’t just fear. It was like some vile presence, gnawing at my thoughts.”
She regarded him carefully, and for an instant, something like sympathy flickered in her eyes. “Perhaps,” she admitted in a reluctant murmur. “But in this world, many things can gnaw at the edges of one’s mind. If you’re determined to walk the path of a …, you must learn to wield your focus like a shield.” She tilted her head. “However, that’s a lesson for another time. For now, rest. Lila will be fine in the morning.”
Arien felt a swirl of emotions: relief, anger, curiosity. He searched Ael’s face, seeking a hint of what she had done with the Xochiral—why they had come at all. But her gaze was as closed and inscrutable as a stone wall, leaving him with no choice but to nod in sullen agreement.
Together, they lifted Lila gently, moving her from the small cot in the front room to a slightly larger bed in the apothecary’s back sleeping quarters, which smelled of beeswax and fresh herbs. The bed sat by a small window, and moonlight filtered in, creating a silvery patch on the worn quilt. Ael smoothed Lila’s hair with the quiet assurance of someone used to caring for the injured, her gestures efficient yet not unkind. Once Lila was comfortably settled, Ael gestured for Arien to stand back.
Arien hovered near the foot of the bed, wanting to press his aunt for more details, to unravel the mystery that weighed on him. The memory of Mrs. Halwen’s cackling tales about monstrous blooms and ancient horrors returned like a half-remembered dream. He thought of the Xochiral, who seemed just as sinister as any creature from those stories.
Finally, Ael turned to him, her expression composed. “Go to your own bed,” she said, a certain finality in her tone that left no room for argument. “Sleep. In the morning, there’ll be more to do, and Lila will likely have questions. But for tonight, let rest be the only remedy.”
Arien’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, Aunt,” he said softly, lowering his gaze. He was exhausted beyond measure, but a storm of thoughts churned inside him. He gave Lila one last worried glance before stepping away, the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet.
In his small corner of the apothecary, a narrow bed awaited him, piled with blankets that smelled faintly of lavender. He sank onto the mattress, rubbing at his temples as he tried to dispel the lingering ache of that psychic assault. The aroma of dried herbs in the air had always been comforting, but tonight it barely reached him. Despite his weariness, he felt the weight of the night’s encounter pressing heavily on his mind. Eventually, however, exhaustion overtook him. His eyes grew heavy, and in the shifting glow of the rune-carved lantern, he surrendered to a restless sleep.
--
Morning came softly to the hamlet of Greywood. The sun rose behind a thin veil of scattered clouds, painting the sky in pale yellows and gentle pinks, as though uncertain whether to commit to a bright day. Long shadows stretched across the cobbled streets, and wisps of fog clung to corners where the sun had not yet chased them away. The roofs glistened with dew, and smoke trickled from a few chimneys as hearth fires were lit for breakfast.
Yet an undercurrent of tension pervaded this seemingly tranquil dawn. Word had spread of a missing caravan that had once camped on the village outskirts—travelers who had promised wares, exotic fabrics, and stories from distant lands. Now they were simply gone, leaving no wagon ruts, no footprints, and no explanation. In a village as small as Greywood, such events were never forgotten, and the quiet gossip that snaked through the morning air felt more like a collective shiver than idle chatter.
Arien woke to the soft clamor of the apothecary: the clink of glass jars, the rustle of paper wrappings, and the low murmur of Ael’s voice as she guided a customer through a selection of herbs. He rose, wincing at the faint stiffness in his limbs. Sleep had not been kind; his dreams were filled with fleeting impressions of faceless figures and a deafening silence that wrapped itself around his mind. Shaking off the remnants of those nightmares, he dressed quickly, splashing water from a basin onto his face to clear his groggy senses.
He found Lila in the main room, perched on a wooden stool, nibbling a piece of toast and looking more or less like her usual self. Her hair was neatly braided over one shoulder, and she wore a pale blue dress that complemented her clear, inquisitive eyes. Relief flooded him at the sight: she was awake, alive, and seemingly unharmed. A faint smile touched her lips when she spotted him, but he noticed a slight crease in her brow, as if some half-recollected thought nagged at the edge of her memory.
“Morning,” she said, her voice lighter than he had expected after the previous night’s ordeal. “Ael said you took good care of me.”
Arien blinked, still thinking of how limp she had been, how her consciousness had slipped away so suddenly. “Are you all right?” he managed, stepping closer. “You—lost consciousness. Do you remember anything?”
She tilted her head, eyes momentarily clouded. “I remember we left Mrs. Halwen’s cottage. We were walking through the field in the fog, and… I’m not sure. Everything after that is so blurry.” She drummed her fingertips on the edge of the stool, searching for clarity. “I remember feeling cold. Then there was a pressure in my head, like the start of a migraine—after that, nothing.”
Arien nodded, heart pounding at how she described the same sense of suffocation he had felt. He wanted to spill the whole truth: how men in dark cloaks had materialized from the mist, how one of them had tried to snare their minds with some chilling force, and how his aunt had intervened with a silent display of power that banished them. But as he glanced toward Ael, who observed them from across the room, he felt the weight of her warning gaze. If she wanted Lila to know more, she would have told her already.
“Maybe the stories Mrs. Halwen told were too much for one night,” he said instead, struggling to keep his tone light. “Probably gave you a bit of a fright. You fainted, but you’re all right now. That’s what matters.”
Lila exhaled, sounding relieved, yet there was a hint of disappointment in her eyes as though she suspected there was more. “Yes,” she agreed softly, “that’s what matters.”
Ael approached them, wrapping up the last of her business with the morning customer—a short, red-haired woman carrying a small child in her arms. After a polite farewell, the customer departed with a jingle of the shop door. Ael turned her full attention to Lila. “Feeling better?” she asked with an air of professional detachment.
Lila nodded. “A bit tired, but fine.”
“Good. Then you can either rest here or help Arien in the workshop. We’ve got new shipments of runestone fragments to catalog. Either way, don’t overexert yourself.” Her words carried an unspoken command, so clearly did she expect it to be followed without question.
The mention of runestone fragments didn’t exactly thrill Arien. Cataloging them was tedious work: sorting by size, origin, density, ensuring that each was labeled and stored properly. Yet it offered a strange relief compared to confronting the swirling mysteries of the night. At least the runes were tangible. He saw them, shaped them, tested their potential with measured incantations. There was a structure in runic arts, a methodical approach that made the intangible forces of the world more comprehensible.
Lila, for her part, seemed relieved to have an ordinary task to focus on. She hopped off the stool, placed her half-eaten toast aside, and followed Arien to the workshop located at the rear of the apothecary. The transition from the main room to the workshop was always striking: the walls here were lined with racks of chisels, brushes, and magnifying lenses, while the center of the room held a wide table strewn with half-carved stones. Tharvik, the village blacksmith, often came by in the afternoon to consult on forging rune-etched metal. But at this hour, the workshop belonged entirely to them.
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Sunbeams slanted through the high windows, illuminating swirling dust motes in the air. The gentle clang of Tharvik’s forge, several yards away, provided a faint backdrop of industry. Lila and Arien began unpacking a sturdy wooden crate that had arrived earlier in the week. Its sawdust padding concealed lumps of rock that crumbled when pressed in the right place. Each chunk could be polished and shaped to reveal the faint lines of potential—channels where runic magic could be inscribed. They sorted piece after piece, placing the ones that responded well to a small test spark in one pile, the inert scraps in another.
They worked in near silence for a while, broken only by Lila’s occasional yawn or Arien’s grunt when a stubborn rock resisted his attempts to gauge its magical capacity. Both of them seemed grateful for the simplicity of the task, the sense of normalcy after the haunting events of the previous night. Yet even in that bubble of relative calm, Arien felt a pang of restlessness. The mysteries that weighed on him refused to vanish just because the sun had risen.
“Arien,” Lila said suddenly, her voice subdued, “thank you for helping me last night.” She brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face, revealing a vulnerability that rarely surfaced in her bright personality. “I—I appreciate it. I can’t stand the thought of being a burden.”
He paused, setting down the delicate fragment he was examining. “You’re not a burden,” he said honestly. “We went out together, and we’ll face whatever’s out there together.” He left unspoken the idea that something very real and very dangerous lurked in the shadows of Greywood.
Her eyes flickered with relief and maybe gratitude. The conversation faded again, replaced by the crackle of sawdust underfoot and the soft scraping of stone on stone. Outside, the day pressed forward: merchants shouted prices in the market, children’s laughter rang in the lanes, and neighbors exchanged the usual village pleasantries. But the hush of the workshop felt like a sanctuary, or maybe a cocoon, sheltering them from what waited beyond the threshold.
Hours slipped by in the careful tedium of runestone work. Once they’d finished cataloging the crate, they wrapped the viable fragments in linen, placing them on marked shelves for future inscription. A few unremarkable stones sat in a discard pile by the door, worthless beyond their weight. Arien wiped sweat from his brow and rolled the stiffness from his shoulders.
“Let’s get something to eat,” he suggested, realizing how hollow his stomach felt. Lila nodded, looking equally ready for a break. They made their way back into the main apothecary room, but Ael was nowhere to be seen. Likely she had slipped out on an errand, or to speak with one of the local farmers who relied on her for potions to ease ailing livestock.
Free for the moment, they stepped outside into the warm midday sun. The wind had picked up, rustling the leaves of the oak trees lining the road. It carried the promise of an approaching autumn chill. Lila and Arien headed to a modest bakery that occupied a small corner of Greywood’s central square, exchanging quiet greetings with passersby. He noted the subdued atmosphere on the streets: talk of the missing caravan had not died down. One old fisherman who stood by the well spoke in a hushed tone about hearing strange howls in the night. Another pair of villagers traded anxious rumors of vanished travelers and unearthly sightings near the forest edge.
The bakery door jangled softly as they entered. Aromas of fresh bread and sweet pastries enveloped them like a comforting embrace. Flour dust motes drifted across the sunlight that poured in through the glass window. They each chose a simple meal of bread and vegetable soup, claiming a small table by the window. As they ate, Lila’s usual chatter returned, discussing the runestone pieces they’d sorted and speculating about what new runic techniques they might learn in the coming months. Yet occasionally, her voice hitched, and her eyes went distant, as if her mind tried to retrieve some elusive memory from the night before.
Arien listened, but he struggled to match her light conversation. Though his hunger had driven him here, he found he had little appetite now. Every time he blinked, he recalled the images of hooded men stepping out of swirling fog, the flash of cold eyes under their dark hoods, and the sense of intangible teeth sinking into his consciousness. The memory churned in his gut more forcefully than any half-remembered nightmare.
He forced himself to meet Lila’s gaze. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said softly, making sure she heard the sincerity beneath his strained tone. “If anything else ever feels… wrong, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
Her expression flickered. “Of course,” she promised. She reached out to touch his hand, a simple gesture of reassurance, but he could feel the slight tremor in her fingers. They both knew that something dark had briefly come between them, and they both silently agreed not to name it unless it returned.
After their meal, they strolled back to the apothecary. The sun was now high, its warmth offsetting the mild autumn breeze. The normalcy of passing through the village, exchanging nods with neighbors, felt both comforting and surreal. Could life truly proceed as normal after such an encounter? Arien found himself questioning how anyone in Greywood could remain oblivious to the lurking dangers beyond their well-tended gardens. But the villagers, preoccupied with harvests and daily chores, had no reason to suspect the presence of men in dark cloaks.
Inside the apothecary, they discovered Ael scribbling notes at the cluttered counter. Her expression was focused, lines of concern branching from the corners of her eyes. A large reference tome lay open, its yellowed pages filled with spidery texts about herbal remedies, advanced runic inscriptions, and cryptic references to older, more arcane traditions. She glanced up, acknowledging them with a curt nod, then returned to her writing.
Arien approached, clearing his throat politely. “Need help?” he offered, wanting to do something useful rather than let his thoughts swirl in circles.
Ael set down her quill. “Not at the moment,” she replied. “I’m translating a passage on advanced wards. The script is archaic, difficult to parse. However,” she added, glancing between Arien and Lila, “I do have tasks for you both. A shipment of bandages and special salves arrived earlier, and I need them organized in the storage room. Mind the labeling; some of these salves are potent enough to cause numbness if mishandled.”
Nodding, they headed to the storage room. Sure enough, crates and boxes were piled high against the walls, each requiring careful attention. As they worked, Lila and Arien fell into the same easy rhythm as they had in the workshop: she sorted the items by type, and he meticulously recorded quantities on a ledger. The repetitive nature of the work offered a sense of calm. Now and again, they exchanged jokes about mixing up the salves and accidentally numbing a person’s tongue, or about re-labeling the boxes in a way that would drive Ael to distraction. The humor felt forced at first, but soon they were genuinely smiling, tension easing from their faces.
Yet even in that lull, Arien found his mind returning to the vanishing caravan. He had caught fleeting glimpses of them in the days before everything changed: wagons painted in bright colors, exotic figures wearing embroidered cloaks. Merchants who peddled rare ointments or shimmering trinkets. He remembered the excitement that had rippled through Greywood at the prospect of new goods. Then, abruptly, the caravanners were gone with no trace, leaving only questions. People whispered of monsters in the forest or bandits ambushing unsuspecting travelers. Some claimed the caravanners had never existed at all, a rumor or illusion spawned by bored villagers.
What unsettled Arien most, however, was the possibility that the Xochiral were connected. Perhaps they had swept in with the mist, capturing or otherwise ‘removing’ the caravan. The men’s robes, their silent steps, their knowledge of dark magic… it all suggested an operation that extended beyond petty brigandage. His thoughts swirled with theories—none of them comforting.
When they finished the storage work, the day had waned into late afternoon. Tharvik’s forge had gone quiet, and the bustle of the village slowed as vendors packed away their stalls. Ael seemed lost in study, rarely looking up from her tome and scattering pages of notes. Lila decided to head home for the evening—her family lived in a modest house near the hamlet’s communal well—and Arien walked her to the door. She paused at the threshold, turning back to him with a small, searching smile.
“I feel like I should say something,” she admitted. “But I don’t know what. Thank you, again. For—everything.”
She didn’t elaborate on “everything,” but Arien knew. He dipped his head in a faint bow. “Anytime.”
She vanished into the twilight, and he stood in the apothecary doorway a moment longer, staring after her. That faint presence of gloom still clung to his surroundings, as though the evening itself knew that something was off-kilter in Greywood. At last, he shut the door and drew the bolt, returning to the main room to clean up the remnants of the day’s trade.
The evening wore on with quiet routine. Ael eventually closed her book, rubbed her temples, and retired to her private quarters without a word on the topics that weighed on Arien’s mind. He tidied up, swept the floors, double-checked the jars of herbs on the shelves. But every so often, he paused, his gaze lingering on the front window as though he expected a hooded figure to be standing outside, staring back at him through the glass.
Sleep did not come easily that night. Even when he climbed into his narrow bed, exhaustion pulling at his muscles, his mind refused to quiet. Each time he began to drift off, his memory flung him back to the hush of the field, the intangible force that had slammed into his thoughts, and the sight of Lila crumpling in his arms. He wondered how many times his aunt had faced such forces before, in that measured, methodical way she did all things—without letting on that she held deeper knowledge of the shadows that lurked in the world.
Eventually, weariness overcame him. Morning arrived sooner than he would have liked, carrying with it the subdued bustle of a village that sensed something was wrong yet couldn’t name it. The next few days followed a similar pattern. The talk of the missing caravan lingered, whispered over fences and behind market stalls, but no definitive answers surfaced. A local squire halfheartedly questioned a few townsfolk, but there was no official search party—no sign of wagons, no word from neighboring hamlets that the caravan had arrived elsewhere. It was as though the travelers had never been.
--
Arien turned his energy to training. Ael demanded more of him than ever before, pushing him to refine the intricacies of inscribing runes on smaller, more delicate surfaces. He spent hours bent over the workbench, chiseling minute patterns into fragments of stone, coaxing the luminous pulses of magic to come forth. Each successful attempt gave him a flicker of pride, a sense that he might one day be capable of more than cowering before dark-cloaked assailants. Still, every achievement was colored by the memory of how small and helpless he had felt in that field.
Sometimes Lila joined him, her lively curiosity just as keen as ever. She struggled with precise penmanship for the runic lines, often smudging ink across the table and laughing at her own mistakes. Yet behind her giggles, Arien noticed how she avoided certain topics—like the memory of that night. It was as if her mind had locked the door on that experience, letting only the faintest recollection seep through. Once or twice, she admitted to him in low murmurs that she felt “odd twinges” of anxiety, but she could never trace them to any particular memory or cause.
Meanwhile, Arien’s curiosity had him sneaking glimpses at Ael’s older books. Late at night, when she was asleep, he would tiptoe into the apothecary’s back room and scan through faded pages describing wards and illusions. He hunted for any reference to the Xochiral or the crushing type of psychic attack he had experienced. The search yielded little. Most references were either couched in archaic symbolism or incomplete, missing crucial sections that might have contained answers. Sometimes he encountered a mention of an old, clandestine order that delved into taboo magic, but the text would abruptly end, eaten away by time or lost to missing volumes.
His frustration grew, rivaled only by his unease. He recalled how the men in black leathers had flinched when Ael arrived. They had recognized her power, or at least recognized that she posed a threat to them. That suggested a history he knew nothing about—a web of alliances and rivalries overshadowing Greywood’s tranquil fa?ade. Yet whenever he tried to broach the subject with Ael, she dismissed him with the same stony silence.
Life in Greywood resumed its mild routines, overshadowed by rumors that flared up then died down in the local tavern. Some of the older villagers spoke of the “wild magic” that sometimes erupted in the borderlands, citing old folk tales that might explain the caravan’s disappearance. Others proposed that wandering bandits had taken the travelers, though no sign of violence was discovered. Slowly, people began to treat the mystery as an unsolved curiosity, a chilling memory that would recede into the hamlet’s collective lore.
Lila resumed her usual roles—helping her family around the house, chasing her younger siblings, assisting Ael with simple herbal remedies. She laughed easily enough at jokes, teased Arien about his furrowed brow when runes refused to behave, and ventured around Greywood to enjoy the late autumn sunshine. Yet Arien noticed small changes: she seemed more cautious when venturing out at dusk, glancing over her shoulder if the evening shadows stretched too long. She also took to wearing a small protective charm, a simple wooden talisman carved with runic lines for warding off bad dreams. Arien recognized it as one they had once practiced inscribing together, and while he never commented on it, he felt an odd sense of responsibility—like his craftsmanship might keep her safe.
The more normal things appeared on the surface, the more Arien’s restlessness deepened. He could not dismiss that night as just a passing nightmare or a random attack. And still, Ael offered no explanations. Occasionally, he caught her leaving the apothecary late, returning only at dawn with an unreadable expression. He suspected she was investigating something, perhaps chasing clues about the Xochiral, but she never volunteered information, and he never had the courage to confront her outright.
At times, he considered telling Lila the truth of everything he remembered. Yet each time he tried to gather the nerve, her open, trusting expression stopped him. Ael’s warning echoed in his mind: she had insisted Lila was fine, that the threat had passed, that dwelling on it would only invite needless anxiety. Perhaps his aunt was right—perhaps revealing the full story would only cause more harm than good. But his conscience weighed heavy with the knowledge he withheld.
So the days turned to weeks, the crisp autumn air growing sharper, carrying flecks of gold and red leaves that danced along Greywood’s cobblestones. Rumors of early snowfall circulated among the farmers, and the blacksmith took on the seasonal chore of repairing plowshares and sharpening scythes before winter’s freeze set in. Life went on in the hamlet—work to do, harvests to gather, preparations to make. The question of the caravan’s disappearance lingered like a smudge on an otherwise pleasant picture, but gradually, it slipped further from daily conversation.
One late afternoon, Arien found himself in the apothecary’s small side garden, a patch of neatly arranged herbs that Ael cultivated for her potions. He sat on a low stool, absentmindedly stripping the leaves from a lavender stem. The fragrance filled his nose with a gentle perfume that reminded him of simpler days—days before flickering shapes in the mist and monstrous illusions. The sun was descending toward the horizon, painting the sky in a medley of pink and orange. A hush fell over the garden, broken only by the soft hum of bees that lingered a little too late in the season.
He thought again of the Xochiral, of the malicious power they wielded. Even if they had vanished for now, he could not believe their presence was a single, isolated incident. Something bigger lurked in the world beyond Greywood, swirling in the gloom of ancient secrets, waiting to surface again. He felt a pang of longing for clarity—if only Ael would trust him enough to explain what she knew.
The door to the apothecary opened behind him, and Lila stepped out, wiping her hands on a cloth. She offered him a small, curious smile. “You’ve been out here a while,” she said, her voice gentle. “Everything all right?”
He sighed, glancing at her. “Just thinking,” he replied, letting the stripped lavender stem drop to the ground. “Sometimes I feel like there’s something big happening, something we don’t understand. And it scares me that I can’t protect you—or anyone—from it.”
She lowered herself to sit beside him on the small stone edging around the garden, so close he could feel the warmth of her arm against his. Her face, lit by the last rays of sunlight, looked thoughtful. “I’m not so easy to scare, you know,” she teased lightly. Then more seriously, she said, “We’ll figure it out. We’re still here, and that has to mean something.”
He tried to smile, appreciative of her resolute optimism, yet burdened by the knowledge that he had only the faintest clue about what lay beyond Greywood’s borders. In the distance, a pair of crows circled above the trees, cawing in the dying light. He wondered if they were omens or just ordinary birds heading to roost.
That evening, as the sun surrendered to twilight and Lila bid him goodnight, Arien retreated once more to his corner of the apothecary. He settled on his small bed, feeling the day’s fatigue in his limbs. Tomorrow, there would be more chores, more training, more attempts at unraveling the puzzle Ael guarded so jealously. The same routine would stretch on, a dependable anchor amid the swirling currents of uncertainty.
And yet the secrets of that moonlit field still shimmered in the back of his mind. The caravan’s disappearance still cast long shadows over the hamlet, even if the villagers had chosen to let their worries fade. The memory of dark hooded figures and the suffocating grip on his consciousness served as a constant reminder that all was not as peaceful as it seemed. When Arien closed his eyes, he felt again that wave of dread, that intangible presence coiling in the mist.
He promised himself, quietly and firmly: one day, he would seek the full truth. One day, he would gather the courage to press Ael or defy her secrecy. For now, though, he had to be content with taking each day as it came, honing the skills that might eventually allow him to face such powers on his own terms.
The sun rose once again, scattering soft yellow light over Greywood’s rooftops. A quiet routine followed. A week passed, maybe more. The story of the caravan began to transform in the villagers’ lore, becoming a cautionary tale about traveling after dusk or wandering too far from the roads. Some insisted the travelers had been illusions summoned by swamp spirits. Others said the caravanners were never real to begin with, just rumors started by a passing bard. But Arien could never forget the vivid colors of the wagons he had glimpsed, the jangle of harnesses, the cheerful voices promising exotic goods. Their disappearance haunted him, combining with the memory of that night’s confrontation into a knot of unresolved fear.
Early morning found Arien again seated on the low stool in the apothecary’s modest garden. The dew on the grass soaked through his boots, and the crisp air made him shiver slightly. He absently pulled at dried petals on a nearby plant, glancing every so often at the cobbled street beyond the garden gate. A few townspeople ambled past, one or two greeting him with subdued nods. Everyone seemed a little subdued these days, as though the hamlet collectively sensed the disquiet in the air.
He had thought more than once about speaking to the squire—about telling him something of what truly happened, about describing the men in dark leathers. But each time, Ael’s silent warning rose in his thoughts. And what would the squire do, anyway? He was a dutiful man, but hardly prepared to deal with powers like the Xochiral. Perhaps involving him would only bring more trouble.
Thus, time wore on in uneasy stasis.
In the apothecary, shelves were kept well-stocked, and the demands of daily life pressed forward. People still came with sprained ankles, colicky babies, arthritic joints, fevers, and every manner of small ailment. Ael went about her business methodically, measuring and mixing potions with unwavering composure. Arien offered what assistance he could, cleaning the mortar and pestle, labeling jars, grinding dried herbs, and dispensing mild remedies for coughs and headaches. After hours, he resumed practicing runic etchings with a fervor that bordered on obsession, driving himself to refine each line’s perfection, hoping that skill might be a bulwark against the next threat.
And sometimes, as they worked side by side, Lila caught his eye. A brief, poignant silence would pass between them, loaded with questions they never spoke aloud. Then she would smile, and the tension would lessen, as if they silently agreed to remain within the gentle rhythms of life in Greywood—if only for a moment longer.
The day eventually came when the talk of the caravan vanished from daily gossip altogether, replaced by new concerns: an early frost threatened the harvest, a traveling bard had arrived to amuse the villagers, and someone claimed to have seen a large wolf prowling near the chicken coops. The caravan became just another tale, a puzzle left unsolved and gathering dust in the annals of local rumors.
Yet for Arien, it remained fresh, a prickling awareness that not all mysteries fit neatly into the routines of everyday life. He couldn’t help but wonder if the caravan folks had been singled out by the same malefic force that had nearly overwhelmed him and Lila. Did the travelers know something—or possess something—that drew the Xochiral’s attention? The question took root in him, persisting despite all attempts to bury it under mundane tasks.
Life moved on, measured and ordinary, but the nights sometimes brought that old anxiety. When the moon was high and clouds drifted across its pale face, Arien would wake to a pounding heart, convinced that, at any moment, dark figures might slip through the door and fill the apothecary with silent menace. If that ever happened again, he wanted—needed—to be ready.
All the while, no explanation came from Ael. She neither acknowledged the Xochiral nor broke her silence on the events of that night. She offered Arien no direct insight into the disappearance of the caravan, no reassurance that Greywood had nothing to fear. Instead, she drowned him in more advanced lessons, instructing him to gather rare herbs from the outskirts of the forest, to test new inscriptions that glowed with an almost painful brightness under the right incantation. It felt like her way of arming him without admitting that a war was taking shape.
Lila too seemed determined to act as though life was normal. She teased him, she practiced runes, she helped customers, and she whirled through her chores at home with renewed focus. But he noticed how her eyes sometimes flickered with memory if they passed by a low-lying mist in the early morning. How she occasionally paused mid-task, turning her head as though she heard something faint and faraway, only to shake herself and laugh it off.
As the days lengthened into weeks, Greywood’s nights turned chillier, trees shedding vibrant leaves that drifted in swirling patterns across the roads. The villagers prepared for harvest festivals, decorating doors with late-autumn wreaths.
By then, however, people were accustomed to living with that small tension in the background. Life had a stubborn way of pressing forward, and eventually folks clung to the familiar rhythms to maintain a sense of security. Arien, for his part, used those rhythms to train harder, to read more, to watch his aunt more closely, hoping he might intercept some clue about the Xochiral. Lila resumed her easygoing nature, laughing with her friends, volunteering to help at the bakery, and only rarely glancing over her shoulder when an unexpected chill crept up her spine.
--
On a morning when the sky was clear and the sun bright, Arien found himself once more sorting herbs in the apothecary, rolling sprigs of rosemary into neat bundles and pressing them flat for storage. The gentle hush of the shop enveloped him, and Lila’s voice from the front door made him smile. She had come to visit, her cheerful greeting preceding the soft thud of her footsteps. She paused, surveying the tidy arrangement of herbs, and whistled quietly.
“You’ve been busy,” she remarked, catching the faint scent of rosemary and thyme.
He offered a small grin. “Trying to keep the shop in order,” he said, then shrugged. “Keeps my hands busy.”
She nodded, closing the door behind her. For a moment, neither spoke. Outside, a cart rattled down the street, hooves clacking against cobblestone. The sharp cry of a hawk soared overhead. The two of them stood there, separated by the width of the apothecary, each reflecting on the unspoken weight between them.
Finally, Lila stepped forward, meeting his gaze. “You never told me if you found any answers,” she said softly, her voice tinged with the trace of a memory she couldn’t fully grasp. “About that night.”
His heart skipped, and the old frustration churned in him. But he managed a careful, measured breath. “I tried,” he admitted, eyes flicking to the worn texts stacked at the edge of the counter. “I looked through Ael’s books. I found scraps about illusions, about psychic magic. But nothing that fully explained what we experienced.”
She lowered her gaze, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Sometimes I dream about it—though I’m not sure exactly what I’m dreaming about. It’s like a tangled memory I can’t reach.”
He wanted to tell her the full truth: about the men in cloaks, about how she had dropped to the ground in that field, about Ael appearing and dispersing the Xochiral like a sudden storm. But as he opened his mouth, an old knot of worry tightened inside him. If the knowledge would put her in danger, or if it would only cement her fear without offering real answers, was it worth it?
She noticed his hesitation and, with a gentle smile, saved him from deciding. “It’s okay,” she said. “Whatever it is, whenever you figure it out, you can tell me. I trust you.”
A mixture of relief and regret swelled in his chest. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She stepped closer and, in a moment of uncharacteristic quietness, rested her forehead lightly against his shoulder. He froze, then allowed himself a fleeting embrace, the warmth of her presence softening the edges of his unease.
When she pulled back, her cheeks tinged pink, her usual playful grin began to surface. “Besides,” she said, voice regaining its brightness, “we’ve got the harvest festival soon, and you promised me you’d try some of those silly ring-toss games—even if you say you’re terrible at them.”
He chuckled, a sound that felt surprisingly normal. “All right,” he replied. “If that’s what it takes to keep me on your good side.”
“Exactly that,” she teased, and the tension between them loosened, at least for the moment.
From that day onward, life continued on its gentle path—herb sorting, runic lessons, idle chatter with neighbors, occasional glimpses of laughter or concern passing between Arien and Lila. They went about their tasks under the watchful, silent guidance of Ael, who offered them no further insight into deeper dangers. If she was investigating the Xochiral behind closed doors, she kept those secrets closely guarded.
Greywood’s daily rhythms soon swallowed the event of the vanished caravan entirely, as such communities often do. New matters rose, old rumors settled. People moved on, returning to the tasks of living and preparing for the coming winter. But Arien could never rid himself of that lingering, gnawing sense that the story was incomplete. He had lived through an encounter with something malignant and cunning, and he doubted such entities simply disappeared. If they were still out there, somewhere in the shadows, then it was only a matter of time before they resurfaced.
He made a silent vow: when that day came, he would be stronger. He would know more—enough to stand against the creeping darkness. Each chiseled rune, each practiced incantation, felt like a small step toward that distant goal. Each day, he resolved that he would not be caught unprepared again, not with Lila’s safety on the line.
Still, the question remained—lurking at the edges of his thoughts, haunting his nights. The half-formed images of hooded men, of swirling mist, of a presence that nearly devoured his will. He could make no sense of it, piece together no perfect explanation.
And so, despite the warmth of routine, despite the cheerful face Greywood presented to the world, despite the illusions of calm, the answers eluded him, leaving only a growing unease that coiled tighter with each passing day.
