Chapter 1 - Peace

  Tarn awoke to the grey light of the dawn filtering through the cracks in the cabin's shutters. He lay for a moment, listening to the silence. No other dwelling stood within five miles of his home.

  Pushing aside the worn, woollen blanket, he swung his feet onto the cold wooden floor. The cabin was small, just one room, but it was enough. A rough-hewn table stood near the hearth, two mismatched chairs tucked beneath it. A narrow bed, a small chest, and shelves lined with neatly stacked supplies filled the rest of the space. He had built a home with his mother; his hands had raised the walls alongside hers. It wasn't much, but it was his. He pushed open the window shutters, letting in the daylight and started to prepare for his daily chores.

  Tarn stepped out the porch into the morning air, the chill fading as he walked towards his garden. It was a patch of vibrant green nestled against the edge of the forest; his hard work and his mother's teachings had brought it to fruition. Rows of vegetables, plump and healthy, stood in neat lines, their leaves glistening with dew. He knelt, his fingers tracing the delicate veins of a spinach leaf, then moved on, pinching off a ripe tomato, its skin warm from the strengthening sun. The air brimmed with the mingling scents of thyme and rosemary as Tarn brushed past the herb beds, the leaves whispering against his fingers. It was early in the season, yet his garden thrived, defying the often harsh mountain climate. He worked quickly, years spent tending to this small patch of earth allowed him that. He harvested what was ready, leaving the rest to ripen.

  He spoke to the plants, and they spoke back to him. His mother had always said it was a conversation; he just had to listen. He paused, a memory surfacing. He was small, barely reaching her waist, and she showed him how to plant seeds, her hands gently guiding his.

  "Everything has a voice, Tarn," she'd said, her eyes the same shade of green as the moss on the north side of the trees. "You just have to learn how to hear it."

  He hadn't understood then, not really. But he'd felt it, even then, a faint hum of life beneath his fingertips, a connection to the earth that ran deeper than words. He shook his head, returning to the present, but her words lingered, a gentle echo in the surrounding nature.

  His harvest was complete for the day, so Tarn turned to head back inside. A hook snagged in his thoughts, tugging at him. At the end of the clearing, almost hidden amongst the trees, stood an ancient oak, its trunk thicker than two men could embrace. Carved into its bark was a symbol, a circle split by a jagged line–The Broken Sun. It was weathered and worn; time had softened the lines, and moss had partially obscured it, yet it was still recognisable. He paused, his gaze lingering on the carving. It was a familiar sight, one of many scattered throughout the valley, a shrine to the faith that silently informed nearly every aspect of life in the region. He himself held no firm belief in the stories, but he respected the symbol's enduring presence, a reminder of the deeply rooted faith of his neighbours. He wondered briefly if his mother had actually shared their devotion or if her quiet ways had hidden a different path. They had never really spoken about it. They had just participated.

  Tarn raised his hand to the sun, greeting it while acknowledging the shrine, then turned to leave it behind, continuing towards the river, his movements in tune with the rhythm of the forest. The river, a ribbon of blue winding through the valley, was the region's life force, its waters drawn from the high glaciers far to the north. It provided sustenance for his small garden and drinking water for the village, and its gentle murmur was a constant presence in his life. He reached his usual spot, a secluded bend where the current slowed, and the water ran clear and deep over the smooth stoned. He'd fished here since he was a boy, first with his mother and then alone. He knew every rock, every submerged log, every hidden pool where the fish liked to lie.

  He knelt, assembling his fishing rod, a simple yet effective tool he had crafted himself from river-cane. He cast his line like he had a thousand times before, the lure, a small hand-tied fly made from grouse feathers, landing with a barely perceptible splash. The river's current caught it, carrying it downstream, a fleeting dance of feathers and hope. He waited, his gaze fixed on the line, his senses attuned to the subtle shifts in the water, the play of light and shadow. It was in these moments, poised between anticipation and action, that he felt most at peace. As he fished, he made sure to take only what he needed, for the river, like the rest, demanded respect. It was this respect, instilled in him by his mother, that guided his actions and shaped his understanding of the delicate balance between man and nature.

  A sudden tug on the line snapped him from his thoughts. He raised the rod, the line taught, the fish fighting hard. It was a good-sized trout, its scales flashing orange and silver in the sunlight as it broke the surface. He played it carefully, patiently, until the final flick of its tail, it surrendered. As he lifted it from the water, he felt a familiar surge of satisfaction, not just with the catch, but the connection, the silent communion between him and the river. It was a feeling he couldn't quite explain, a sense of belonging that went beyond words. At times, he felt certain the river would still its currents if he willed it. He worked quickly, dispatching the fish with a quick flick of his knife. The trout, now lifeless, lay gleaming dully in his hand. He often wondered if he should return the gifts to the river; his mother would. But he was not his mother. As he placed his kill into the basket.

  His catch secured, Tarn made his way back to the cabin, the sounds of the forest filling the space around him–the faint rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, the distant call of a bird, returned by another distant call. Once inside, he placed the basket on the table and slipped his rod into its familiar place beside the door. His gaze fell upon the small, ornate chest tucked beneath his bed. It was his father's, the only memento he possessed of the man. He pulled it out, the quality of the polished wood–far surpassing anything else in the cabin. It was a finely crafted thing, made of dark foreign wood inlaid with delicate silver wire, far too intricate for anything made in these parts. He ran his fingers over its smooth surface, tracing the flowing patterns that seemed to shift and shimmer in the dim light. He opened it, revealing the familiar, worn velvet lining. Inside, nestled in the centre, lay the box. It was as long as his forearm, made of the same dark wood as the chest, inlaid with the same delicate silver; a single, striking symbol stood out against the dark wood, only seen before on this box. He'd traced the lines of the symbol countless times since his mother had passed, yet it remained a mystery, a silent question mark from a past he didn't know. It was unlike anything he had ever seen in the village, and it hummed with a faint energy that only he could perceive.

  Tarn lifted the box from the chest; its weight fit him like it had never belonged elsewhere. He carried it to the window, the last rays of the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. He traced the crest's outline, the silver cool beneath his fingertips. Questions, as always, swirled in his mind. His mother had told him stories, of course. She had said his father was an important man, a leader in a world far beyond their own. A kind man, she had emphasized, generous where others were harsh and self-serving. But she had also warned him that this world, Eldros, was not always welcoming of such qualities. What had she meant? And what was the meaning of this cryptic symbol, this silent legacy he had left behind? He closed his eyes, his mother's words echoing in his memory, a conversation with the plants. Was this box also, in some way, part of that conversation? He looked towards the darkening treeline, to the path that led to the village and then, further, to the world beyond. A world he knew only through stories. He retraced the symbol. Maybe one day, he would have some answers.

  With the image of the box fresh in his mind, Tarn placed the box and chest back, grabbed his satchel and headed towards the lean-to beside his cabin. Willow, his sturdy bay mare, nickered softly in greeting, her warm brown coat gleaming faintly in the dim light. He’d had her since she was a foal, a gift from his mother, and they had been inseparable ever since. He ran a hand down her familiar flank, feeling the reassuring solidity of her presence, then hitched her to the cart he had built when he first got Willow, modifying it over the years as she grew. The two of them had worked together countless times, hauling lumber, supplies, and his harvests ever since. He was headed to Solrise today; he needed to replenish his stores of twine and salt, and he had more than enough trout to make a trade.

  The path to the village was well-worn, the forest sounds somewhat muted, and the shadows beneath the trees deeper than usual. Tarn knew every root and rock, every bend and hollow, like the contours of his own face. This familiarity allowed him to notice the subtle shift, the subtleties of something amiss.

  Tarn guided Willow off the main path, following a discernible trail that wound more profoundly into the woods. He stopped at a thicket of ferns, their fronds still damp with morning dew. Kneeling, he examined the ground, his eyes tracing the faint imprints of deer tracks. He reached into his satchel, withdrawing a small, intricately woven snare from vines and sinew. Mindful of the time, he set the trap swiftly, anchoring it to a nearby tree root with a deft hand. He repeated this twice more as he returned to the cart, pausing at each location, ensuring his traps were set correctly.

  He continued along the path, Willow trailing patiently behind him, her hooves muffled by the soft earth. Occasionally, he veered off, guided by notches in bark and splashes of red paint, checking his traps as he went. The first trap yielded a plump rabbit that hung limp, its fur the colour of dry leaves. He reset the trap, placing the rabbit in a separate compartment in his cart to keep it from contaminating his fish. The following two traps yielded nothing.

  Further on, a flash of red caught his eye–another marker. But as he approached, a frown creased his brow. This trap has been sprung, its noose slack on the ground. It had caught something; of that, he was sure. But the animal was gone.

  Tarn knelt, studying the disturbed earth around the trap. Faint scuff marks marred the soft ground–too straight for a frightened animal. The usual hum of the forest was gone. No birdsong, no rustle of undergrowth. Just silence,

  He straightened slowly, his gaze sweeping the trees. Nothing moved where it should have. He felt it; he was not alone.

  His unease was growing, and Tarn continued his trek through the woods, his senses on high alert. Sensing his mood change, Willow walked a little closer, her warmth a small comfort. He scanned the trees, searching for any further sign of disturbance, any indication of who had taken the game from his trap. Then, he saw it–a thin column of smoke, barely visible through the dense foliage, rising from a point further ahead and off the path. He moved towards it, his steps silent, his hand never far from the hilt of his knife at his belt. As he drew nearer, a faint, acrid smell reached his nostrils, a scent that spoke of burnt hair and bone and something vaguely rotten–setting his teeth on edge. Pushing aside a curtain of low-hanging branches, he found the source.

  In a small clearing, a crude shrine had been constructed. It was little more than a pile of stones arranged in a rough circle. Within the circle lay the remnants of a fire, a bed of ashes from which a few embers still glowed, casting a faint, reddish light on the surrounding trees. And amongst the ashes, he saw them–bones, scorched and blackened, some unmistakably animal, others… he wasn’t so sure. The thin trail of smoke carried an unsettling scent foreign to this place.

  He pushed onward, following the trail towards Solrise. Checking his remaining traps as he went, his movements automatic, yet his mind repeatedly strayed back to the crude shrine, the unsettling image of the scorched bones seared into his memory. Willow nudged his hand with her velvety nose, letting out a soft whinny. He stroked her neck, drawing comfort from her steady presence.

  “Just a bit further, girl,” he said, patting Willow’s neck. He urged her forward, leaving the shrine behind. The trail widened as they neared the forest’s edge, the dense canopy giving way to scattered trees and patches of sunlight. He could hear the distant sounds of the village more clearly now–the familiar clang of the blacksmith’s hammer, the lowing of cattle from a nearby pasture. It was a familiar orchestra, one he usually found comforting and exciting. He reached the edge of the forest, the trees thinning to reveal the familiar sight of Solrise nestled in the valley below. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and sounds of village life–children’s laughter, the distant bleating of sheep–drifted up to him on the gentle breeze. It was a scene that had always brought him a sense of peace.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Tarn guided Willow into Solrise on the uneven dirt path. A familiar figure emerged from the small crowd–a woman balancing a basket of eggs on her hip, her face creased with years of sun and work. She waved as he approached, her smile warm but edged with something more subdued.

  "Martha," Tarn greeted with a nod, pausing to adjust the straps on Willow’s harness.

  "Tarn," she replied, "Good to see you out and about." Her eyes flicked to the edge of the forest, lingering there momentarily before adding, "Have you noticed anything strange out that way?"

  Tarn caught the hesitation in her tone. "Something wrong?" he asked, keeping his voice light but direct.

  Martha glanced around, lowering her voice. "There’s been talk. Collectors, they're calling them. Folk say they've seen them in the woods."

  A chill coiled in his gut, unease prickling at the edge of his thoughts. Memories of hushed tales from his childhood surfaced–stories of shadows moving where they shouldn't, of travellers vanishing at the forest's edge. "In the woods?"

  She nodded, the eggs in her basket shifting slightly as she adjusted her grip. "They've got no business this far out. But you know how rumours grow. Still..." Her voice trailed off, and she cast another wary glance toward the trees." Just be careful. You know as well as I do. The forest doesn't need any more trouble."

  "I'll keep my eyes open," Tarn said, this tone steady. He caught the flicker of concern in her expression and added, "You stay safe, too."

  Martha offered a small, grateful smile, though the worry didn't leave her eyes. "Don't go keeping secrets if you find anything strange, Tarn. The village needs its own to look out for its own."

  Tarn nodded before she moved on; he lingered a moment longer, his parting words entwined with his unanswered questions. The sight of the shrine, its scorched bones and strange smoke, stirred uncomfortably in his mind. Were the "Collectors" she spoke of tied to the things he'd seen? He needed more answers.

  Tarn led Willow deeper into the bustling village square, the hum of conversation and the clatter of activity growing as he moved. His mind remained on Martha’s words, but the voices around him soon drew his attention. Among the throne, another familiar figure approached–Old man Hemlock, leaning heavily on his gnarled cane. The old man's sharp eyes scanned Tarn as he neared.

  "Tarn, lad," Hemlock called, his tone brusque. "You're a sight; been hearing plenty of that collector's nonsense, I'll wager."

  Tarn halted, offering a polite nod. "Morning, Hemlock. Seems the village has plenty to say about it.

  The old man snorted, his weathered face breaking into a sardonic grin. "Plenty of rubbish, you mean. Collectors, bah. Just stories to keep children from wandering too far into the trees." He thumped his cane against the ground for emphasis. "Been living here longer than most o’ these fools, and I've seen no such thing."

  "Martha seemed worried," Tarn offered cautiously. "Said they've been seen in the woods."

  "Martha is worried by her own shadow," Hemlock replied, his voice tinged with dismissive amusement. "Next thing you know, she'll have us barricading the square. You're not fool enough to buy into it, are you?"

  Tarn hesitated, the image of the shrine flitting across his mind. "I've seen things," he admitted carefully. "Strange things."

  The old man's expression faltered momentarily, curiosity flickering in his sharp gaze. He leaned in slightly. "Strange, eh? What kinda’ strange?"

  "Nothing I can explain, but enough to make me wonder."

  Hemlock's grin returned. "Well, you're a brighter lad than most. Just don't let wonder turn to fear. Fear is what keeps people stuck, chasing ghosts instead of facts." He straightened, his tone lightening. Now I've work to do. I can't spend all morning entertaining tales. Light guide you, boy." He gave a wave to the sun.

  With that, Hemlock turned away, leaving Tarn to consider the exchange. Martha's concern and the old man's dismissal each added another layer to the uncertainty swirling in his mind. Answers felt farther away, but the need to find them pressed closer.

  A young boy, no older than ten, darted through the crowd, his eyes wide as he spotted Tarn. He tugged at the sleeve of Tarn's tunic, his breath coming in short gasps.

  "Tarn! Rowan asked if ya’ could come over when you got a minute." He shouted.

  Tarn smiled slightly, ruffling the boy's hair. "That's Eldar Rowan to you, Finn."

  The boy returned a snigger and a nod and ran away to do whatever the children did in the village.

  Amidst a small, well-tended garden stood a sturdy, two-story house. It was Rowan's home, and while it was more significant than most, it was by no means ostentatious, blending seamlessly with the other buildings. It was simply well-kept, reflecting Rowan's own quiet diligence. He and Rowan were friends as much as anything, their conversations ranging from village matters to more personal topics. Given everything that had happened that morning, he wondered what Rowan wanted to discuss. With a final pat to Willow's flank, he crossed the square.

  Tarn stepped through Rowan’s doorway, the faint scent of cedar and sage wafting out to greet him. The room was simple and orderly–shelves lined with jars of dried roots and leaves, a workbench cluttered with tools and half-carved wooden figures. Rowan stood by the hearth, his hands gripping the back of a chair. His face, calm with quiet strength in better moments, now showed worry lines that deepened as he looked up to greet Tarn.

  “Ah, Tarn,” Rowan said, his voice warm but strained. “Good of you to come.” He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Sit, please. I won’t take too much of your time.”

  Tarn nodded and took the offered seat without hesitation. Though Rowan was a steady figure in the village, his voice had a tautness Tarn hadn’t heard before.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” Tarn asked, his gaze flicking briefly to the workbench–tools and half-carved wooden figures arranged with care, notes in Rowan’s neat hand tucked nearby.

  “I do,” Rowan replied, lowering himself into the chair across from Tarn. His shoulders slumped slightly as though bearing an unseen burden.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours by now. By the Sun! It’s all the village speaks of,” he cursed. “You’ve been out in the woods. I was hoping you might shed some light.”

  Rowan’s steady gaze met Tarn’s–his kind eyes clouded with a rare flicker of unease. Rowan was known for his calming presence, the sort of man the village leaned on in difficult times, today he seemed uncharacteristically unsettled.

  If even he was worried, Tarn thought, they all had cause to be worried.

  “I’ve seen things,” Tarn admitted, “Rowan, I found a shrine in the woods. It’s… unsettling. Smoke was still rising from a fire someone had lit, and the ashes held scorched bones. They weren’t animal bones, not like any I’ve ever seen. It’s clear–whoever made it isn’t from the village. No one here would build such a thing.”

  Rowan leaned forward slightly, his fingers interlacing as he rested his elbows on the table. “A shrine? “Scorched bones? He echoed, his tone sharpening. “By the Sun, Tarn, this isn’t just idle talk. A thing like that… it sounds dangerous. I’m not sure who or what we’re dealing with.”

  Tarn waited, letting Rowan process the information in silence. The elder’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the table as though the answer might surface there. After a long moment, he exhaled sharply, breaking the quiet. “This is worse than I thought,” Rowan mumbled.

  “Listen, Tarn,” Rowan said, at last, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You’ve been out there–are you well? Has there been anything else unusual?” His gaze lingered on Tarn, searching as though Tarn’s words might confirm a suspicious Rowan dared not voice.

  Tarn hesitated, the question catching him off guard. “I’m fine, Rowan. It's just the shrine and what I told you about. You think it's connected to something worse?”

  Rowan exhaled, the sounds heavy. “These lands… They've always had their secrets. But now? There’s something… something we can’t ignore.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering further. “Your mother once asked me to look out for you, Tarn. I’ve tried my best to honour that. Promise me, if you see anything more, anything strange, you’ll come to me first. Don’t speak of this to anyone else–we need to handle this carefully.”

  Tarn gave an uneasy nod. “I will”

  Rowan leaned back, his hands running through his hair in a rare display of frustration. “I’ll speak with the others, see if they’ve noticed anything unusual. But Tarn, tread carefully. If something is stirring in our lands, it’s not something we can afford to provoke.”

  Tarn stood. “I’ll be cautious.” With a brief nod, he left the room. Stepping back into the village square, he stood for a moment in thought. This day was turning stranger by the moment. Rowan seemed stressed. He’d never seen Rowan like that–nothing got to Rowan.

  The bustle of the square washed over him, distant and unimportant. Tarn led Willow toward the market stalls, his thoughts on only the morning’s discoveries–the shrine, the scorched bones, Martha’s caution, and now Rowan's unease. They nagged at him, a jigsaw not quite complete.

  As he approached the stalls, he saw Elara, the baker’s daughter, arranging loaves of bread on a wooden display. She was a few years younger than him, with bright blue eyes and a quick smile that always seemed to brighten his day. Their parents had often joked about the two of them ending up together, a teasing that lingered between them in glances. Elara looked up as he neared, her smile tugging wider as she caught his eye.

  “Tarn,” she greeted, her voice warm but teasing. “Come to charm me out of my bread again?”

  Tarn chuckled; he went to the back of the cart and pulled out the largest trout. “I was thinking this might even the scales,” he said, holding it up. “Fair trade, don’t you think?”

  Elara raised an eyebrow, her smile turning playfully. “A trout for a loaf? You’re terrible at bargaining, Tarn.”

  “Only with you,” he admitted, placing the fish on her display counter. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve got to keep your strength up–can’t have the best baker in Solrise losing her touch.”

  She laughed, shaking her head as she picked up the trout. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Fine, one loaf for the fish, but you’re still overpaying.”

  “Consider it an investment,” Tarn said with a grin. “Your bread’s worth it."

  Elara’s laughter softened, her gaze dropping briefly to the trout in her hands. “You’re always too kind, Tarn,” Her smile lingered, but a flicker of hesitation crossed her face as though a dark thought had pushed its way to the front. “Have you heard the things people are saying?” she asked, her tone quieter now, more cautious. “About the woods?”

  “I’ve heard the rumours,” Tarn replied.

  Elara’s eyes widened slightly. “You have?”

  He nodded. “Martha mentioned it. And Rowan.”

  A flicker of fear crossed her face. “Rowan knows?”

  “He sent for me,” Tarn admitted. “He’s worried.”

  Elara’s shoulders slumped. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew something was wrong. It’s not just stories, is it?”

  Tarn met her gaze, his expression serious. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’ve seen enough to think twice about going into the woods alone.”

  Elara hesitated, then spoke again insistently. “Tarn, maybe you should stay with us for a while… just until things feel safer. She glanced at him, her worry laid bare. “Father wouldn’t mind, and it’s better than being out there alone.”

  Tarn shook his head gently, his smile apologetic. “I appreciate that, Elara, but you know how I am. The cabin’s home and I’m not about to abandon it. Besides, your father’d have me choppin’ firewood from sunrise to sunset.”

  Elara smiled and nodded. “You’re probably right,” the concern in her eyes didn’t fade. “Just… take care of yourself, Tarn.”

  Before he could respond, she leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and pulling him into a brief hug.

  “I will,” Tarn said softly, his tone steady as he released her embrace. “You take care too, Elara.”

  With that, he turned and made his way back to Willow. He secured his supplies and climbed on her back, her warmth beneath him a quiet reassurance. “Let’s go home, girl,” he said, gently guiding her toward the forest path.