The name settled over the new settlement like a blessing. The Wellspring. It was spoken with a quiet reverence, a sense of pride that was both earned and bestowed. The water from the deep earth was more than a utility; it was the lifeblood of their collective hope, a daily reminder of what was possible when their two worlds ceased to clash and began to harmonize.
For three days, a palpable sense of peace enveloped the valley. The longhouse was completed, its roof a seamless thatch of mountain reeds and woven miner's canvas, its walls a perfect synthesis of sturdy block and singing stone. The sound of the fiddle and the rhythm of work chants became the settlement's new heartbeat. Even the air seemed clearer, as if the very dust motes dancing in the sunlight had agreed to a truce.
But a settlement, like a well, requires a firm foundation, and foundations are tested by weight.
The test came on the fourth day, in the form of a single, ragged figure emerging from the tree line.
