Roric's words festered. They did not fade with his departure but seeped into the soil of The Wellspring like a slow poison. The settlement, once an open circle of trust, now cast long shadows of suspicion. Watches were doubled. The forest line, once a source of bounty and beauty, was now scanned for movement. Every snapped twig, every distant birdcall, was potentially the first note of an approaching discord.
The mountain's song continued its slow, faltering recovery. The flicker from the cavern grew steadier, the pauses between pulses shorter. But the community's relationship to it had changed. Where once they saw a miracle to be cherished, some now saw a vulnerability to be concealed. The light was a beacon, as Roric had said. Their well was a treasure.
A council was called, not around the friendly hearth of the longhouse, but in the more formal, austere space of the finished granary. The air smelled of dried grain and resin, not woodsmoke and community.
