Oligar's white beard hung in thin, mist-like tendrils across his chest, each filament whispering of age, of long winters and longer meditations beneath evening skies. It moved faintly with the breeze, like strands of frost-laced fog. His weathered face, carved with the lines of decades spent in contemplation, bore the solemn poise of one who had peered deeply into the riddles of time and emerged tempered, not hardened. Eyes the color of old slate turned toward the small figure who had emerged unsteadily at the edge of the glade—a girl no taller than a tree's lower branch, thin as a shadow cast at dusk.
Beside him stood Haaskin, his student, clad in a mirror of his master's garb: a roughspun tunic the color of dry soil and trousers dusted with the pale yellow pollen of forest bloom. Haaskin's surprisingly quieter, letting his master do all the investigation, less commanding—but his gaze was keen, absorbing every twitch of the girl's posture, every hitch in her breath.
The child—shrank back as Oligar shifted his weight, as though the creak of leather and cloth were the warning groan of some ancient beast. She stumbled a step into the tangled underbrush, retreating into the arms of the forest's twisted roots and leaf-littered silence. Her eyes were enormous, glassy with fear, and moved rapidly between the two men as if trying to judge whether they were to be feared or followed. A dull gray dress clung loosely to her thin frame, patched at the sleeves, threadbare at the knees. A streak of dried mud marred one cheek, half-washed by tears and time.
Oligar's head bowed slightly, not in submission but in invitation. His voice, low and resonant, rolled gently through the still air. "Tell me your name, child—and why you've come so far from hearth and kin."
The girl trembled, and for a moment, the forest itself seemed to hold its breath.
"My name… is Anora," she whispered, the name as fragile as a moth's wing. She hesitated, then forced the rest out in a torrent, as though afraid the words might dissolve if left too long unspoken. "I helped a thief. He took something… something sacred from my tribe. So they cast me out. They said… I have to bring him back. Or I'm never to return."
Haaskin's brow furrowed, and he turned to Oligar with a frown of disbelief. "Master, that's madness. A child tasked with a hunt that would tax a seasoned tracker? It's like asking her to wrestle a storm."
Oligar's gaze never left Anora. "It sounds less like justice," he said slowly, "and more like a convenient exile. Anora," he continued, his tone softening, "what led you to such a choice? Why risk your place among your people for a thief?"
Anora looked down, arms hugging her frail torso, as if trying to hold herself together. "My father," she said after a long pause. "He's sick. Bedridden. The healer said… it's cancer. Nothing could be done. But this man—the thief—he came to our tent. He looked at my father, checked his breath, his eyes, and he said he could help. He promised. I didn't know what else to do. I don't have a mother anymore. There's no one left to care for him."
Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, blinking away fresh tears. "So I helped the man. I thought maybe… maybe it was worth it."
Haaskin felt something twist in his chest—a memory half-buried beneath years of training. The desperate calculus of youth: one impossible choice weighed against another. He stepped closer, crouching slightly to meet Anora's eye. "And did he keep that promise?" he asked gently.
A fragile hope lit her face. "The tribe leader said my father's healed. That he's walking again. But I haven't seen him. I… I can't go on the mission. Not until I meet with him myself. What if it's not true?"
Oligar's features darkened, the embers of his anger igniting behind his steady gaze. "Such folly," he muttered, his voice no longer gentle. "To cast out a child for mercy… to trade compassion for dogma." He straightened, his presence now vast, towering like a thundercloud gathering over still water. "Once again, the folly of authority rears its head. This is no justice—it is punishment cloaked in ritual, a coward's ruling passed to maintain order rather than pursue truth."
His thoughts turned inward, drawn to memories of failed councils and power wielded like a bludgeon. Time and again, he had watched as rulers hardened their hearts behind tradition and edict, unable to see the person before them. When power fears challenge, it turns inward—and lashes out.
He looked down at Anora, her fragile frame caught between guilt and grief. "You did what you thought was right. That, in itself, has value."
Oligar stepped closer to Anora, his hand hovering just above her shoulder—steadying without crowding. "You will go nowhere alone, little one," he said, voice calm but unyielding. "We will see you safely to your father. Now: tell us, how did your people learn of your involvement in the theft?"
Anora's gaze dropped. She traced patterns in the leaf litter with her toe before admitting in a barely audible whisper, "My father… he told them."
Haaskin's eyes widened. "He did what?" he burst out, disbelief cracking his tone. "Your own father betrayed you? The one you risked everything to save?"
Anora's lips trembled. "My father… he told them. and i cannot go into reasons for it."
Oligar exchanged a grave look with Haaskin, then turned back to her. "Do you still wish to see your father, Anora?" His voice was softer now, gathering her courage. "To know he's truly well?"
She nodded, pressing both hands to her chest as if holding her heart from running away.
"Very well," Oligar said, taking a small step back to include Haaskin in the conversation. "Listen closely. When we meet your tribespeople, you will call me Simo the Trader and Haaskin my apprentice. We'll say we carry goods bound for the Zedha markets and request safe passage. No mention of family or thieves—just merchants passing through."
Haaskin crouched beside Anora. "And if they question your presence?" he asked, voice low.
Anora looked between them. "I… I'll say I ran to trade what little I have to save him," she replied, her voice steadier now.
Oligar nodded. "Good. Honesty tempered with caution. If they press further, remain silent—Haaskin and I will speak for you."
They moved off the beaten path for hours, winding through bramble and over exposed roots. The forest's humid air clung to their skin; distant birdcalls and the drip of unseen water echoed around them. The three advanced in silence until a sudden crack of twig underfoot froze them in place.
From the shadows, half a dozen figures emerged, bodies streaked with mud and foliage, faces hidden behind bark and leaves. Each carried a crude wooden shield and a long spear. The last rider—a tall woman with fierce eyes—rode a stripped-down motorbike, its engine growling like a caged beast.
Haaskin stepped forward, hands open. "We mean no harm," he called out. "We are traders of the Zedha nation, passing through on urgent business. and fullfill wish of this little passenger we meet in the way who's been our guide up until now."
The woman dismounted, spear tapping the ground. She studied them in turn. "Traders, you say?" Her voice was low, tinged with suspicion. "Show me your wares and your papers."
Oligar inclined his head. "Our goods are simple—dried herbs for healing, woven cloth. We have no papers, but we carry the seal of Zedha's Guild." He unclasped a leather satchel and set it gently on a mossy stump.
As Anora watched from behind him, distrust and relief warred in her eyes. The woman knelt, lifting the satchel's flap. "If your seal is true, our leader may grant you passage—and allow this child to see her father," she said. To Anora she added quietly, "Do not falter, child. Speak as we planned."
Anora inhaled, stepped forward, and pressed her trembling hands together. "I am Anora of the Whisperwood," she began, voice echoing unexpectedly clear. "I lost my way trying to help my father. I beg your mercy to return before nightfall."
The woman studied her for a long moment, then stood and nodded once. "Very well. Follow us—but stray not from the path." She motioned to her guards, who parted to reveal a narrow trail winding deeper into the trees.
Oligar offered Anora his arm. "Stay close." Haaskin brought up the rear. As they set off under the watchful eyes of the tribe's sentries, Anora exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding—hope and fear intertwined in its wake.
The clearing at the heart of the forest thrummed with a deep, primal energy. The trees surrounding it seemed to lean inward, their twisted limbs framing the space like silent spectators. In the center stood a woman wreathed in bone and crow feathers, her ceremonial headdress bristling in the humid air. Her presence was imposing—less human, more elemental force.
Her eyes, painted with ochre and ash, locked onto Anora with searing intensity. "You dare to return?" she hissed, her voice sharp as flint. It rang through the stillness like a lash. "After what you've done?"
Then, her gaze flicked to Oligar and Haaskin. "And who are these outsiders?" she snapped. "Why do you bring strangers into sacred ground?"
Oligar stepped forward, his posture calm but ready. But before he could open his mouth, Anora spoke.
"They are from the democracy," she said, her voice cracking, but clear. "Mana users."
A stunned silence fell.
Haaskin blinked. Oligar's brow twitched. The democracy? Mana users? That wasn't part of the plan.
The tribe leader's expression tightened. "Mana users?" she echoed, her voice low with suspicion. "From the democracy?"
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "But no tribesperson can lie to their chieftain. It is bound in blood and breath, in the rites of our forebears. Her father attempted to deceive me but was utterly unsuccessful, particularly given that he suddenly appeared to be healed, that'd always raised a question. She took a threatening step forward, feathers rustling.
She turned her full attention on Oligar, her voice rising. "Is this true? Are you mana wielders? Why do you tread here, among the broken trees and sacred stones?"
Oligar met her stare with composed authority. "We are not what you fear," he said slowly. "We did not come to challenge you or your laws. We came only to guide this child to her father, and ensure she would not meet harm on the path."
The tribe leader gestured sharply toward the stolen motorbike leaning near the trees—its Zedhan sigil still visible beneath a mat of leaves and grime. What of that? A device taken from the external world. Do you believe we are unaware? Do you think we do not recognise the foul odour of civilisation as it infiltrates our very essence?
Oligar's voice remained even. "I think you know more than you admit. And I think you know that exiling a child to cover the tribe's dealings will only invite further questions."
A hush fell over the clearing. Even the forest seemed to still.
"You accuse us?" she asked coldly. "You trespass, you shelter a traitor, and now you dare suggest we are the guilty ones?"
Anora stepped forward again, her voice small but insistent. "He healed my father. The man who took the treasure. He used the mana—just like he said he would. My father is walking again. Breathing again. You all said he would die."
The leader's nostrils flared. "And at what cost, child? You gave away something sacred for one man's breath. A thousand ancestors sleep under this forest, and you sold their legacy to save a single life."
"I would do it again," Anora whispered. "Because he's my father."
There was a long silence.
Then Oligar spoke once more, this time with iron beneath the calm. "If your traditions demand punishment over understanding, then I question what remains sacred in your tribe. The girl acted out of love—not greed. She did not steal. She trusted. And that man—whoever he was—he used her. But your fury falls on her alone."
The leader's jaw tensed. Around her, murmurs stirred among the other tribespeople who had gathered to watch.
The air pulsed again—not just with tension now, but the slow, creeping momentum of doubt.
The tribe leader raised her hand—either to silence, or to command.
"Enough," she said at last. "The girl will see her father. Then we will speak of justice. And of penance."
She turned sharply and began walking toward the cluster of earthen dwellings beyond the trees.
Oligar exchanged a look with Haaskin, then rested a hand on Anora's back. "Come," he murmured