The Oakhaven air smelled of damp earth, decaying oak leaves, and the distant smoke from chimneys already beginning to puff out their first plumes against the encroaching late autumn chill. Kaelen adjusted the coarse woolen scarf around his neck, the fabric a familiar comfort against the breeze that swept through the market square, carrying with it the last vestiges of the morning's bustle. The out-of-town merchants' carts had mostly departed, leaving behind the echo of their calls and the lingering scent of exotic spices and cured leather.
He paused for a moment by the old stone well, his gray eyes—often described by old Elara, the village herbalist who had taken him in when he was but a child found on the verges of the Whisperwood Forest, as "windows to an old soul"—scanning the square. He watched Master Hadrin, the blacksmith, whose forge still cast an orange glow and a rhythmic clank-clank that was Oakhaven's soundtrack. He saw the younger children, bundled in thick cloaks, chasing each other and throwing handfuls of golden and russet leaves, their laughter high-pitched and crystalline. A fleeting smile, barely a curve of his lips, touched Kaelen's face. He cherished these small scraps of life, this normality woven with the threads of custom and community.
Perhaps it was because he himself lacked those primary bonds that others took for granted. He remembered no father, no mother. His story began with Elara's scent of pine and earth, with her calloused hands teaching him to read the stars and the leaves, until she too had departed, leaving a void that neither time nor Oakhaven's kindness had quite managed to fill. Now, at nineteen autumns, he lived alone in the small cottage that had been hers, on the edge of the same forest that had delivered him to the world. He was the custodian of her books, her fragmented knowledge, and assisted the village Council with transcribing edicts or reading missives that arrived from distant settlements—a task that provided him just enough for a modest living.
"Kaelen, lad," old Martha's raspy voice pulled him from his reverie. He turned to see her, hunched over her cane, a basket of wrinkled apples hanging from her arm. "Haven't seen a wind like this since the autumn of the Red Plague. Bad times, those were."
"Let's hope this autumn only brings the cold, Martha," Kaelen replied, his voice soft, almost a murmur. He approached and took the basket from her trembling hands. "Allow me, I'll carry it home for you."
"Oh, no need, son," she protested weakly, though the relief in her eyes was clear. "But you're a good lad. Always have been. A shame you're so alone."
Kaelen felt the familiar pang, not of self-pity, but of an inescapable truth. He nodded slightly. "Elara taught me that the company of good books and honest thoughts warms the soul too."
Martha sighed, a sound like the rustling of dry leaves. "That Elara… always with her wise words. Too wise for this corner of the world, some said. Like those 'Portadores' the merchants speak of, them that carry magic in their blood." She whispered the last part, as if afraid the stones of the well might hear.
Kaelen had heard those stories. Portadores were beings capable of channeling the world's energies, of performing feats that defied understanding. Some were revered as saviors, others feared as harbingers of destruction. In Oakhaven, magic was the stuff of old wives' tales and legends whispered by the fireside, something as distant as the snow-capped peaks of the Dragon's Tooth Mountains that loomed on the far horizon. He himself sometimes wondered, when the quiet of night was too deep, if Elara's uncanny affinity with plants and her near-miraculous healings hadn't been something more than simple herbal knowledge.
They left Martha at her cottage near the Tomwell bakery, the aroma of freshly baked bread enveloping the street like a warm embrace. As he walked back towards his own dwelling, Kaelen couldn't help his gaze drifting west, towards the dark, tangled mass of the Whisperwood Forest. He had always felt a strange pull towards it, a mixture of fear and curiosity. It was said its trees were as ancient as time itself, that its paths shifted with the moons, and that its depths concealed secrets best left undisturbed. Lately, the woodcutters had reported an unusual silence on its verges, an absence of the usual birdsong and the scurrying of small fauna. Even the wolves, whose calls often punctuated the nights, seemed to have fallen silent.
Reaching his cottage, the snap of a twig under a boot alerted him. It wasn't a common sound from the woods. This was deliberate, close. He stopped, straining his ears. The wind hissed through the eaves, but beneath it, he perceived the contained rhythm of a breath.
"Who's there?" Kaelen asked, his voice steadier than he felt inside. He was no fighter; his build was more that of a scholar than a warrior.
From the gloom of the nearest trees, a figure emerged. It was a man, tall and gaunt, wrapped in tattered, stained traveling leathers. His eyes, sunken and feverish, fixed on Kaelen. He carried a bundle on his shoulder and limped noticeably.
"Water… and perhaps a bit of bread, young man," the man said, his voice as harsh as gravel. "I've come from beyond Crow's Pass. Things… things are not right out there."
Kaelen hesitated for a moment. Strangers weren't infrequent, but this man exuded a palpable desperation, a stench of fear and something else, something wild and primal that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Yet, the need in his face was genuine.
"Come in," Kaelen said, opening his cottage door. "I have some stew from yesterday and fresh bread from this morning."
The interior was simple: a table, two chairs, a hearth where a few embers still glowed, and shelves crammed with books and scrolls, Elara's legacy. The traveler slumped into a chair with a groan, his bundle thudding to the floor. Kaelen stoked the fire and served a bowl of steaming stew and a generous hunk of bread.
The man ate with the voracity of a starved wolf, saying nothing. Kaelen waited patiently, observing him. He noticed a deep, poorly healed cut on his forearm, and the way his eyes kept darting, scrutinizing the cottage's shadows.
When he had finished, the traveler sighed deeply, a tremor running through his frame. "Thank you, lad. Haven't had a hot bite in two days." He looked at Kaelen with a new intensity. "You shouldn't be so trusting. The roads are filled with shadows."
"Need knows no distrust," Kaelen replied simply. "What's happening at Crow's Pass?"
The man swallowed hard, his knuckles white as he gripped the empty bowl. "The Void… it's stirring. A Scar… I thought they were just tales, but I saw it. A wound in the sky, weeping darkness." His voice dropped to a terrified whisper. "And the creatures… oh, gods, the creatures that poured from it… they weren't of this world. Swallowed White-rock village whole like it was paper."
A chill traced its way down Kaelen's spine. Void Scars. They were Aethelgard's deepest terror, rifts to other planes of existence from which, according to the darkest legends, nameless horrors emerged. They were supposed to be rare, cataclysmic events of ages past.
"Are you sure of what you saw?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
"As sure as I'm sitting here," the man affirmed, his eyes wide. "Fled with nothing but the clothes on my back. Many weren't so lucky." He paused, then added quietly, "And there were… there were men among them. Men who seemed to serve those things. With eyes that glowed with an unholy light. They were… Portadores, but corrupted. Twisted."
Silence settled in the cottage, broken only by the crackling fire. Kaelen thought of Elara's stories, of the books that spoke of ages of darkness and the heroes who rose to fight it. They had always seemed like distant legends, echoes of a remote past. Now, that past seemed to be knocking at his door.
The traveler rose, swaying slightly. "I must keep moving. South. As far south as I can get." He fumbled in his tattered pocket and produced a small copper coin. "It's not much, but it's all I have for your kindness."
Kaelen shook his head. "Keep it. You'll need it more than I." He opened the door. "Be careful on the road."
The man nodded, a shadow of gratitude on his weary face. "You too, lad. The world's turning into a dark place. And Oakhaven… it's too close to the Whisperwood. And the woods… the woods ain't whispering anymore. They're screaming."
With those ominous words, the traveler vanished into the growing twilight, leaving Kaelen alone with his thoughts and a growing knot of apprehension in his stomach. The woods ain't whispering anymore. They're screaming. The phrase resonated in his mind.
He closed the door and slid the bolt, a gesture he rarely made. He walked to the window and looked out at the Whisperwood Forest, now a black, menacing silhouette against a sky stained a sickly purple. The wind had picked up, and its moans through the trees did indeed sound less like whispers and more like a prolonged lament, a choked cry from the land itself. And for the first time in his life, Kaelen felt that the solitude of his cottage was not a refuge, but a vulnerable exposure to a darkness that was drawing inexorably closer. Autumn, this year, brought with it more than just cold. It carried an icy promise of change, and Kaelen knew with a visceral certainty that Oakhaven's quiet life, and his own, were about to be torn apart.