A heavy silence descended upon the meeting hall, thick and suffocating. Hemlock's words, "their numbers and positioning suggest otherwise," hung in the air, solidifying unspoken fears that had moments before been mere undercurrents.
Soon, whispers started, growing as villagers turned to one another with worried, disbelieving faces. Eyes darted towards Borin for confirmation and then to Hemlock, their pillar of strength, who now seemed even more burdened. The fire's warmth felt inadequate against the sudden chill of apprehension that filled the room.
It was Torsten, Astrid's father and the village's primary trader, who broke the uneasy quiet. He stood from one of the benches, his practical nature evident in his directness. "Armed men, you say, Teacher Hemlock? And Borin, you spoke with their leader?" His gaze swept from Hemlock to Borin. "Did we... did anyone try to talk to them properly? Find out what they actually want here?"
Torsten's question stemmed from a lifetime of bartering and negotiation. As Oakhaven's main link to the outside world, his craft was built on understanding motivations, finding common ground, and, when necessary, assessing the value of a threat versus the cost of appeasement or conflict. To him, an unknown group was an unknown quantity, and the first step was always to gather information, to open a dialogue, however tense.
Borin glanced briefly at Hemlock, who gave a minute nod, before addressing Torsten. "Aye, I spoke with him, Torsten. Or rather, he spoke at me." Borin's voice was grim. "He claimed they were mercenaries, said they had sick companions and needed to camp. Apologized for his men's 'hastiness'." He paused, then added, "That smile of his, though? Felt as fake as a painted apple. And for a group just making a pit stop due to illness, they looked far too well-prepared, too settled in. Their camp was more established than you'd expect for a temporary stay."
Torsten listened intently to Borin's account, his jovial face growing more serious with each word. The trader had encountered his fair share of mercenary groups and guarded caravans on his journeys down the mountain; he knew the difference between genuine travelers and those with less savory intentions. More importantly, he knew Borin. They had grown up together in Oakhaven, hunted together in their youth, and shared a lifetime of unspoken understanding. If Borin said something felt off, Torsten trusted that judgment implicitly.
The gravity of Borin's report was clear on Torsten's face. Hemlock, acknowledging this silent understanding, turned to the trader. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of authority as he outlined the necessary course of action. "Torsten," he began, "you are our most reliable link to the lowlands. Your next journey to Stoneford must be made without delay." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "You will carry word of this group to Baron Ashworth's men. Inform them of their numbers, their leader, and the suspicious nature of their claims. It is imperative the Baron understands that armed strangers are camped within his domain, perilously close to Oakhaven, one of his protected villages in these White Peaks."
Torsten nodded gravely, his usual boisterous demeanor entirely subdued by the palpable seriousness of the situation. "Understood, Elder Hemlock. I'll make preparations immediately and leave at first light. The usual cart path would be too slow, and with this news, perhaps too exposed." His mind was already racing, calculating the risks and necessities. "I know several less-traveled hunter's trails and goat paths down the steeper slopes; they're treacherous in places, especially with the recent snow, but considerably quicker if I travel light and alone." He typically relied on his two sturdy bulls to pull his laden cart on the winding official road, a journey that took the better part of three days each way. But with the urgency of this message, such a pace was unthinkable. "If I push it," he continued, mapping the route in his head, "I can reach Old Man Tiber's stable by the Swiftwater stream – that's about eight miles down. He always has a decent horse or two for hire, or one I can borrow given our long-standing arrangement. From Tiber's, with a good mount beneath me, it's still a full day's hard ride through the valley to reach Stoneford and the Baron's garrison. But it's the fastest way to get word out."
With Torsten's plan settled, Hemlock then turned his gaze to Elara, who had been listening with quiet intensity. "Elara, my dear," he said, his voice softening slightly but still firm. "Your night patrols with Iska will be more critical than ever. I need your eyes and ears on the southern approaches, especially. Be extra vigilant." He paused, considering her. "I know your Frostmoon bloodline calls for communion with nature under the moonlit sky, and your training with Iska is vital. But for these coming nights, can you perhaps shorten that meditation, delay the deeper training? Your primary focus must be the vigil, the safety of our homes and especially our young ones. With the Awakening Ceremony so near, their peace of mind, their very security, is paramount."
A fresh wave of murmurs swept through the hall at Hemlock's specific mention of the youngsters' safety and the increased patrols. Several parents, particularly those whose children were among the Awakening candidates like Alph, Finn, and Kael, let out audible gasps. The fear, previously a general unease, now sharpened, focusing on the most vulnerable. Elara, sensing the rising panic, stepped forward slightly, her voice calm and steady, a reassuring presence in her own right despite her youth. "Do not worry yourselves unduly," she said, her gaze sweeping across the anxious faces. "Iska and I know these mountains as well as any. We will be Oakhaven's shadow in the night. No harm will come to our children or our homes while we keep watch."
Hemlock nodded in approval of his apprentice's composure. He then raised his voice once more, drawing all eyes back to him. "Elara speaks true. We are not defenseless. We are children of these White Peaks, and this mountain protects its own. Borin will gather more information. Torsten will carry word. We will be vigilant, and we will be prepared. Fear is a cold companion, but courage, my friends, courage is the fire that keeps the heart warm even in the deepest winter. We will face this, as Oakhaven has always faced its trials – together, and with unyielding spirit."
A collective sigh seemed to pass through the assembled villagers. Hemlock had been their spiritual leader and guide for many years; his words carried immense weight, a balm to their frayed nerves. Elara, too, despite her youth, was a familiar and respected figure, and the sight of Iska, often a silent, snowy sentinel at her side during village events, was a comforting reminder of their protection. Though the fear hadn't vanished entirely, it receded, replaced by a grim determination and a renewed sense of community strength.
The children – Kael, Emil, and Astrid, huddled near Alph – exchanged wide-eyed glances. Though raised in the harsh realities of mountain life, where tales of rock-falls, blizzards, and the occasional predatory beast were common, the idea of hostile, armed men so close was a different kind of fear, more tangible and unsettling. Emil clutched Kael's arm, while Astrid chewed her lip, her earlier playfulness gone. Alph, however, found his mind working differently. The fear was there, a cold knot in his stomach, but his lawyer's instinct for analysis, for dissecting a situation, was also kicking in. Mercenaries, not just poachers, he thought. That implies organization, a purpose beyond simple survival. He recalled Borin's description of their leader and the encounter. They backed down from Borin, a Tier 2 Ranger. And Hemlock, also Tier 2, remains composed, planning, not panicking. His deduction was swift: They can't be overwhelmingly strong then. A few Tier 1s, perhaps, like some of the rougher adventuring groups he'd read about in the old scrolls. Dangerous, yes, but not an insurmountable threat if handled correctly. Still, the uncertainty of their true motives and the upcoming Awakening Ceremony weighed heavily on him.
What the future held for Oakhaven, and indeed for Alph, only the Weavers of Destiny knew; and their patterns, as any elder could attest, were often cruel in their jest.