The Blackwood's air stung with pine and damp earth, the morning sun a thin blade through tangled branches. Three days after Bren's death, the clan's fire hissed, voices low, raw with grief. My satchel pressed heavy at my hip, holding my Bible—English words I scratched at seven, tales of Noah and Lot, mine alone, though Elara's green eyes caught fragments. Aether hummed around us, in the trees, the earth, our breaths, not just her woven map but the Architect's subtle currents. At nine, I carried the cold resolve of my infant years, hands rough from Lira's blood, Bren's sketches of Montala's paths sharp as the Church's iron grip in my mind.
Elara walked beside me, green eyes keen, clutching her map. The clan's woven shelters, like those that mended me, stood firm, Syla now at Bren's looms. His sketches traced Montala's reach, and I gripped his pouch, its paths a warning like the branded triangles I saw as a child. The forest's pulse thumped under my boots, tight as the dread of the Duke's strained sighs under Valerius's shadow.
A shout cut the air—Fael's voice, sharp as stone. "Stranger at the edge!" My heart kicked, and I ran, Elara at my side, branches clawing my cloak. Taryn followed, spear flashing, Mara's silver braids swinging. In a clearing, Fael pinned a gaunt man in a torn Montala tunic, spear at his throat, hands raised, trembling like a leaf before a storm.
"Don't strike!" the man begged, voice raw. "I'm Corin, fled from Montala. Valerius is cruel. Thornvale, east, fights their taxes. I need safety." His eyes were wide, sweat streaking, breaths ragged like those under Montala's branded yoke.
I stepped close, hands clenched, heart pounding. Bren's sketches marked Thornvale, stamped with Montala's triangles, like the Church's iron caravans. "Why trust you?" I asked, voice cold, gut twisting. Aether stirred, sharpening my senses, catching his fear, his flickering glance, like the Duke's men under Valerius's gaze.
"Who's this?" Taryn growled, spear steady. "Montala's spy?" Corin shook his head. "No! Valerius starves us, steals our children. Thornvale burned a tax cart. I'm done." His voice cracked, desperate as the villagers' whispers long ago.
Elara unfolded her map, its threads glowing with aether's hum. "Thornvale," she said, green eyes locked. "Two days east. Bren's sketches match." Her aether lit the village's mark, tying Corin's words to truth. Pine stung my nose, sweat mixed with the forest's weight, the air thick as a purification's fear.
The Clan of the Blackwood gathered, faces hard—Syla's arm bound, Mara's eyes red, Toren's scowl deep. Syla stepped up, voice sharp. "Thornvale fights Montala's greed. We must join them!" Her hands shook, weaver's fire burning despite her wound.
Mara nodded, voice low. "Bren traced their paths for us. Thornvale could break them." Her fingers knotted a thread, grief for Bren etched deep. The clan's murmurs rose, some bold, others fearful, eyes on Rhea, our elder, steady as the earth.
Toren's staff struck the ground, voice rough. "Foolish! We're weak without Bren. Montala will crush us if we stir." His glare swept to Rhea, then me, heavy with doubt. Kael, by his mother, stood pale but firm, small hands clenched tight.
"What's your word, Rhea?" Taryn asked, spear lowered, trusting her. Rhea's gray hair caught the light, her gaze sharp. "Elias saved Lira. Speak, boy." The clan's stares pressed me, grief and fear a weight, but I was no leader, just a kid they heeded.
I faced Corin, aether humming, his breaths quick but true. "Tell us all," I said, throat tight, sweat on my palms. Rhea nodded, voice hard. "Speak, Corin. No lies." The forest's pulse beat heavy, pine and fear choking the air.
Corin swallowed, voice low. "Valerius takes food, children, everything. Thornvale burned a cart—he'll raze them, then you. I saw his orders. I couldn't stay." His hands trembled, eyes locked on mine, raw as the branded scars I'd seen.
Syla's fists clenched, voice fierce. "We can't let Thornvale fall! It's our fight!" Mara nodded. "For Bren," she whispered. Toren scoffed, staff digging deeper. "And draw Valerius's wrath? We're not ready." His words cut, the clan's voices splitting.
"Why'd you flee, Corin?" Rhea snapped, stepping near. "Spying for Montala?" Corin paled. "No! I swear, I hate Valerius. He'd kill me for running. Thornvale fights for freedom—we can too." His voice cracked, fear raw as a purification's dread.
I raised a hand, voice steady despite my racing heart. "He's true—I feel it with aether. We must prepare. Thornvale's fight buys us time—Montala's stretched thin." I turned to Rhea, aether warming my hands, a subtle pulse. "Train with spears, use aether's rhythm, like Bren's weaves."
Rhea nodded, voice sharp. "Lead the training, Elias." Taryn grinned, spear ready. "Show us, kid." We moved to a clearing, logs set as targets, bark rough under my hands. The air smelled of sap and earth, tension sharp as Valerius's gaze.
"Grip the spear like this," I said, holding mine, aether steadying my aim, a current anyone could sense. "Feel the forest's pulse, throw hard." I pulsed aether into my spear, a faint warmth, guiding it true. Taryn threw, his spear cracking the log. "That's it!" he shouted, grin fierce.
Syla, arm stiff, threw next, her spear wobbling. "I'll get it," she growled, eyes blazing. Joren's throw grazed the target, bruises fading. "Bren taught me focus," he said, voice firm. Kael, small but eager, held a short spear. "Like this, Elias?" he asked, eyes wide.
"Right, Kael," I said, adjusting his grip, pulsing aether to warm his hands, steadying him. "Hit the center." The clan's breaths puffed in the cool air, aether's rhythm matching our throws. Elara stood near, green eyes on her map, its glow steady. "Thornvale's real," she said. "We need more."
The clearing rang with spear thuds, sweat stinging with pine. "Keep at it!" I called, voice firm, aether pulsing faintly to guide them. Taryn's next throw split a log. "For Bren!" he roared. Syla's throw landed closer, jaw set. "I'm in," she said, pain fueling her fire.
Joren hit dead-on, voice low. "I'm ready, Elias." Kael's spear wobbled but struck, his face bright. "Did I do it?" he asked, bouncing. "You did," I said, hands steadier, aether's hum lifting the clan's strength like a flame catching, the forest alive.
By afternoon, spears bit deep into logs, the clan's effort fierce. Corin sat under Fael's watch, his story holding, eyes weary but true. I knelt by him, aether sharp. "Valerius comes for us next?" I asked, voice low, heart tight with his warning, Valerius's shadow heavy.
Corin nodded, sweat on his brow. "After Thornvale. He knows your clan's strong, Elias. He's heard your name—calls you a threat." My gut clenched, a chill like the Duke's strained sighs, but I stood. "Stay guarded, Corin. Prove your truth." Rhea nodded, eyes firm.
At the evening fire, smoke sharp, Syla spoke. "Thornvale's our chance to strike Montala's greed." Mara wove a net, threads glinting. "We owe Bren that," she said, eyes red. Toren's voice cut through. "And lose our homes? Valerius won't spare us."
Rhea looked to me, voice hard. "Elias, your thoughts." I stood, hands rough from Lira's blood. "We don't rush, but we don't hide. Montala's busy with Thornvale, like their iron games. Send a scout to learn their strength." I met Elara's green eyes, steady with aether's spark.
"Who's going?" Taryn asked, spear raised. "I'm in—for Bren." Syla nodded, sling tight. "Me too, when I'm healed." Kael stepped up, his mother pulling him back. "I want to help!" he said, voice clear, eyes fierce in the firelight.
Rhea raised a hand. "A scout's wise. Elias, Elara, choose one tomorrow." Mara paused her weaving, voice soft. "Do it right, for Bren." The clan's murmurs turned to nods, faces lit—Syla's fire, Taryn's strength, Kael's spark, aether's pulse strong.
Elara folded her map, its glow fading, and leaned close. "I saw 'trust' in your book, Elias," she whispered, catching an English word from years past. "Bren trusted you. So do I." Her green eyes burned, aether's hum between us, binding our vow.
"Tomorrow, we train harder," I said, fire's heat on my face. Rhea nodded. "Good, Elias." Taryn's spear gleamed, Syla's hands twitched, Kael stood taller. The clan's will grew, a flame from Bren's loss, steady against Valerius's shadow.
Corin sat silent, Fael's spear near. His warning—Valerius knowing my name—cut like a brand's burn. "You're sure he's after me?" I asked, voice low. Corin nodded. "Heard it myself. You're a threat, Elias." My heart raced, aether's chill cold as the Duke's desperation.
The fire cracked, shadows dancing on woven shelters. "We won't break," Elara said, voice clear, green eyes fierce with aether's spark. "We fight, for Bren, for us." The clan nodded, faces set—Syla's grit, Taryn's strength, Kael's courage, ready for what's next.
I looked east, toward Thornvale, where rebellion flared. Valerius's plans closed in, a trap like Montala's iron grip. We'd send a scout, risk capture, but the Blackwood's heart was unbroken, aether's hum our strength, for Bren, for the Architect's truth.