Chapter 3: The Elderwood's Embrace
The last sliver of sun dipped below the jagged horizon, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and fading orange. Night fell swiftly in the wastes, bringing with it a deeper chill and the unsettling chorus of unseen creatures. Kaelen moved faster now, the dust from the rockslide settling, revealing the faint, winding path to Oakhaven. His head still throbbed, a dull, persistent ache behind his eyes, a reminder of the Threads he had strained. The cost of his power was always paid, sometimes immediately, sometimes in the quiet hours of the night.
He could hear the remaining two raiders behind him, their shouts growing fainter as they struggled with the terrain and their injured companion. They wouldn't give up easily, not with the promise of the Elderwood saplings in Oakhaven. Those saplings, rare and precious, were more than just wood; they were a symbol of life, a defiance against the encroaching desert. They hummed with a faint, pure energy that even Kaelen, with his connection to the Threads, could barely perceive.
As he neared Oakhaven, the air grew subtly warmer, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. A small, flickering light appeared in the distance – the village. It was a cluster of low, sturdy buildings, huddled together like sheep against the vast, indifferent landscape. A single watchtower, crude but effective, stood guard, its silhouette stark against the twilight sky.
He approached cautiously, not wanting to startle the villagers. Even in this remote corner of the world, strangers were often met with suspicion, sometimes with violence. He moved to the edge of the small, makeshift wall that surrounded Oakhaven, a barrier of rough-hewn logs and packed earth. He felt the Threads here, too, a tighter, more communal weave. They spoke of resilience, of shared struggle, and of a fragile, stubborn hope.
A figure emerged from the shadows near the gate, a gnarled old man with a bow clutched in his trembling hands. Old Man Borin. Kaelen recognized him. Borin's eyes, though clouded with age, were sharp with suspicion.
"Who goes there?" Borin's voice was raspy, but firm.
Kaelen stepped into the faint light of the watchtower, raising his empty hands. "It's Kaelen, Borin. From the Sunken City."
Borin squinted, then his eyes widened in recognition. "Kaelen? By the Ancestors, what brings you here at this hour? And… you look like you've wrestled a sand-wyrm."
"Raiders," Kaelen said, his voice low. "Three of them. They're heading this way. I dealt with one, but the other two are still coming. They'll be here before dawn."
Borin's face hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening. "Raiders? Here? What do they want?"
"The Elderwood saplings," Kaelen replied, his gaze sweeping over the small, protected grove within the village walls. The saplings, no taller than a man's knee, glowed faintly in the dim light, a beacon of life. "And… perhaps anything else they can take."
A wave of fear rippled through the small group of villagers who had gathered, drawn by Borin's voice. Whispers spread, a low murmur of dread. Kaelen felt their fear, a cold knot in the communal weave of the Threads. He also felt a surge of something else, a protective instinct he rarely acknowledged. He was here for Elara, but these people, their fragile hope, resonated with a part of him he kept locked away.
"We don't have much to fight with," a young woman's voice trembled from the crowd.
"We have the walls," Borin declared, his voice gaining strength. "And we have each other. Kaelen, you said you 'dealt with' one. How?"
Kaelen hesitated. Explaining the Threads, the cost, the subtle manipulations, was a waste of precious time. He needed to act, not explain. "A rockslide. They're disoriented. But they'll be here soon. We need to prepare."
He looked at the small, frightened faces, then at the Elderwood saplings. This wasn't just about Elara anymore. This was about the fragile spark of life in a dying world, a spark he, a Weaver of fate, felt compelled to protect. His mind, ever calculative, began to assess the village's defenses, the villagers' strengths, the weaknesses of the raiders he had glimpsed. The Threads of this night were tightening, weaving a battle he had not sought, but one he would see through to its bitter end. The sun was gone, and the real darkness was yet to come.