Rowan woke with a jolt.
For a moment he thought he was still falling. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, and his hands clutched at the air as if searching for something to hold. His shirt was damp with sweat. His mouth was dry, and a dull ache spread through his muscles.
Only then did he notice the sound — a single, low bell echoing through the valley outside. One strike, long and hollow, followed by silence.
Rowan sat up slowly. He was lying on a straw mattress in a small wooden hut. A fire burned low in the hearth, the smoke trailing lazily up through a gap in the roof beams. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with a sharp, earthy scent.
He didn't remember coming here. In truth, he didn't remember much of anything beyond flashes: chains, whispers, a strange light. The harder he tried to hold onto them, the faster they slipped away.
A voice pulled him back.
"You wake at last," it said.
Rowan looked up. An old woman stood at the foot of the bed. Her hair was long and white, braided over one shoulder. Her face was lined like cracked stone, but her eyes were bright, sharp, and steady. She leaned on a crooked wooden staff.
"Good," she said simply. "Verdant Hollow has little use for dreamers."
Rowan swallowed, his throat raw. "Where… am I?" he managed.
The woman ignored the question. She turned toward the door, pushing it open with her staff. Light spilled into the hut.
"If you can stand," she said, "you can see the Hollow for yourself."
---
Rowan pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, but he followed her outside.
The sight that met him was unlike anything he expected.
Verdant Hollow stretched out before him, a small village pressed deep into a green valley. Wooden cottages leaned close together, their thatched roofs patched in places with moss. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the smell of burning pine. Dirt roads wound between the homes, uneven and rutted from cart wheels.
The air was alive with sound. Chickens clucked and scratched in the dust. A dog barked, chasing after children who shrieked with laughter. Somewhere, a hammer struck iron again and again, steady as a heartbeat.
Rowan stood still, staring, his chest tight. He had never seen this place before, yet it all felt real — too real. The cool wind against his skin, the smell of earth and woodsmoke, the weight of curious eyes as villagers paused to look his way.
He felt like an intruder.
The old woman — the Elder, Rowan realized — watched him carefully. "This is Verdant Hollow," she said. "It will be your beginning. Nothing more, nothing less."
Rowan frowned. "Beginning of what?"
She did not answer.
---
The Elder left him at the edge of the square, leaning on her staff as if she had other matters to attend. Rowan stood awkwardly, unsure what to do, until a deep laugh rolled across the square.
"New face, eh?"
Rowan turned. A broad-shouldered young man was splitting logs with an axe, each swing sending chips of wood flying. His hair was a tangled mess, his grin wide and easy. Sweat shone on his arms, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Name's Brennar," the man said, resting the axe on his shoulder. "Don't look so lost. First day in the Hollow?"
Rowan hesitated, then nodded.
Brennar chuckled. "Happens to all of us. You'll get used to it. Or you won't. Either way, life goes on." He tossed a split log onto a pile, then waved Rowan closer. "Don't just stand there staring. Come have a drink after I'm done with this, eh? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Before Rowan could reply, a girl ran past, chasing after a goat that had slipped its rope. She laughed, then glanced at Rowan with wide, curious eyes before darting away. A farmer dragging a cart slowed just enough to give Rowan a wary glance.
Everywhere he turned, people noticed him. Some smiled faintly. Others looked suspicious. Rowan felt heat rise in his cheeks. He didn't belong here — not yet.
---
Restless, Rowan drifted away from the square. He followed the sound of running water until he found a narrow river winding past the village's edge. The surface shimmered in the afternoon light.
He crouched by the bank, dipping his fingers into the stream. The water was icy cold, but… something felt strange. As he moved his hand, the water seemed to ripple with him, tugging slightly as if drawn toward his touch.
Rowan froze. He tried again, this time sweeping his fingers slowly. A faint swirl followed, more than what should have been natural.
His heart thumped. Was it his imagination? He pulled his hand back quickly, the surface settling as if nothing had happened.
Before he could think further, the Elder's voice came from behind him.
"Dreams leave marks," she said.
Rowan turned. She was watching him, her face unreadable.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"Only that what is lost is never truly gone," she said, and walked away without another word.
Rowan clenched his fists. Frustration twisted inside him. Everyone seemed to know something he didn't, and none of them would speak plainly.
The bell rang again. This time louder. Sharper.
Rowan looked back toward the village. The air had changed. People stopped what they were doing. Laughter faded. Tools were dropped. A hush rolled through the square like a wave.
Brennar stepped out from behind his woodpile, his grin gone. He gripped his axe tighter and looked toward the gates at the far end of the village.
The Elder stood tall, her staff planted firmly in the dirt. Her eyes narrowed at the sound. "So soon," she muttered.
Rowan's stomach tightened. He didn't know what was coming, but he could feel it — the unease in the villagers, the weight of the bell's call, the sudden shift in the air.
He had woken in a world already on the edge of danger.
And whatever was waiting at the gate, he would face it with them.