Brennar let two villagers hook their arms under his and steer him toward the healer's hut. He was grinning like a fool, even with blood soaking the torn shoulder of his tunic.
"Bah, it's a scratch," he said, and winced when the healer snapped, "Hold still," and pressed a clean cloth hard against the bite.
Ari didn't wait. She slipped away from the square without a word, cloak cutting a thin line through the crowd. Rowan saw the frayed bowstring at her shoulder, the empty look of her quiver, and guessed her path: the stalls near the forge, where the fletcher kept bundles of arrows leaning like reeds.
Rowan stayed where he was, sword limp in his hand. The cheers had died. The square smelled of smoke and wet fur. Villagers dragged the last of the wolf carcasses toward the gate. No one looked happy. No one looked at him for long.
A staff tapped stone beside him.
"Walk with me," the Elder said.
Rowan followed. They left the mutters and the clatter of tools behind, passing the small cottages and the shadow of the palisade. Verdant Hollow softened at its edges. A narrow stream ran there, slow and clear, feeding a shallow pool before it slipped out toward the river beyond the wall. Lantern hooks stood empty. Starlight gathered on the water.
They reached a flat, sun-warmed rock by the pool. The Elder eased himself down and nodded for Rowan to sit. For a while they just listened to the quiet splash of the stream over stone.
"You felt it," the Elder said at last.
Rowan stared at the water. His voice came out rough. "It moved when I raised my arm. The river… it answered me. I didn't mean to call it. I didn't even know how."
"That is the Flicker," the Elder said. "The first spark of power. Bright enough to be seen. Too fragile to hold."
Rowan's mouth was dry. He saw his reflection break and heal again in the ripples. "Then what am I?"
"Be careful how you name yourself," the Elder said. "Names harden into chains. You are a boy who called the water once. That is all you must carry for now."
Rowan swallowed. "The soldiers. The wolves. Did they come because of me?"
"When a soul Flickers, it shines," the Elder said quietly. "To some, it is a sign to guard. To others, a scent of blood in the water. The Beast Master did not wander by chance. He felt your spark, raw and untrained. He came to snuff it out."
Guilt rose sharp in Rowan's chest. He pictured the square. The bodies. The eyes that wouldn't meet his. "So it's my fault."
"No." The Elder's voice hardened. "You did not choose the Flicker. But your staying will choose what follows. If you remain, more will come. Stronger than wolves. Stronger than what we can hold at this gate."
Rowan tore his gaze from the water. "Then I leave, and Verdant Hollow is safe."
"For a time," the Elder said. "But hear me, Rowan: this is not exile. It is a road you must take to live. And you will not walk it alone."
Rowan frowned. "Brennar."
"Yes." The Elder's eyes were steady. "He is Awakened. He tried to hide it out of loyalty to this place, but tonight tore the cover away. The world saw him. It will remember. The Hollow cannot shield him now."
"And the archer? Ari?" Rowan asked.
"She has walked this path longer than either of you," the Elder said. "Her power is quiet, but real. She knows the weight of being seen."
Rowan rubbed his palms on his knees. "So I'm like them."
"Not yet," the Elder said. "You are a candle in a wind. If it's left as it is, the flame dies—or it burns the hand that holds it. You need shape. Practice. Guidance."
Rowan looked back toward the village. Through the healer's open door he could see Brennar's broad back, the line of his jaw set as the healer stitched the bite. People crowded the threshold and then pretended not to, drawn by something they feared and admired. A pair of boys peered in and whispered. One made a fist and laughed; the other shook his head and pulled him away.
"Will they hate me?" Rowan asked, voice small.
"Some will fear you," the Elder said. "Fear is the name they give to what they don't understand—and what can break them. Let it pass through you, not into you."
Rowan nodded, though the words felt too large to hold. He pushed himself to his feet.
"What do I do now?"
"Rest," the Elder said. "Eat. Say what goodbyes you wish to say. At dawn, you leave. With Brennar. Find the road that runs north along the river. Follow it to the stone bridge. Someone will meet you there."
"Who?" Rowan asked.
"A friend we still have," the Elder said. "While we still have them."
They walked back together without speaking. The Hollow had quieted. Torches stood in fresh sockets along the wall. Women swept the square. A man knelt in the mud, gathering the iron heads of broken spears into a basket. When Rowan passed, he dropped his eyes and made the sign some used to ward off bad luck. Rowan kept moving.
The healer's door stood open. Brennar sat on the edge of a table, shirt off, shoulder wrapped tight, grinning at the woman who scolded him.
"Hold the sling or I'll sew it to your neck," she said.
"Do it," Brennar said. "Then I won't lose it."
He caught sight of Rowan and hopped down too fast. The sling swung; he bit back a curse, then laughed at himself.
"You look less dead," Brennar said. "Good. I was starting to think I'd be carrying you north."
"North?" Rowan asked.
Brennar's grin crooked. "You didn't think we'd stay, did you?"
Rowan looked at the bandage turning pink where the bite bled through. "Does it… hurt?"
"Like fire," Brennar said cheerfully. "Which is to say, it makes me feel alive." He clapped Rowan's arm with his good hand. "You did well tonight."
"I almost hit a man," Rowan said.
"You didn't," Brennar said. "Next time, don't almost." He tilted his head, studying Rowan's empty hands. "Where's your weapon?"
"I gave it back," Rowan said. "It didn't feel like mine."
Brennar snorted. "Then find one that does."
A soft footstep behind them. Ari had returned. A new string sang tight against her bow. A fresh quiver lay across her back, fletchings clean and sharp. She didn't bother with greetings. She dropped a wrapped bundle across Rowan's arms. It landed with a dull thump.
He blinked and pulled the cloth away. A harpoon lay inside—iron head with twin barbs, ash-wood shaft, a coil of rope neatly bound at the butt. It was not elegant. It was not pretty. It was solid.
"That's for fishing," Rowan said.
"It was," Ari said. "Now it's for staying alive."
He turned it in his hands. It felt awkward at first. Then less so. The weight shifted and settled, like it had found its place.
"Try it," Ari said.
Rowan frowned. "Here?"
"Here," she said, and walked him three steps into a patch of open ground. "Feet apart. Left forward. Don't swing it like a club. Thrust. Short and straight."
He raised the harpoon. The rope brushed his wrist. He jabbed too high. Ari clicked her tongue.
"Again."
He jabbed. The head thudded into nothing, but his arms lined up better this time.
"Again."
He stabbed forward. The point cut the air. His shoulders loosened.
"Now draw," Ari said.
"Pull it back?"
"Pull them back," she said, nodding toward the rope. "You throw one day; you miss. The rope saves you. Learn the feel of it."
Rowan let the shaft slide in his palm, felt the line's roughness against his fingers, imagined the give of water as the head bit and the pull as he hauled it home. A strange calm settled over him. Reach, strike, return. He could learn this. He could.
Ari pressed something else into his hand. A heavy leather pouch sloshed softly.
"What's this?" Rowan asked.
"Water," she said.
He stared at her. "I can see that."
Her face didn't change. "We don't know how your power works yet. Maybe you need to touch it. Maybe having it near you is enough. Either way—keep it full. Keep it close. The river won't always be waiting."
Rowan nodded, feeling foolish and grateful at once. "Why help me?"
"Because I dislike waste," she said. "I pulled you out of a wolf's mouth. If you die tomorrow, that will annoy me." She turned away, then looked back once. "You owe me."
Brennar laughed. "She says that to everyone. Don't worry. You'll earn the debt and hate her for it later."
Ari ignored him. Her eyes were on Rowan's grip. "Lower your elbow," she said. "Good. You don't have the arms for a sword, and you won't outmuscle anything that hunts by night. Use reach. Use timing. And when you can, use water. Not to show off. To live."
Rowan swallowed. "I'll try."
"Don't try," Ari said, already stepping away. "Do."
The healer called Brennar back inside to change the bandage. He rolled his eyes at Rowan. "See? Cold as the river and twice as sharp. You'll get used to it." He started to go, then paused and leaned close. "We're leaving, you know."
"I know," Rowan said.
"You scared?" Brennar asked.
"Yes," Rowan said.
"Good. Means you're not stupid." Brennar flashed a grin and went inside.
Rowan stood a while longer with the harpoon in his hands. He could hear the stream at the edge of the square. He took the pouch to the pool and knelt, opening the cap. Water slid in, dark and smooth. When he lifted it, a few drops slipped over his knuckles. The skin there prickled, like the river had touched his blood and found something it recognized.
He breathed out slowly and filled the pouch to the top.
Ari reappeared out of the dim, as silent as mist. She looked him over: the weapon balanced, the pouch tied, the boy still standing. She gave one short, satisfied nod.
"In the morning we leave. Heal. Rest. Eat. So we are ready."
Rowan glanced toward the small windows lit warm behind thin curtains, the low murmur of tired voices, the hammer at the forge tapping a final nail into the gate. He didn't know if he would ever see those lights again. He didn't know if Verdant Hollow would welcome him, if he returned with the river in his hands.
He tied the water pouch tight against his belt and set the harpoon along his shoulder. The rope brushed his wrist again, a small weight, a small promise.
"Morning," he said, mostly to himself.
The stream went on whispering in the dark.