Chapter 2: The Meeting Oak
Iaon woke before dawn, fragments of strange dreams still clinging to his consciousness. He'd dreamt of mist—not the ordinary fog that surrounded Misthollow, but something alive, something that whispered without words and reached for him with formless hands. In the dream, he'd reached back.
He shook his head, dispelling the lingering images. Dreams were just dreams, nothing more. Especially in a town where genuine prophetic visions were documented, studied, and verified by the witch coven's Star Witches. His subconscious was simply processing yesterday's odd experiences.
The council meeting was scheduled for mid-morning, but the entire town would gather earlier to hear reports about the weakening mist barrier. Iaon wasn't required to attend—few would notice his absence—but curiosity drove him from bed nonetheless. The eastern boundary had been thinning for months, and neither tradition's approach had succeeded in strengthening it.
He dressed quickly in the pre-dawn darkness and made his way downstairs. His parents had already left; his father to prepare with the other druids, his mother to check on patients before the gathering. A note on the table confirmed what he'd assumed: Meet us at the oak. Bring the blue satchel from my workroom. -Mother
The blue satchel contained Elara's emergency healing supplies—a precaution she always took for large gatherings. Iaon collected it from her workroom, careful not to disturb the precisely arranged herbs and implements that lined the shelves. The room smelled of dried lavender and cedar, with underlying notes of more exotic components. He'd spent countless hours here as a child, watching his mother work, learning what he could despite his inability to sense the magical properties she manipulated so effortlessly.
Outside, the morning mist clung to the ground in thick swirls. Iaon hesitated on the threshold, remembering yesterday's strange behavior. After a moment's consideration, he extended his hand into the pearly grayness.
Nothing happened. The mist neither reached for him nor formed patterns. It simply parted around his fingers like ordinary fog.
"Just my imagination," he muttered, pulling the door closed behind him.
The walk to town took longer than usual. It seemed everyone in Misthollow was heading toward the Meeting Oak, creating unusual congestion on the normally quiet paths. Iaon nodded to familiar faces as he navigated through the crowd. Finn fell into step beside him near the market square, his blacksmith's apprentice clothes already smudged with soot despite the early hour.
"Think they'll actually do something this time?" Finn asked without preamble. "Or just argue about whose magic is better for another three hours?"
Iaon shrugged. "Maybe the fact that the mist is now thin enough to see through in places will motivate them."
"You've seen it?" Finn's eyebrows rose. "The outer boundary?"
"Father took me to the eastern ridge yesterday evening. There are spots where you can almost make out the valley beyond."
Finn whistled low. "That's not good. My father says the last time the mist thinned this much was before we were born. Some traveler actually stumbled into town by accident."
"What happened to them?"
"Memory charm and escort back out, supposedly." Finn lowered his voice. "Though Granna Mabel claims they kept him. Says Old Willem who lives by the north pasture isn't really Widow Tanner's cousin from across the mountains."
Iaon snorted. "Granna Mabel also claims the Meeting Oak talks to her."
"Maybe it does," Finn said with a grin. "Trees talk to the druids, don't they?"
"That's different."
They reached the town center, where the massive Meeting Oak dominated the open space. Already hundreds of Misthollow's residents had gathered beneath its sprawling branches. The tree was ancient beyond reckoning, its trunk wide enough that fifteen people holding hands could barely encircle it. Its roots broke through the ground throughout the town center, creating natural benches and defining the space where the community gathered.
The hollow within the trunk—large enough to hold the twelve-member council comfortably—had its door open, revealing glimpses of the preparations inside. Archdruid Rowan's deep voice carried occasionally over the murmur of the crowd, though Iaon couldn't make out the words.
"There's my father," Finn said, nodding toward the smithy's delegation. "I should join them. Find me after?"
Iaon agreed and continued pushing through the crowd, searching for his parents. He found his mother near the front, kneeling beside an elderly man who appeared to be having trouble breathing.
"Just in time," Elara said as Iaon approached. "The blue vial, please."
He opened the satchel and located the vial immediately, handing it to his mother. She administered three drops under the old man's tongue, and his breathing eased almost instantly.
"Thank you, Healer," the man wheezed. "Don't know what came over me. The crowd, perhaps."
"Rest here a while, Willem," Elara advised. "The effects will last through the meeting."
As the old man settled back against one of the oak's exposed roots, Iaon leaned closer to his mother. "Is that the Willem that Granna Mabel claims is actually a lost traveler they kept?"
Elara's eyes crinkled with amusement. "That story again? Willem was born right here in Misthollow. I know because my mother delivered him." She closed her healing kit. "Though I suppose that wouldn't stop Mabel's tales. She needs something to discuss over tea besides her grandchildren's accomplishments."
A hush fell over the crowd as the council members emerged from the oak's hollow. Six figures arranged themselves in a semicircle facing the gathered townspeople—three from the druidic circle, three from the witch coven. The Balance Council, responsible for Misthollow's governance since its founding centuries ago.
Archdruid Rowan Oakenheart stood slightly forward of the others, his weathered face solemn beneath a crown of silver hair. Though well into his seventies, he stood straight as the oaks he tended, his eyes clear and sharp as they surveyed the crowd.
"People of Misthollow," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the gathering. "We thank you for coming. As many of you know, the eastern boundary of our protective mist has weakened significantly in recent months. Today, we must discuss what this means for our community and the steps we must take."
High Witch Sylvia Blackthorn stepped forward to stand beside him. Where Rowan was tall and lean, Sylvia was compact and sturdy, her salt-and-pepper hair bound in intricate braids wrapped around her head like a crown. Gold symbols embroidered her deep purple robes, glinting in the morning light.
"The council has conducted extensive examinations of the boundary," she said, her voice sharper than Rowan's but no less commanding. "We have confirmed that the thinning is not a natural fluctuation but a persistent degradation. At the current rate, sections of the eastern boundary may fail entirely within two months."
A murmur of alarm rippled through the crowd. The protective mist had stood for centuries, hiding Misthollow from the outside world and confusing those who might stumble upon it. The thought of it failing was almost inconceivable.
"What's causing it?" someone called from the crowd.
Rowan and Sylvia exchanged glances, a silent negotiation passing between them.
"We have theories," Rowan said carefully, "but no certainties. The mist is ancient magic, woven by the founders from both our esoteric teachings. Some aspects of its creation have been... lost to time."
"Lost?" The question came from a tall woman near the front, her voice skeptical. "Or deliberately obscured?"
Iaon recognized her as Mistress Nightshade, a senior witch and aunt to Lyra, whom he'd met yesterday. Her question carried an edge that suggested old arguments.
"This is not the time for historical debates, Lilith," Sylvia said firmly. "The immediate concern is strengthening the boundary before any gaps appear."
"And how do you propose to do that?" Mistress Nightshade pressed. "The coven has submitted three different proposals, all rejected by the druidic representatives."
"Because they relied too heavily on binding magic," countered Elder Thorne, a grizzled druid with a wild beard streaked with gray. "The mist is not something to be chained and controlled. It must be nurtured."
"The same nurturing approach that has failed to stop the thinning for months?" Mistress Nightshade's voice dripped with disdain.
The crowd's murmuring grew louder as the old tensions between magical disciplines resurfaced. Iaon glanced up at the Meeting Oak's branches, remembering how one had seemed to bend toward him yesterday. Today they remained still, though the leaves rustled despite the lack of wind.
"Enough." Archdruid Rowan's voice cut through the rising noise. "This division serves no one. The council has agreed to implement elements from both approaches. Elder Thorne and Warden Corvus will lead a joint working at the eastern boundary tonight."
Iaon spotted Warden Corvus standing slightly apart from the other council members. Tall and severe, with dark hair streaked dramatically with white, she served as the coven's boundary specialist. Her expression remained impassive, though Iaon thought he detected a flicker of something—displeasure? concern?—when Rowan mentioned the joint working.
"In the meantime," High Witch Sylvia continued, "we ask all residents to report any unusual occurrences, particularly near the eastern boundary. Changes in animal behavior, plant growth, or unexplained magical phenomena should be brought to the attention of either arcane practice immediately."
As the council continued outlining precautionary measures, Iaon found his attention wandering. Something about the Meeting Oak called to him, a subtle awareness he couldn't quite define. He studied its massive trunk, the intricate patterns of its bark, the way its roots pushed up through the earth in graceful arcs.
Had that root always curved that way? He could have sworn it had been straight yesterday, forming a natural bench where Elder Moss often sat. Now it curved upward, almost like a question mark.
A strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck, and he looked up. The branches above him swayed gently, though those over other sections of the crowd remained still. As he watched, the nearest branch—thick as his waist and at least twelve feet above—subtly curved downward.
Toward him.
This time, he didn't blink or look away. The branch continued its impossible movement, bending slowly but unmistakably in his direction. Not enough for others to notice, focused as they were on the council's announcements, but undeniable to his direct observation.
Something stirred in his mind—not words, not images, but impressions. Curiosity. Recognition. A question without language.
"Iaon?" His mother's voice broke through his trance. "Are you well? You've gone pale."
He tore his gaze from the branch, which had stopped moving. "I'm fine. Just... thinking about the implications."
Elara studied his face for a moment but didn't press further. "Your father will join the eastern boundary working tonight. I've been asked to prepare healing supplies in case the magical energies become unstable."
"Is that likely?" Iaon asked, grateful for the distraction.
"Not likely, but possible. Combining druidic and witch workings can be... unpredictable."
The meeting was concluding, the crowd beginning to disperse as people returned to their daily tasks with new concerns to discuss. Iaon spotted Finn waiting at the edge of the square and was about to join him when a voice spoke from behind.
"The oak seems interested in you today."
He turned to find Lyra Nightshade standing there, her green eyes thoughtful as they studied him. Today she wore the blue-gray robes of an apprentice Star Witch, her auburn hair braided more elaborately than yesterday.
"What do you mean?" Iaon asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
"The branches." She gestured upward. "They've been following you since you arrived. I noticed during the meeting."
Iaon's heart quickened. "Trees move all the time."
"Not like that." Lyra glanced around to ensure no one was listening closely. "The Meeting Oak is semi-sentient—most people know that. But it rarely takes interest in specific individuals unless they're powerful practitioners or council members."
"Then you've mistaken what you saw," Iaon said firmly. "I'm about as magical as that cobblestone."
Lyra's expression suggested she wasn't convinced, but she didn't argue. Instead, she changed the subject. "What did you think of the council's plan?"
"I think they're still more focused on whose approach is better than on actually solving the problem."
A smile tugged at her lips. "Direct, aren't you? Most people wouldn't criticize the council's decisions so openly."
"I'm not criticizing. Just observing." Iaon shrugged. "It seems obvious they should have been combining approaches from the beginning instead of arguing for months while the mist continued thinning."
"Sometimes the obvious solutions are the hardest to see when you're entrenched in tradition." Lyra glanced toward where her aunt was engaged in intense conversation with several other witches. "Especially when pride is involved."
Before Iaon could respond, a tall young woman approached them. She shared Lyra's features but with sharper edges, her expression serious beneath short-cropped dark hair. Unlike Lyra's witch robes, she wore the practical leather and earth-toned fabric of the druidic circle.
"Lyra," she said, her voice clipped. "Aunt Lilith is looking for you. Something about star charts for tonight's working."
"I'll be right there, Briar." Lyra turned back to Iaon. "My sister, Briar. Briar, this is Iaon."
Briar gave him a cursory nod, her amber eyes assessing and dismissing him in the same moment. "Thaddeus's son. The one without magic."
Iaon had heard the description countless times throughout his life, but something about her tone—not cruel, merely matter-of-fact—made him bristle. "That's me. The village disappointment."
"I didn't say that," Briar replied, unperturbed by his sarcasm. "Being non-magical isn't a failing, just a fact. Like having brown hair or being right-handed."
"Briar has all the tact of a charging boar," Lyra said with a sigh. "But she means well. Usually."
"We need to go," Briar said, ignoring her sister's comment. "The eastern working requires precise calculations, and Aunt Lilith is already impatient."
"I'll see you around, Iaon," Lyra said as her sister practically dragged her away. "Maybe at the Herbarium again?"
He nodded, watching them go—Lyra with a final smile over her shoulder, Briar straight-backed and focused ahead. An interesting contrast, those sisters. As different as their chosen esoteric teachings.
Finn appeared at his side. "Making friends with the Nightshade sisters? Ambitious."
"Hardly," Iaon said. "Just a conversation."
"Well, Lyra seemed friendly enough. Briar looked like she'd rather be anywhere else, but that's normal for her." Finn grinned. "Want to head to the eastern ridge later? See this thinning mist for ourselves?"
Iaon hesitated, remembering the strange behavior of the mist yesterday morning. "I don't think that's a good idea. The council specifically asked people to stay away while they prepare for tonight's working."
"Since when do you care what the council says?" Finn nudged him with an elbow. "Come on, we'll be careful. Don't you want to see what's out there? Beyond the valley?"
"Not particularly," Iaon lied. In truth, he'd often wondered about the world beyond Misthollow, but something about the thinning mist unsettled him deeply. "Besides, I promised to help my mother prepare healing supplies for tonight."
Finn looked disappointed but didn't press. "Another time, then. I should get back to the forge anyway. Father's working on components for the boundary strengthening."
As they parted ways, Iaon found himself looking back at the Meeting Oak. From this distance, its branches appeared perfectly normal, swaying slightly in the morning breeze. No one would believe they had moved deliberately, reaching toward him with apparent curiosity.
No one except Lyra Nightshade, who had noticed when no one else did.
He turned away, pushing the thought aside. He had work to do, preparations to help with. The strange behavior of trees and mist would have to wait.
But as he walked home, he couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted—that the world he'd known all his life had somehow changed overnight, and he was only beginning to notice.