The first breath of dawn crept through the shutters of the Ashwood cottages, and in Darius' small room, light fell in broken stripes across the worn wooden floor. He stirred before the sun fully rose, not because of any rooster's cry or village bell, but because years of habit had taught his body when morning came. His bed creaked as he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and for a moment he lingered in the hush between dream and waking.
The air was cool, carrying with it the faint dampness of the night that clung to the timbers. He inhaled slowly, the scent of smoke from last night's fire lingering in the hearth outside his room, mingled with the faint sweetness of rye bread his mother must have left to rise overnight. His chest tightened with something he couldn't name — not quite joy, not quite weariness. Just the familiar heaviness of living another day the same as yesterday.
He dragged a hand through his dark, unkempt hair and swung his legs to the floor, toes brushing against the smooth grain of the wood. His father's voice rumbled faintly from the main room, already awake, already at work with the same certainty as the sun itself. Darius paused, listening to the cadence of it — low, steady, like a plow turning the earth. Comforting. Predictable.
"Up already?" His mother's voice followed, softer but edged with the briskness of morning chores. He could almost see her moving about the hearth, her hands quick and practiced, the sound of kindling catching fire marking the start of their day.
Darius didn't answer yet. Instead, he let the silence stretch in his little room, as though savoring the last moment that still belonged only to him. When he finally stood, his body ached the way it always did — not from wounds or hard labor, but from the ordinary stiffness of growing into himself.
He pulled on his tunic, the linen rough against his skin, smelling faintly of ash and soap from the last wash. His hands lingered on the hem for a moment before he stepped out into the main room, where the smells of warmth and life struck him all at once — smoke, bread, the faint earthy tang of onions his mother had set to dry near the window.
His father was at the table already, broad-shouldered, his face weathered like leather left too long in the sun. He was mending a harness strap, knife and awl moving with deliberate rhythm. His mother, apron tied tight, turned at the sound of Darius' footsteps and gave him a smile that was quick, small, but real.
"Morning," Darius said, his voice rasping slightly from sleep.
"Morning," his father replied without looking up, though his tone carried the faintest approval. His mother only nodded, gesturing to the stool near the hearth where a bowl of porridge waited.
Darius sat, the wooden stool cold beneath him. He lifted the spoon, the porridge steaming faintly, its scent plain but comforting. He blew across the surface, watching the ripples disturb the thin skin forming on top. When he took his first bite, it was bland, but the warmth of it filled him.
Silence stretched across the room. It wasn't uncomfortable silence — their household rarely wasted words on mornings. Instead, the quiet was stitched together with the small sounds of life: the crackle of firewood, the scrape of his father's tools, the faint whistle of the wind squeezing through the gaps in the shutters.
Darius ate slowly, his eyes drifting toward the window where the light of dawn crept higher, brushing the rooftops of Ashwood beyond. He felt the pull of the day waiting for him — chores, errands, the same endless cycle — and with it, the faintest prickle of something else. A restlessness he didn't speak aloud, but which had been sitting beneath his ribs for months now.
When Darius finally stepped out into the morning air, Ashwood greeted him with the kind of quiet bustle that marked the village's rhythm. The sun had climbed just above the treetops, painting the thatched roofs in gold, while the shadows of the great Ashwood forest still clung stubbornly to the edges of the fields.
He pulled his cloak tighter against the faint bite of the dawn breeze. The air smelled of damp earth, of woodsmoke curling from chimneys, and of the faint sweetness of apple blossoms drifting down from the orchard beyond the square. It was a smell he had known all his life, yet today it caught in his throat as though reminding him that time passed whether he noticed or not.
The lane outside his family's cottage was already stirring. Old Bram, stooped nearly in half, leaned on his cane while waving two chickens back into their coop, muttering curses under his breath that Darius only half-heard. Further down, a pair of children chased each other barefoot through the mud, laughter sharp and bright in the cool morning air. Their mother scolded them from the doorway, though her scolding was softened by a smile she didn't bother hiding.
The square itself had begun to fill. Merchants from the neighboring hamlets laid out their wares on rough cloth — vegetables still beaded with dew, cuts of salted pork, jars of honey that glimmered in the light. A cooper rolled barrels toward the tavern, the hollow thud of wood on packed dirt echoing louder than it had any right to. Somewhere, a dog barked, then another answered, their argument carried on the wind.
Darius walked slowly, not in any hurry, letting the village unfold around him. People nodded as he passed, some offering greetings, others too busy with their work to look up. He caught snatches of conversation, the kind that stitched together the life of Ashwood:
"…cows broke the fence again, and if Jerrin doesn't fix it…"
"…the new priest says we'll need another offering before the end of the season…"
"…did you hear about the lights near the southern ridge? No, no, I'm not saying it's true, only that Maren swears she saw—"
Darius' steps slowed at that last one, his ears pricking though he tried not to show it. He turned his head just enough to see two women at a stall, their heads bent close, eyes darting as though they'd spoken something they shouldn't. When they noticed him glance their way, they smiled too quickly, lifting their voices to talk instead about bread and wool as though the other words hadn't been spoken at all.
He moved on, but the edge of their voices clung to him like a burr.
The blacksmith's forge roared nearby, the air thick with the tang of iron and sweat. Sparks leapt as the hammer came down, the sound striking like a heartbeat against the steady murmur of the village. The blacksmith himself, a broad man with arms like oaken beams, gave Darius a brief nod before returning to his work, each strike ringing with the weight of a life that never changed.
And yet… beneath the rhythm, Darius felt something unsaid. Not in words, but in the pauses between them. People smiled, but their eyes lingered too long on the shadows that pooled at the treeline. Laughter came easy, but hushed quickly when footsteps approached. Ashwood lived and breathed as it always had, but somewhere in its chest was a hesitation, a breath held too long.
He stopped near the well, leaning on its worn stones, and dipped a bucket for water. The rope creaked as he hauled it up, droplets splattering against his hands, cold enough to sting. He drank deeply, the chill running down his throat and waking him fully, though he almost wished it hadn't. For in the moment he lowered the bucket, he heard again those whispers echoing at the edge of the square:
"…they say the ground itself moved… under the old barrows…"
He turned his head sharply, but whoever had spoken was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Darius straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The water was clean, the morning bright, and life went on in Ashwood as it always had. Yet his chest tightened again with that same unnameable feeling, heavier this time.
Darius left the well behind and made his way further into the square, the cobblestones uneven beneath his boots. He knew every dip and crack in them; he'd stumbled across them often enough as a boy. Now, each step carried him past pieces of life he'd seen a thousand times, yet today they all seemed to weigh differently, as though the village carried some secret he hadn't been taught to see until this morning.
At the baker's stall, Mistress Elna stood with her sleeves dusted white, her hair pulled back beneath a kerchief. She greeted him warmly, pressing a roll into his hand without charge, the crust still hot from the oven.
"You've grown taller again, lad," she said, squinting up at him with eyes that never missed a thing.
"Or maybe you've grown smaller," Darius replied, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.
Her laughter rang out, full and unrestrained, and for a moment it cut through the heaviness in his chest. But just as quickly, she leaned closer, her smile faltering.
"Keep close to your family, Darius," she murmured, voice so low the sound of clattering barrels nearly drowned it out. "The world's not as safe as it used to be."
Before he could answer, she straightened, laughter returning as though the words had never been spoken, turning to sell a loaf to the next customer. Darius stared at the roll in his hand, its warmth seeping into his palm, and felt the unease root itself deeper inside him.
He drifted toward the tannery next, where the air was thick with the sting of chemicals and the sharpness of leather. Master Corin was hunched over his bench, hands blackened with work. He barely looked up, only muttering, "Mornin'," before returning to his stitching. His apprentice, a boy not much younger than Darius, gave him a nod and a half-smile, though his eyes were ringed with sleeplessness.
"You alright?" Darius asked.
The boy blinked at him, as though surprised by the question, then forced a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Just… long nights."
Darius thought of pressing, but the boy had already bent back to his work, fingers moving quick, as if speed alone could chase something away.
He walked on.
By midday the square was full. Farmers from the outlying fields had arrived with carts of turnips, grain sacks, and wool. The tavern spilled laughter and ale-sour songs into the street. Children darted between legs, chasing each other with sticks and squealing when caught. It was Ashwood at its liveliest, familiar enough that Darius should have felt anchored. Instead, it all felt like a curtain drawn across a stage, too carefully arranged to hide what lurked behind it.
He paused at the edge of the market, watching a pair of hunters lay out freshly caught rabbits. One of them — a man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw — spoke low to his companion. Darius couldn't catch every word, but fragments reached him over the noise:
"…tracks too large… not wolf, not bear…"
"…vanished into the ground… just gone…"
When they noticed his gaze, both men fell silent, their eyes sharpening. One gave him a curt nod before busying himself with his catch. Darius looked away quickly, heat rising in his face though he'd done nothing but listen.
He moved on again, weaving through the press of villagers, yet the words clung to him like the smell of tallow — impossible to scrub away.
Near the edge of the square, he found himself at the old shrine, its stones worn smooth by decades of weather and hands. The new priest, Father Alric, stood there speaking with a knot of villagers. His voice was gentle, but Darius noticed how the people leaned in close, as though desperate to catch every syllable. When he passed, the words drifted faintly to him:
"…keep your faith steady… light always burns, even beneath the earth…"
The villagers nodded, murmuring, crossing themselves with hurried hands. Darius slowed, his gaze lingering on their faces. There it was again — the fear they tried to hide, revealed only in the furrow of brows, the set of jaws, the way eyes darted toward the forest's edge.
The roll from Mistress Elna was still warm in his hand, but his stomach had turned.
By the time the sun began its slow slide westward, Darius' arms ached pleasantly from work. He had spent the better part of the afternoon helping his father mend the fence along the northern pasture, the scent of split pine lingering on his clothes. The work was steady, the kind that left little room for thought, yet even as his muscles strained and sweat prickled down his back, fragments of overheard words returned again and again, like gnats refusing to leave him in peace.
Lights near the ridge.
The ground itself moved.
Tracks too large… vanished into the earth.
Each phrase pressed against him, refusing to fade. He wanted to laugh at them, to dismiss them as nothing more than gossip, but each had been spoken with that same nervous urgency, the kind that no smile could quite cover.
When the fence was finished, his father clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture solid, grounding. "Good work," he said simply, and the praise warmed Darius even as unease curled beneath it.
They walked back toward the cottage together, the sky bleeding into shades of amber and rose. The village still bustled, though the edge had softened; smoke curled higher from hearths, the day's labors closing like shutters on windows. Children's laughter rang out one last time before mothers called them in, and the market stalls packed up beneath the drone of evening insects.
Darius carried a bucket of water, its weight biting into his fingers. Passing the tavern, he slowed as voices spilled into the street, rougher now, edged with ale.
"…tell you, Rellen swore it was a shadow, wings wider than the roof of the barn—"
"…nonsense. He drinks too deep, that one."
"…still, the ridge… best not to wander there at night…"
Darius' grip on the bucket tightened, the slosh of water nearly spilling. He kept walking, his father a few steps ahead, but his heart gave a small, uneven beat that no physical labor could explain.
At home, his mother had stew simmering, the rich scent of onions and venison filling the small room. The warmth was immediate, a cocoon against the fading light, and Darius let himself sink into it — the scrape of bowls, the soft clink of spoons, the quiet murmur of family words that needed no weight to carry meaning.
For a time, he forgot the whispers. For a time, he was only Darius of Ashwood, son of a farmer, eating stew by firelight.
But later, when the bowls were cleaned and the house quiet, he stepped outside again. The air had cooled, touched by the damp breath of the forest. Crickets sang from the grass, steady and unbroken, yet the stillness beyond the tree line pressed against his senses.
The village seemed to hold its breath.
Darius tilted his head, straining for some sound — laughter, a dog's bark, a call from one neighbor to another. Instead, he heard only the faint murmur of voices carried on the wind. Too soft to catch fully, yet sharp enough to raise the hair on his arms.
"…beneath the earth…"
"…not meant for us to see…"
"…best not spoken at all…"
He turned, scanning the square, but the villagers who'd passed in hushed knots earlier were gone. Only shadows moved now, long and patient.
Darius drew his cloak tighter, breathing deep to steady himself. The air was clean, rich with earth and smoke and grass, the smells of home. Everything looked the same. Everything was as it should be.
And yet, beneath the calm of Ashwood's night, something else lingered — unspoken, unseen, but present all the same.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his steps back toward the door. The wood groaned as he pulled it closed behind him, sealing the warmth of his home against the quiet outside.
The night deepened. The whispers did not follow him in.
But he could not shake the feeling that they had been waiting for him to listen.