The next morning rose slower than usual, clouds veiling the dawn in muted gray. Darius woke to the sound of rain pattering softly against the thatch above, the rhythm steady, almost like a lullaby. He lay still for a moment, listening to it, his body reluctant to rise from the warmth of his blanket.
When he finally pushed himself upright, the air in the room was damp and cool. The scent of wet earth seeped even through the closed shutters, mingling with the faint smoke of the dying fire in the hearth below. He rubbed his arms against the chill, dragging on his shirt and boots before heading outside.
The yard looked different in the rain—puddles forming in shallow dips, droplets clinging to the wooden fence like strings of glass. The chickens were restless, clucking louder than usual as they jostled inside their coop. Darius fed them quickly, scattering grain with wet fingers, the kernels sticking stubbornly to his skin.
"Storm's heavier in the north," Halden observed, standing beneath the eaves. His father's cloak hung heavy with water, droplets trailing from his beard. "We'll be inside most of the day. A blessing, perhaps—your back could use the rest."
Darius only nodded, though he wasn't sure the rest would bring ease. Rest left him room to think, and lately his thoughts wandered where he didn't want them to go.
They spent the morning repairing tools, sharpening blades dulled by work, patching the roof where leaks threatened. The rhythm of it was comforting in its own way—the scrape of whetstone, the smell of oiled wood, the closeness of family under one roof while the rain thickened outside. Lira sat on the stool, braiding wildflowers she had dried from yesterday, humming tunelessly.
For a time, the world seemed contained, small and safe.
But the safety broke when a fist rapped against the door.
Halden rose first, opening to reveal Joran, one of the village hunters. His face was pale beneath his hood, rain dripping from the brim. "Halden. A word."
Halden stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Darius froze where he sat, straining to hear, but the rain muffled their voices into broken pieces.
"…not returned…"
"…marks by the river…"
"…forest…"
The words were fragments, scattered like shards of glass, but enough to tighten something in Darius' chest. He exchanged a glance with his mother, who kept her hands steady on her sewing but whose eyes flickered briefly toward the door.
When Halden returned, his expression was carved in stone. "Stay in today," he told them. "All of you." His voice carried no room for argument.
The rest of the afternoon stretched uneasily. The rain slowed, but no one suggested going out. Darius tried to busy himself with chores, but every creak of the house, every gust of wind through the shutters, pulled his thoughts back to that hushed conversation.
By evening, the rain had passed, leaving the sky clear and sharp. The village square glistened with puddles, reflecting lantern light like scattered stars. Darius slipped out with the excuse of fetching water. The air smelled of wet pine and damp soil, the freshness almost sharp in his nose.
At the well, he heard them again. Voices. Two men standing near the inn, speaking low, unaware of his presence.
"…tracks led to the treeline…"
"…blood in the mud, but no body…"
"…if the forest is taking them, what chance do we have?"
Darius' breath caught. His fingers tightened on the rope of the bucket until they ached. The men's voices faded as they walked off, leaving only the quiet trickle of water echoing from the well's depths.
He stood there for a long time, staring toward the dark edge where the trees loomed. The forest looked different after rain—shadows heavier, trunks darker, the spaces between them like mouths waiting to swallow.
The ordinary day had ended. He could feel it. The weight of quiet was no longer peace but the silence before something broke.
And in that silence, though faint and fleeting, he thought he heard the forest breathe.