The morning after Kaelith's riders left, Branthollow felt different. The air was heavy, tense, though no one said it out loud. With the scribes gone, the square should have been quiet. Instead, the silence carried weight.
Draven sat on the edge of a low wall near the square. The villagers moved around him, some giving him glances, others smirking. He didn't have to strain to hear them.
"That fool again, cutting a rope.""Did you hear? He fed the girl's goat like it was worth saving.""He'll starve before winter comes."
Draven ignored it, as always. But his jaw tightened.
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At the scribe's empty canopy, farmers lingered, talking in low voices.
"My cousin says marks don't hold as well near the cliffs.""Rubbish. Ink's ink.""Then explain the cow that broke loose last week. Ran all the way to the river, glowing like it swallowed lightning."
Draven's head tilted slightly. He pretended not to listen, but every word sank deep.
By mid-morning, the sun was warm, but the square buzzed with unease. Two old men sat against the same wall, passing a jug between them. Their voices carried more than they realized.
"Storms without clouds, that's what I saw," the first muttered. "Thunder that shook the cliffs, but the sky was clear as glass."
"Anomalies," the other answered grimly. "The ruins stir again."
Draven's eyes flicked their way.
The first spat on the dirt. "Nothing good comes from those ruins. That's where the first chains were dug up. Should've stayed buried."
The second leaned closer, lowering his voice, though it still carried. "Chains, aye… but not only chains. Stones that sing at night. Beasts that glow without ink. I saw it when I was a boy. They said it was cursed, but I remember."
"Bah," the first scoffed. "Too much ale. Those ruins eat men alive. Anyone who enters doesn't return."
Later, while carrying water for Mira and her goat, Draven overheard two women at the well.
"My cousin's husband's hound went strange," one whispered. "It hunted near the ruins. Its eyes burned red. No scribe could bind it after. They had to kill it before it tore through the pen."
The other woman gasped, hand covering her mouth. "Then the stories are true. Anomalies change them."
"They do," the first said firmly. "The Dominion sends soldiers every year. To harvest what they can. Herbs that glow, stones that hum. But they never come back whole. Some don't come back at all."
Draven carried the bucket silently. But his thoughts turned sharp. If chains came from ruins, what else lay buried there?
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That evening, Branthollow's tavern was thick with smoke and chatter. Farmers crowded the tables, mugs clattering, voices rising as ale loosened tongues.
Draven sat in the corner, his cloak drawn, sipping quietly. He wasn't there for company, but company found him anyway.
A drunk farmer stumbled over, breath sour with drink. He slammed a mug on the table and leaned in.
"You… you think beasts are equal, don't you?"
Draven didn't answer.
The man's voice grew louder. "Then tell me this. What about the ones from the ruins? I saw one myself. A wolf, bigger than any hound, its hide cracked like stone with fire burning underneath. No scribe could mark it. They tried, but the ink burned right off. The thing tore through men like paper before they brought it down with spears."
He sat back heavily, shaking his head. "Equal? Hah. Those things aren't equal. They're curses. Walking curses."
Draven's gaze shifted to the tavern fire. Flames hissed, shadows danced across the walls. His mind circled the drunk's words, turning them over and over.
Chains had been found in the ruins. But if the ruins birthed creatures marks could not hold… then they weren't just graves of old power. They were secrets.
And secrets meant answers.
He left the tavern with the drunk man's words echoing in his skull. Outside, the night air was cool, the stars cold and endless overhead.
Draven pulled his cloak tight. "If the truth of this world is buried there," he murmured, "then I'll dig it out myself."