Dawn broke over Emberwood not with triumph, but with exhaustion. The rising sun revealed the village in the harsh, unflattering light of day, a canvas of scorched timber, trampled fields, and the grim, determined faces of its people. The pyres had burned through the night, one for the goblin corpses, a larger, somber one for their own dead. The air still carried the ghost of smoke and a sorrow so thick it was a taste on the tongue.
Kael had not slept. He had worked through the dark hours, his body moving with a weary automatism, helping to reinforce the palisade where the goblins had broken through, hauling debris, and standing a silent watch on the repaired tower. The sword, once again a dead weight at his hip, was a constant reminder of the fracture in his world. Every glance from a villager, filled with a new, complex mixture of gratitude and wariness, felt like a needle against his skin.
He found a moment of solitude as the sky lightened, sitting on a stump near the smithy, sharpening a wood-axe for Master Holden with a whetstone. The rhythmic, grating shhhhk-shhhhk was a meditation, a simple, physical task to anchor his swirling thoughts. The memory of Theron's voice was a cold stone in his gut. Your service begins anew. The words held no comfort, only the grim finality of a cell door closing.
"A meticulous hand," a voice observed. "Even for a task so mundane."
Elian stood a few paces away, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his travel-worn robe. He looked as rested as if he'd spent the night in a king's chamber, his sharp eyes clear and alert.
Kael did not look up, continuing his methodical strokes. "A dull tool is a dangerous tool."
"A philosophy that applies to more than axes," Elian replied smoothly. He gestured to the space on the log beside Kael. "May I?"
Kael gave a curt nod. The traveler sat, folding his legs with a quiet grace. He said nothing for a time, simply watching the slow, precise movement of Kael's hands, the way his fingers checked the blade's edge with an expert's touch.
"The village is in your debt," Elian began, his tone conversational. "What you did yesterday… it was beyond the skill of any mere guardsman or hunter. It was the work of a man touched by the divine."
The whetstone stilled. Kael's gaze remained fixed on the axe blade. "I did what was necessary."
"Indeed. But the nature of that necessity is what intrigues me. The light you wielded was not that of Lysander, The Illuminated Path. His grace is a warmth one feels in the soul, like a hearth-fire on a winter's night. What I witnessed was…" Elian paused, searching for the word, "…a reckoning. It was the light of a verdict."
Kael finally lifted his eyes to meet Elian's. The scholar's gaze was not accusatory, but intensely curious, like a historian examining a long-lost relic. In that look, Kael felt the layers of his quiet life being peeled back, the farmer's disguise burning away under the scrutiny.
"Who are you?" Kael asked, his voice low.
Elian offered a faint, knowing smile. "A traveler. A collector of stories and truths. And, on occasion, a humble servant of the divine, in my own way." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "The fall of a paladin is a rare thing. A tragedy sung of in whispers. But a fall followed not by repentance, but by conviction… and then a reclamation by a different power entirely? That is not a tragedy. That is a theological earthquake."
Kael's hand tightened on the axe haft. "There was no reclamation. There was only a sword that glowed when my home was threatened."
"You misunderstand me," Elian said, his tone gentle but insistent. "I do not judge you. I seek to understand. The gods have their domains, their eternal, unchanging natures. Lysander is Mercy. Unending, unconditional Mercy. It is his greatest strength and, some would argue, his most profound weakness." He gestured to the scorched earth where the goblin chieftain had been vaporized. "What happens when Mercy becomes a shield for evil? When a monster, steeped in the blood of innocents, cries 'surrender' and is granted sanctuary to heal, to plot, to kill again? Does not Justice have a claim?"
Kael felt a cold tremor run through him. Elian was speaking the secret, unspoken argument that had festered in his heart for fifty years. He was giving voice to the sin he would not atone for.
"Lysander's way is the higher path," Kael said, the words a rote, hollow recitation of a creed he no longer believed.
"Is it?" Elian challenged softly. "Or is it a path that only the safe and the secure can afford to walk? You have lived among these people. You know the hard, simple logic of the land. A blight must be cut out and burned, lest it spoil the whole crop. A wolf that preys on the flock must be killed, not reasoned with. You acted with the logic of a protector, not a theologian. And in doing so, you attracted the gaze of a divinity who values that logic above all else: Theron, The Iron Scale."
The name, spoken aloud in the clear morning air, seemed to hang between them, solid and real. It was no longer a secret whispered in his soul.
"How do you know this?" Kael demanded, a flicker of the old paladin's authority in his voice.
"I have studied the old texts, the schisms in the celestial courts," Elian said. "The balance between Mercy and Justice is the oldest tension in creation. Lysander and Theron are two sides of the same coin, forever spinning, neither able to overcome the other. You, Kaelen, are a piece that has been knocked from Lysander's side of the board and landed squarely on Theron's."
The sounds of the waking village seemed to fade—the chopping of wood, the murmur of voices, the distant cry of a child. For Kael, the world narrowed to this conversation, to the intelligent, piercing eyes of the scholar-priest. This man was not a random traveler. He was a herald.
"Why are you here, Elian? Truly."
Elian's smile faded, replaced by a look of profound gravity. "I am here because the scales are tipping. The goblin attack was not random. There is a concentration of malice growing in the Ashen Weald. The blight spreads. The creatures of the dark grow bold. The Pale Crow, Corvus, is not merely a story to frighten children. He is real, and he gathers strength, perverting the land in the name of his dead queen."
He reached into his robe and produced a small, rolled parchment. He unrolled it to reveal a meticulously drawn map. One area, a forest to the north, was shaded a sickly grey and labeled The Ashen Weald. A single, stark symbol was drawn over it: a stylized, skeletal crow.
"He believes Morganna's resurrection will restore a 'natural' order of strength and dominance. He sees Lysander's mercy as a rot that weakens the world. And he is gathering an army to prove it." Elian looked from the map to Kael's sword. "Theron has chosen her champion. The world does not need another prayer for mercy. It needs a sword for justice."
A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit Kael, doubling him over. It was not his own. It was a foreign sensation, a pulse of pure, undiluted wrongness that emanated from the direction of the Murkwood. It was a scent of decay and ice, a pressure against his eardrums. At his hip, the sword in its scabbard gave a single, faint thrum, like a plucked bowstring. A silent warning.
He looked up, his face pale. Elian was watching him, his expression knowing.
"You feel it," the scholar whispered. "The echo of the Weald. The land itself cries out for the Scale to be balanced."
Kael stood abruptly, the world snapping back into sharp, painful focus. The simple life was gone, burned away in silver fire. The path ahead was no longer a question of if, but when. He was a weapon, and the world was tilting toward war. He looked north, towards the unseen mountains, his hand resting on the cold, patient metal of his sword.
"The debt is incurred," Kael repeated Theron's words, his voice a low growl. "The Scale demands balance."
Elian simply nodded, his mission complete. The seed had been planted. The hunt was about to begin.