Cadogan awoke to a silence in the Raven Tower that was different from any he had yet experienced. The ever-present thrum that had seemed to emanate from the "Calon" stone after its anointing was softer now, a barely perceptible vibration in the ancient stones, like a great beast sleeping contentedly. The air, though still carrying the scent of old ash and damp earth, felt cleaner, less oppressive. The faint, warm glow from the flagstone spiral was a steady, comforting presence in the pre-dawn gloom.
He pushed himself up, his limbs aching but responding with more strength than he'd felt in weeks. His arm, though scarred and still stiff, was mending. The fever was a receding nightmare. He walked to the makeshift barricade at the main entrance. Ceidwad had left it slightly ajar. Cadogan peered through the gap. The clearing outside was empty. The line of silent Milwyr sentinels was gone. The fires they had kindled beyond the palisade were dead ash. Cautiously, painfully, he shifted the log and stones aside enough to slip through. He stood outside the tower, breathing the crisp morning air of Glyndŵr. No guards. No immediate, visible threat. The forest beyond the ruined palisade was still, watchful, but it no longer felt like the cage of a hunting trap. It felt… neutral. Waiting.
His first thought was for the daily provisions. He looked to the usual spot just inside the barricade where the basket and waterskin had always appeared. It was empty. A cold knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach. Had their support ceased now that the tower was "clean," the "balance" in its initial stages of being "re-begun"? Was he now truly on his own? He waited through the early morning, his gaze constantly scanning the treeline, his ears straining for any sound. Nothing. The "others" remained unseen, unheard. The silence was absolute.
By mid-morning, his thirst was becoming a pressing concern. The small amount of water he'd had from the previous day's provision was long gone. The food, too. Hunger, a familiar enemy, began to gnaw. The implication was clear. "This is your place, your work," Ceidwad had said. It seemed his "work" now included the fundamental task of keeping himself alive. The leash, if it had ever truly been one of lenient captivity, was fraying, or perhaps it had been cut entirely, leaving him stranded.
He had to act. Water was the most immediate need. The fouled well within the palisade was an option of last resort, one he knew would bring back the debilitating sickness. The Calon y Cwm, the Heart of the Valley, with its clear, sweet stream, was his only real choice, despite the dangers of the journey. He still had the special wooden bowl Ceidwad had given him for the ritual libation, and one of his own empty waterskins. He took the rusty sword – it was more a burden than a weapon in his current state, but the thought of venturing out completely unarmed was unthinkable. He also tucked his precious charcoal-marked slate of notes into his tunic. Knowledge, however abstract, was his only true advantage.
Leaving the tower felt different this time. He was not being led; he was choosing, however desperately, his own path. He moved slowly, cautiously, through the ruined palisade, every sense alert. The forest welcomed him with its usual oppressive silence, but he no longer felt like cornered prey. He felt like a solitary scavenger, venturing out from a precarious den. He followed the path Ceidwad had taken him on previously, towards the stream. His progress was slow, his body still far from recovered, but each step was his own. He paused often, listening, watching, his eyes scanning for any sign of the "others." He saw none. He reached the verdant meadow of the Calon y Cwm without incident.
The place still held its aura of profound peace. He knelt by the stream, drank deeply, then filled his waterskin and the wooden bowl. As he did so, he noticed something new. At the spot where he had poured the libation, a patch of tiny, vibrant green shoots had appeared, almost unnaturally lush against the surrounding moss. He touched them gently. Life, responding to the ritual. Or a coincidence. He didn't know. But it felt significant.
The journey back to the tower was equally uneventful, though no less tense. He returned to his ruin as dusk began to settle, the precious water a heavy weight on his shoulder, his body aching with a fatigue that was both familiar and, in a strange way, satisfying. He had ventured out, and he had returned, by his own will, with a vital resource. It was a small victory, but in Glyndŵr, small victories were all one could hope for. He barricaded himself in for the night, the silence of the tower his only companion. The "Calon" stone glowed softly in the darkness.
He now had water for a few days. But food… that was the next looming crisis. The "others" had not provided. Madog's snares were too risky to try again so soon, if ever. Hunting alone in his current state was suicide. He looked around the tower. He was its sole occupant, its unwilling guardian, its mender. "This is your place," Ceidwad had said. If that was true, then this place, however ruined, however cursed, had to provide. His gaze fell upon the piles of rubble he had cleared, the patches of bare earth he had exposed. He thought of the acorn Ceidwad had made him plant. Give and take. The first, faint, almost ludicrous idea of true "kingdom building" – or perhaps, "barony building" on the most microscopic, desperate scale imaginable – began to take root in his mind. Survival was not enough. If this was his place, he had to make it his. He had to make it live. But first, he had to find something to eat.