The villagers, their immediate fear soothed by the gentle rain, began to move with a purpose they had long forgotten. Rudra watched them, his gaze taking in every detail of the place he now promised to protect.
The gentle rain stopped, leaving the air clean and heavy with the smell of wet earth and charred wood. Rudra stood just inside the doorway of Elara's hut, his eyes taking in the humble space. The little boy, Liam, was already deep in an exhausted sleep on his mat, clutching the carved wooden horse.
Elara wiped her cheeks, looking embarrassed by her previous outburst. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "You saved us, and I burden you with old sorrows."
"They are not a burden," Rudra said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "They are the truth of this place. To help you, I must understand what you have lost. Will you show me?"
Nodding, Elara led him back outside into the twilight. The villagers were moving quietly, assessing the damage, their movements slow with grief and fatigue. They looked at Rudra with a mixture of reverence and desperate hope as he passed.
The village of Sunstone Hollow was not large. From where Rudra stood by the broken well, he could see the entire settlement. It was a clearing in the rocky valley, roughly oval in shape. He estimated it was about the size of three American football fields placed side-by-side. Every inch of this small space was scarred by struggle.
Elara watched him survey the land, his eyes missing nothing. She saw him focus on the dry well, his gaze lingering on the cracked stones and the frayed rope.
He nodded slowly to himself, and a faint, shimmering light, like the glow of a firefly, appeared briefly at his fingertip. He traced a short, straight line in the air, and the light solidified for a second into a strange, glowing symbol before fading. He was making a note.
"This," Elara began, her voice finding strength as she fell into the role of a guide, "is where our life used to center. The well. When it flowed, the women would gather here, talking.
The children would play. Now it's a stone mouth that gives nothing." Her tone was not just sad; it was lonely, mourning the lost heart of their community.
The central well was a ring of cracked, mossy stones. The bucket rope was frayed, and the wooden pulley above it was splintered. "It went dry last summer," Elara explained softly.
"Now we must carry water from the creek near the Murkwood edge. It is dangerous." Next to it stood the longhouse. Its roof, made of thicker timbers, had a large burned hole in one side. Inside, Rudra could see a few scattered sacks—the remains of their communal food store—and a large, scarred wooden table for meetings.
She led him past the longhouse. "We meet here. We store what little we have to share here. When the roof burned, it felt like our last bit of togetherness was burning too."
They walked towards the homes. The thirty-odd huts were all variations of the same sad design. The huts stood in bland, uneven rows. "The walls are mud and straw over sticks," she explained, running a hand over a cracked section of her own hut. "It keeps the wind out, mostly. The roofs are river reeds and straw. They catch a spark like they've been waiting for it."
She pointed to the hole in her own roof. "The smoke from our cooking fire goes up there. In winter, the hut is full of smoke. In summer, it's an oven. But it was ours." Each hut had a small, shuttered window and a low doorway.
Her steps slowed as they reached the eastern edge of the village. Before them lay the broken palisade. A low, rotting wooden palisade surrounded the village. The logs were thin, many rotted at the base, but it was more symbolic than functional.
In many sections, it had fallen over completely. "The men would try to repair it," Elara said, pointing to a pile of fresh-cut logs near the eastern gap. "That was Finn's last project. But we don't have enough strong hands or time between attacks to build it properly." A small pile of freshly cut, thicker timber lay just inside the gap.
"This was his work," Elara said, her voice dropping to a whisper filled with painful pride. She knelt and touched the raw wood of one new log. "Finn cut these. He said, 'This time, we'll build a wall that stands tall.' He was so sure." She looked up at Rudra, her tired eyes glistening. "He never got to lift them into place."
Beyond the broken wall, the fields stretched towards the dark line of the Murkwood. The land was a tragedy. What should have been rows of potatoes, barley, and hardy root vegetables was now a churned wasteland of mud, spoiled plants, and deep, clawed footprints.
A few scarecrows lay broken and trampled. The churned mud was black in the twilight. Broken stalks of barley were trampled into the earth. The footprints were massive, three-toed, and dug deep. "This was our food," Elara said, a hollow ache in her words.
"This was what was supposed to get us through the winter. Now it's mud and poison. To fix it... we'd need to plow the earth all over again, find new seed, and have months of peace for anything to grow. We have none of those things."
Turning west, Rudra looked at the mines. The hillside was steep and jagged, like a giant had taken a bite out of the rock. The entrance to the main mine was a dark, hungry mouth framed by rough, sweat-stained timber that looked ready to splinter.
Smaller holes, old dig sites, dotted the slope like blind eyes. The entire "Scar" valley was shrouded in deep shadow now, the last light of day blocked by the towering, oppressive wall of the Murkwood trees that loomed on either side. The village didn't feel nestled; it felt pinned.
As they walked back, the survivors became individuals under Rudra's watchful eye. Of the roughly sixty people left:
Children (under 10): There were eighteen. Their faces were too thin, their eyes too big. They huddled close to their mothers or stared blankly at the ruins.
Adults (prime age, 20-50): Only sixteen. Ten men and six women, including Elara. They moved with a weary determination, but their bodies showed the strain of constant hunger and fear. Their clothes were rags, and tools in their hands were worn down to nubs.
Elders (over 50): Twenty-six people. This was the largest group—a sad testament to a village where the young and strong were dying first. They sat on stones or broken carts, their faces maps of deep wrinkles and resignation. Their knowledge was valuable, but their bodies were frail.
Old Kaelen found them again, his face graver than before. "Emissary, the count is done. We lost twelve souls today to tooth and fire." He swallowed hard.
"And Bren... he is not among the dead here. His wife, Maren, saw him. He grabbed a torch and an axe, shouted to draw the beasts, and ran for the Murkwood tree line. That was hours ago, just before you arrived."
As if summoned by his name, a woman rushed forward. This was Maren. She was perhaps thirty, with wild, curly brown hair streaked with ash and eyes red and swollen from crying. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, and she clutched a dirty shawl around herself as if she were freezing.
"Please," Maren gasped, falling to her knees before Rudra, her voice cracking with a raw, desperate hope. "You have such power. You must help. Bren... he's out there. In the dark. In *there*." She pointed a shaking finger at the pitch-black forest, her terror making her tremble violently.
"The wolves... they would have chased him. He sacrificed himself for the children. He can't be just... left. Please, great one. Bring him back to me. Even if it's just... just his body. Let me bury my husband.
Don't let the forest keep him. I beg you!" Her plea ended in a wrenching sob, her forehead pressing into the cold mud at Rudra's feet, her entire body shaking with the agony of not knowing.
Maren's desperation was a physical force. She did not just kneel; she collapsed, as if her bones had turned to water. The mud soaked through the thin fabric of her dress, but she didn't feel it. Her whole world had shrunk to the dark line of trees and the terrible silence that had swallowed her husband.
"Please," she gasped again, her voice a raw scrape against her throat. She didn't just point to the Murkwood; she clawed at the air towards it, her fingers hooked like talons. "He's there. He's *in there*. I'll do anything. *Anything*."
She looked up at Rudra, her eyes wide and wild, shining with a madness born of grief. The words tumbled out, low and frantic, meant for his ears alone but carrying in the hushed silence.
"If you bring him back to me… if by some miracle he breathes…" She swallowed a sob, her body trembling so violently her teeth chattered. "I have nothing. No coins, no treasures. But I will scrub your floors until my hands bleed. I will cook and clean for you for the rest of my days. I will… I will warm your bed, if that is your wish. Just… just bring him home.
And if he is not alive…" Her voice broke completely, but she forced the wretched words out, each one a testament to her love and her despair. "…then bring me his body. So I can say goodbye. So I can close his eyes. For that, I would do the same. My life for his bones. I swear it." she reaffirmed again showing her desperation.
Her offer hung in the air, shocking in its utter degradation. It was the final, terrible currency of the truly destitute: the offering of her own body and lifelong servitude for the simple dignity of a burial.
The villagers had stopped to watch, their faces reflecting Maren's fear. The Murkwood was a death sentence after dark. Everyone knew what its shadows hid. For Bren to have been gone this long meant only one thing. But Maren's plea was not for a miracle of life; it was for the basic dignity of a goodbye—a dignity this harsh land often stole.
The villagers looked on, some turning their faces away in shared shame and pity. They understood. In their world, where hope was extinct, this was what was left.
Rudra did not let her finish. Before she could utter another vow, he moved. He didn't just reach for her; he bent down, his movements both powerful and gentle, and took her firmly by her upper arms. He lifted her from the mud as if she weighed no more than a child, setting her back on her feet.
His hands stayed on her arms, steadying her violent tremors. His touch was not cold, but it was firm—an anchor.
"Look at me, Maren," he said, his voice low but clear, cutting through her hysterical sobs. She forced her swimming eyes to focus on his. They were calm, like deep, still water, and held no hunger, no calculation.
"I am not that kind of man," he said, each word deliberate and solid. "I do not take advantage of a heart that is breaking. I do not trade in such vows."
He released one of her arms and did something then that shocked her into stillness. He gently placed his palm on the crown of her muddy, tangled hair. It was not a pat, but a steady, weighty pressure, like a blessing or a seal.
"Your husband was brave. He gave his chance at life for the children of this village. That is a debt I honor. I will go into the Murkwood. I will find Bren. I will bring him back to you, alive or fallen." He held her gaze, making the promise iron-clad.
"And I will ask for nothing in return. This is not a trade. You aren't a commodity. If I take advantage of your situation to turn you into a servant, or make you sleep with me just so you can get your husband back dead or alive, then I would be sullying my great lord's teaching. This is what I am here to do. I'm here to liberate you guys out of your misery."
The tension that had gripped Maren's body seemed to snap. The horrific, desperate energy drained out of her, leaving her limp and hollow. A new kind of tear, one of overwhelming, disbelieving relief, welled up and spilled over.
Maren did not just cry; she broke. The firm, reassuring pressure of Rudra's hand on her head and the rock-solid certainty of his promise shattered the dam of her terror. A great, shuddering gasp wracked her body, and then she fell forward, not to her knees, but against him.
Her arms, thin and strong from years of labor, wrapped around his torso in a desperate, clinging hug. She buried her face in the clean, strange fabric of his coat, her entire frame shaking with the force of her sobs. The words spilled out, muffled and wet.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… you can punish me for this… for touching you like this…" she wept, her grip tightening as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. "But please… just for a minute… can you… can you just let me? Please. I haven't felt safe in so long."
The villagers watched, breath held. Such an intimate touch from a commoner to a being of such power could be seen as a great offense, which could incur the wrath of god.
Rudra did not push her away. He did not stiffen. After a moment's pause, his own arms came up, not in a tight embrace, but in a firm, steady circle around her trembling shoulders. It was not the hug of a lover or a friend, but of a protector. A shelter. He held her with a strength that could move mountains, yet with a containment that made her feel safe, not trapped.
"There is no punishment for seeking comfort, Maren," he said, his voice a quiet rumble near her ear. "Courage like yours deserves a moment of peace. Take it."
He held her just as she asked, for a full minute while the awful tension of the day drained from her in waves of tears. Finally, her sobs began to slow, fading into exhausted hiccups. Her grip loosened.
Seeing this, Elara stepped forward, her own eyes bright with sympathy. She was followed by the four other adult women of the village, their faces etched with shared hardship.
Gwyn, The eldest of them at nearly forty, was the village's makeshift midwife and herb-woman. She was bony and angular, with sharp, watchful eyes and hair of steely grey pulled into a severe bun. Her hands were stained green and brown from her work.
Lyna, perhaps thirty-five, was a farmer's widow with broad, strong shoulders and hips from a life in the fields. Her face was weathered and kind, her brown hair forever escaping its tie. She had a quiet, grounding presence.
Sara, close to Elara in age, was bird-like and fragile-looking, with nervous hands that always seemed to be knitting invisible thread. Her husband had been taken in the first monster attack, and since then, she seemed only half-present, moving through life in a silent daze.
Brida, the youngest of the women besides Elara, was barely twenty. She had a round, open face that had once been cheerful, but now just looked perpetually startled and sad. She was plump in a way that spoke of recent, lost happiness, her clothes straining at the seams.
Together, these five women formed the fragile backbone of the village's heart. Gently, Elara touched Maren's back. "Come now, Maren. Let him go. We have you."
Rudra gave the slightest of nods and loosened his hold. Maren, spent and limp, allowed herself to be peeled away. The women enveloped her, a living shield of shared sorrow and feminine solidarity, guiding her shuffling steps towards the longhouse where they could tend to her.
Rudra lowered his hand and turned his gaze from Maren's grateful, broken face to the dark forest. The promise was made. The first task was clear.
The people of Sunstone Hollow held their breath, watching as their savior prepared to walk into the mouth of the beast that had haunted them for years, not for conquest, but for the simple, profound act of bringing one of their own home.
The list of needs in his mind grew longer: Water. Walls. Food. Security. And now, the first test of his promise: a recovery mission into the heart of the very darkness that haunted them.
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