The village of Elarin sat at the foot of the mountain, its thatched roofs and winding dirt paths looking like a child's scrawl beneath the towering trees. Chickens clucked lazily in courtyards, smoke curled from chimneys, and the hum of evening life rose in the air like an old lullaby.
Kael trudged through the outer fields with a scowl on his face.
"I said I didn't want to come," he grumbled, even though the mountain was already behind them. "My legs hurt, my boots are full of dirt, and my stomach's about to start a war."
Joran didn't respond. He had long since mastered the art of ignoring the young master's complaints. Instead, he shifted the bundle of firewood on his back and picked up the pace.
Kael noticed and narrowed his eyes. "Hey! I'm still your young lord, you know! You're not supposed to walk ahead of me."
Joran paused just enough to let the boy pass. "You're right. Forgive me, young master. I forgot you enjoy leading from the rear."
Kael opened his mouth to respond, then closed it with a huff. He hated when Joran was clever. It made him feel like the old man was winning some invisible game.
The village gate creaked open as they entered, and a pair of guards gave a respectful nod. One of them chuckled when he saw Kael's face.
"Back already? Didn't chop down the whole forest, did you?"
Kael didn't bother replying. He pushed past them with a glare that would've wilted a flower. Joran nodded politely and followed.
---
Their home was one of the largest in the village — two floors of polished stone and warm wood, with a small garden in the back where Kael's mother grew herbs. A stone path led to the entrance, and a servant opened the door before they even knocked.
"Young master," the servant said with a bow. "Lady Miriel is waiting for you. She asked for your presence at dinner."
Kael groaned. "Tell her I'm dead."
"She'll resurrect you herself if you're late again," Joran muttered behind him.
Kael stomped through the hall, tracking dirt across the floor. The scent of roasted boar and spiced bread filled the air, and despite his mood, his stomach growled in betrayal.
The dining room was lit with oil lamps, their glow flickering against the carved walls. Lady Miriel sat at the head of the table, her dark hair braided neatly, her robes crisp and spotless. Her presence alone was enough to straighten spines, but Kael slouched into his chair anyway.
"Kael," she said without looking up, slicing meat with calm precision, "you're late."
Kael grumbled and stabbed a piece of meat. "Blame Joran. He walks slower than a dying goat."
Miriel raised an eyebrow, but didn't scold him. "Eat," she said. "Then go wash your hands and apologize to the kitchen girls for dragging mud across their clean floors."
Kael mumbled something under his breath but obeyed. The boar was perfectly seasoned, the bread soft, and the soup warm with garlic and wild onion. Still, he barely tasted it. His mind kept drifting — not to the meal, not even to Joran's jabs, but to the mountain.
That blink.
That feeling.
He hadn't imagined it. He was sure of that.
Something had been there.
Something that watched.
He didn't want to admit it, but the memory made his spine crawl. Not out of fear — Kael didn't get scared easily. But there was something about that stillness, that quiet pressure, that made him feel like a stone caught in a god's palm.
---
After dinner, Kael wandered the halls while Joran cleaned his boots by the back door. The house was quiet now, the servants retreating to their quarters, the lamps dimming one by one.
Kael stopped by the open window at the end of the corridor. He could still see the peak of the mountain from here — barely visible in the moonlight, like a black tooth rising from the land.
He stared at it.
It didn't stare back.
But he whispered, "I saw you."
He stood there a little longer than he meant to, gripping the window's wooden frame. The night wind brushed past his face, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Something about that mountain still clung to him — like a scent that won't wash off.
---
Later that night, Kael tossed in bed, the blankets twisted around his legs.
His room was large, with carved wooden beams, silk curtains, and shelves filled with books he never read. A single lantern flickered on his desk, casting long shadows that danced across the floor.
Something thumped against the window.
Kael sat up, heart thudding.
Nothing.
Then—another thump.
He grabbed a small dagger from his drawer — more for show than use — and tiptoed toward the glass.
It was a bird.
A gray-feathered raven. Its wing scraped the glass again as it tried to perch, failing, then flew off into the dark with a frustrated cry.
Kael watched it vanish.
The mountain stayed silent.
---
In the small servant quarters, Joran sat alone near a dying fire, sipping from a clay cup.
He wasn't a superstitious man. But he'd seen things in his time — things that made a man doubt the simplicity of life.
That feeling on the mountain…
It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the cold.
It was presence.
A small wrinkle formed between his brows, as if some old instinct stirred beneath the surface. Not fear. Not memory. Just something unsettled — like a quiet itch behind the ribs.
He didn't mention it to the boy. There was no need.
Still… he looked out the small window across the field, toward the dark shape of the mountain.
It hadn't moved. But something about it felt less like a place, and more like a door that had been cracked open.
Joran let out a slow breath through his nose and leaned back, eyes half-lidded. His fingers tapped once against the side of the cup — then stilled.
"Strange weather," he muttered again, this time softer.
And the fire crackled quietly back.
[End of Chapter 2]