Morning spilled over Thrakwhisper in golden sheets, soft light catching on roof thatch still beaded with dew. The air smelled of crushed mint and cooling bread, the rhythm of ordinary life woven through every sound—the creak of well ropes, laughter near the stream, the far clang of someone repairing a plow.
Elowen walked the narrow path between herb plots, her basket half-filled from the dawn harvest. The earth was cool beneath her bare soles, the kind of chill that steadied her pulse. Her palms carried the scents of thyme and chamomile, stains that marked her trade more surely than any badge. She paused near a gatepost where a vine had grown wild, its tendrils curling through the wood. With a gentle pinch she untangled one, setting it free before it could strangle its own stem. Even plants forget their limits, Thalor always said. It's up to us to remind them kindly.
She lingered there, eyes half-closed, listening to the village breathe. Every morning had a mood of its own. Today's hum felt balanced and slow, a song of small joys—the baker's easy rhythm kneading dough, the quiet patience of Wulfric near the well, the drowsy delight of a child chasing chickens across the square. She sensed them all, thin cords of emotion weaving through the air, bright and soft as spider silk. It was her secret gift, this listening to the invisible threads that bound them together. The harmony filled her chest with a warmth that felt like sunlight under the ribs. This, she thought, was what home should sound like.
"Root's deeper than it looks, girl," Thalor called from the well, voice carrying its usual dry amusement. He stood framed by the morning glare, tall and still, his silver hair threaded with living vines that caught the light like threads of quicksilver.
"I'm beginning to think you say that about everything," she teased, wiping soil from her hands as she joined him.
"It's usually true." He passed her a jar, its weight steady. "The best things hide their strength. So does danger."
She caught the faint change in his tone. His smile held, but a crease ghosted between his brows before he turned toward the grove. The air shifted with it—barely perceptible, but she felt it like a tremor in the roots beneath their feet.
By midday, the village hummed in its familiar pattern. Children wove between the wash lines, shouting games. Eldra Hearthveil leaned over her dye vat, coaxing color from the petals Elowen had brought earlier that week. Her hands were red to the wrists, but her grin was bright.
"You've done good work, Elowen," she said. "The trade caravan stopped by the crossroads yesterday. Brought salt, some fine cloth—and a wagon of stories. Said there's talk of movement near the western plains. Folk with torches at night, not travelers."
Elowen hesitated, folding a length of damp linen. "Beast-raiders again?"
"Could be." Eldra's shrug was practiced, yet too sharp. "They say packs are restless this season. Moon keeps changing faster than it should."
"Stories always grow teeth on the road," Elowen offered, though unease crept up her throat. "Maybe it's just wanderers."
"Maybe." Eldra dipped the cloth back into the dye with more force than needed. "Still—trim your lanterns bright, child. Just in case."
Elowen nodded, but her eyes followed the older woman's to the treeline. The oaks swayed gently, revealing nothing.
That evening, the hearth-circle drew the villagers as always. Sparks spiraled into the dark like lazy fireflies. Wulfric Rootstead recited the founding tale—how the oaks had chosen this ground, how the wells had never run dry. His cracked voice wove comfort through the cool air, each word fitting the next like stones in an old wall.
Elowen sat near the edge, plaiting herb stems into a braid for drying. The rhythm soothed her. She liked listening more than speaking; every voice around the fire felt like another thread in the weave. The murmur of friends, the hiss of the flames, the night insects' steady percussion—it was the pulse of the world as she knew it.
A young girl beside her whispered a tale she'd heard from travelers: "They say the moon over the plains turns red before the packs run. My cousin saw it once—said even the stars hid their eyes."
Elowen smiled, half amusement, half chill. "Then let's hope our stars stay brave."
The laughter that followed was soft but short-lived. A moment later a boy burst into the ring, panting. "Lights!" he gasped. "Not ours—out past the barley rise."
Thalor was already on his feet. "How many?"
"Three, maybe four. Moving fast."
The elders exchanged looks. No one spoke of panic, but the fire's easy crackle felt suddenly loud. Wulfric tossed another log in, and the sparks rose like startled birds. "Could be hunters," he said, yet his voice lacked conviction.
The night settled heavy again, a silence with edges.
Elowen stared into the flames until her eyes blurred. The heat pricked her skin, too fierce for comfort. When she looked up, Thalor was watching the horizon, profile carved by orange light, expression unreadable.
"It's nothing yet," he said quietly when he caught her gaze. "But roots know when the soil shifts."
She nodded, twisting the braid of herbs until the stalks creaked. Somewhere in the woods, an owl called—abrupt, uncertain, like a note played wrong. The sound clung to her as the gathering broke apart.
The path home wound through whispering fields. The moon hung low and warped by mist, a dull copper coin sinking behind the oaks. Each step stirred the grain heads; they brushed her skirt with soft, hissing murmurs. The scent of smoke drifted faintly, though no hearth burned this far out.
At her gate, she paused. The herbs on her window shelf quivered though the air was still. Far off, something moved—a pulse of motion rather than sound, a tremor she felt more than heard. Then, distant but distinct, came a low note. Not thunder. Not wind. A drawn-out howl, too mournful to belong to any dog she knew.
Elowen's breath caught. The hairs along her arms rose. Beneath fear, something else unfurled: a flicker of recognition, as if the sound carried emotion too raw to name. It wasn't rage. It wasn't hunger. It was… searching.
She touched the thyme sprig tucked behind her ear—a small talisman of home—and whispered, "Whatever you are out there… I hear you."
The breeze answered with a single breath that smelled of fur and iron.
Then the night closed again, perfectly calm.
Elowen lingered one heartbeat longer before stepping inside and bolting the door.
Behind the oaks, the darkness listened back.