Night stole into the village on soft feet.
Lanterns glowed behind shuttered windows, warm squares of light in the deepening dark. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the smells of stew, roasted roots, and charred flatbread. Somewhere a baby cried; somewhere an old man coughed; somewhere a hunter sharpened a blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
Rhaen walked between the houses with his practice spear slung over one shoulder, sweat drying cold on his skin. Dusk training had been brutal. Varos hadn't spoken much—he rarely did—but there had been a tightness to his movements, a tension in his jaw he hadn't bothered to hide.
Rhaen noticed.
Rhaen always noticed.
He just wasn't sure what it meant.
He pushed open the door to their home—a small, square building of dark stone and timber. The interior smelled faintly of pine resin and iron. A single lantern burned on the wall, throwing shifting golden light across the room.
Varos followed him inside and set the staff against the wall without a word. He moved to the hearth, crouched, and stirred the pot hanging over the embers.
"Sit," he said.
Rhaen dropped onto the low bench by the table, arms aching. "You ever think of using spices?" he asked. "Or flavor? Or anything other than salt and roots?"
Varos glanced at him with an expression hovering between annoyance and faint amusement. "Food is fuel."
"Fuel that tastes like boiled rocks."
"Rocks would be harder to chew."
Rhaen snorted softly. Varos ladled stew into two wooden bowls, sliding one across the table. It sloshed thickly. Rhaen muttered a thanks and dug in. Salt, roots, meat. Exactly like always.
They ate in silence—not unusual. Varos wasn't a talker. Rhaen had grown up with quiet evenings, quiet meals, quiet everything, but tonight the silence felt…strained. Heavy. Like the air before a storm breaks.
Halfway through his bowl, Rhaen cleared his throat.
"There was something," he said.
Varos didn't look up. "Something?"
"In the west stand. When Torren and I were hauling."
Varos's spoon paused mid-stir.
"What kind of something?" he asked.
Rhaen rubbed the back of his neck. "The forest went quiet. Completely. And then—"
He hesitated. Saying it out loud made it feel ridiculous.
"And then?" Varos pressed.
"And then I felt something," Rhaen muttered. "Like danger. But not from anything I could see. Just…this pressure. Like the world was holding its breath."
Varos slowly set his spoon down.
Rhaen swallowed. "You ever feel anything like that? When you were younger?"
Varos leaned back, folding his arms. His dark eyes studied Rhaen long enough to make him shift uneasily.
"Describe it," Varos said finally.
Rhaen inhaled. "It was like—my senses stretched. Like I could feel everything. Torren's breath. The trees. The air. And there was something in the forest. I'm sure of it. But the birds flew before I could find it."
He expected disbelief. Or dismissal.
Instead, Varos's jaw tightened.
"How long?" he asked.
"The feeling?" Rhaen shrugged. "A few seconds."
Varos stared at the fire for a long while, the flames painting gold across his face.
Then he stood abruptly.
"Lock the door tonight," he said. "And don't leave this house until I say so."
Rhaen blinked. "What? Why? Did something—"
"Just do as I say."
Rhaen's frustration flared. "You always do this. You want me to trust you but you won't tell me anything. If you know something—"
Varos turned toward him, and something in his eyes made Rhaen fall silent.
It wasn't fear.
Rhaen had never seen his father afraid.
It was calculation. Evaluation. The look of a man taking measure of a problem he hoped he'd never have to face.
"You said the forest went silent," Varos murmured. "That is not a small thing. And you felt it?"
"Yes," Rhaen said.
Varos nodded. Not satisfaction—recognition.
"We'll speak more in the morning," he said. "Not tonight."
Rhaen huffed and pushed his bowl away. "Fine. But I'm not a child. If something is wrong—"
"There is always something wrong," Varos cut in. "It's our way to endure it."
Rhaen stared at the table, jaw tight. He hated that answer. Hated how final it sounded. Hated how it closed every door.
Varos moved to the window and peered out into the darkening street. People were heading inside. Doors shutting. Lanterns flicking out one by one.
Too early for that.
Much too early.
"Father," Rhaen said softly. "What do you think it was?"
Varos didn't turn. "I think," he said slowly, "that the world is changing."
The words landed like stones dropping into a well—quiet, sharp, final.
Before Rhaen could ask more, a sharp knock rattled the door.
Varos stiffened.
Another knock.
Heavily.
Not friendly.
Rhaen started to rise, but Varos snapped, "Stay seated."
He crossed the floor in two strides, stopped short of the door, and asked through the wood:
"Who seeks entry?"
A voice answered—low, rough. "Elder Hamar."
Rhaen relaxed slightly. Hamar was one of the oldest in the village, a man who'd lived long enough that his hair had gone silver instead of staying black. Varos opened the door.
The elder stepped inside, hood up, clutching a walking staff. Rain glistened on his cloak—though it wasn't raining.
His eyes settled on Rhaen for a moment.
"Evening, boy."
Rhaen nodded. "Elder."
Hamar turned to Varos. "A word?"
Varos gestured him toward the corner. The two men moved aside, speaking in low voices that didn't carry—but Rhaen watched their faces.
Hamar was agitated.
Not frightened.
But disturbed, the way someone might be after glimpsing a shadow that shouldn't be there.
Varos listened, silent and grim.
When Hamar finished, Varos asked a single question.
"Where?"
"West stand," Hamar whispered. "Near the clearing."
Rhaen's pulse jumped.
Varos's eyes flicked toward him—just once—before he answered, "I'll see to it."
Hamar nodded, then left as quickly as he'd come, cloak trailing behind him like smoke.
The door shut.
Varos stared at it a moment, then exhaled slowly.
Rhaen stood. "What did he say?"
"Nothing you need to worry about."
Rhaen slammed his fist on the table. "Tell me!"
Varos turned, and his expression was not anger.
It was fear.
Not for himself.
For Rhaen.
"Go to bed," Varos said quietly. "Now."
Rhaen opened his mouth, but something in his father's face—some fragile crack in that obsidian mask—stopped him cold.
He nodded instead.
Varos stepped back, watching him walk to the small alcove where his sleeping mat lay. Watching too intently. Too protectively.
Rhaen lay down, staring at the ceiling beams.
He didn't sleep.
He couldn't.
The silence outside was wrong again.
The air felt thick.
And somewhere out in the night—
beyond the hills, beyond the trees—
something moved.
Not loudly.
Not close.
But with purpose.
And the world around it held its breath.