Chapter 33: The Calm Before
The return to Vance Haven felt like a true victory. The Graxians who had left Varg walked with their heads held high, welcomed back by their clan with quiet relief, not punishment. Grok's authority was stronger than ever. The alliance, tested by fire, was now solid as stone.
For the first time in weeks, a sense of calm settled over the settlement. The immediate threats were gone. The watchposts were manned by mixed groups of Blue-Skins and Graxians, sharing stories and food. The forges hummed, producing more of the resonance hammers. Laughter was heard again, ringing out in the clear air.
Alistair allowed himself a moment to breathe. He stood on the foundation stone, feeling the steady pulse of the healthy ley-lines beneath him. He looked at his people—his *both* his peoples—working, talking, living together. He had done this. He had built this peace.
It felt good.
He spent the day walking through Vance Haven, checking on the new smithy, admiring the growing gardens, speaking with everyone. He was no longer a distant figure of power, but a leader among his people. He ate the evening meal with Thora, Borak, and Grok, the four of them sharing a fire as equals. Plans were made for expanding the settlement, for digging a proper well, for a great gathering when the next moon was full.
It was a perfect day. The kind of day he had fought for.
That night, as the twin moons rose, Alistair slept deeply, his mind quiet for the first time in a long time.
He was wrenched from his sleep by a searing, violent jolt.
It was not a sound. It was a feeling—a scream through the planetary core. A wave of wrongness, so much stronger and closer than anything he had ever felt from the northern crags, slammed into his senses.
He gasped, sitting bolt upright, his heart hammering. The peaceful hum of the Edict of Sanctuary was gone, replaced by a silent, psychic shriek of agony from the land itself.
He scrambled out of the hut, his feet bare on the cold ground. The settlement was quiet, everyone else still asleep, unaware. He looked north, toward the crags, expecting to see some glow, some sign.
But the scream wasn't coming from the north.
His blood ran cold as he slowly turned, his Admin senses stretching, following the pain.
It was coming from the east. From the wild, uncharted lands beyond the Graxian territory. From the direction Varg had fled.
And it was moving. Fast.
The peace was over. The calm was a lie. Something had been awakened, or created, in the dark. And it was coming straight for them.