The world returned to Arrion in fragments. The scent of Maren's poultices—marshmallow root and comfrey—overlaid with woodsmoke. The sound of his cousins' hushed, urgent voices outside his door. The deep, bone-grinding ache that was his constant companion.
It took him three days to sit up without seeing stars, a week to stand and shuffle to the doorframe, leaning against it like a sapling in a gale. His body, though knit with the preternatural speed granted by the Verdant King's breath, felt foreign—a machine of scar tissue and borrowed strength. It was on one of these shuffling journeys to the window that a cold spike of alarm cut through the fog.
*His bow.*
The purple-wood recurve, the companion of his exile, the weapon that felt like his own soul given form. He had last held it on the rocky outcrop, before the axes, before Nightshade. It was still there, in that bloody glade, amongst the roots and the dead.
A hunter's grief, sharp and specific, twisted in his gut. It was a piece of himself, left on a battlefield.
Meanwhile, the world outside the longhouse had transformed. Under Orryn's calm, decisive command, Hearthstone was becoming a fortress. The pretext was a "beast tide"—a believable enough threat from the deep Weald to justify urgency without inviting dangerous questions. Trees were felled, their trunks sharpened into a second, outer palisade. The village blacksmith's forge rang day and night, turning scythes into spearheads and farming tools into crude polearms. Watch rotations were doubled. Elara and Lyra, along with other village youth, were drilled in basic spear-work by a retired militia sergeant, their faces set in fierce concentration.
News, as it always does, traveled with merchants and travelers. Tales of Hearthstone fortifying against "the great dark of the Whispering Weald" reached Oakhaven. They reached the ears of Lord Martellon, the border prince who held nominal sovereignty over the region. A village preparing for a siege, even from beasts, was a disruption to trade and a potential spark of panic. It was also a slight to his authority—a problem arising in his domain.
Within ten days of Arrion's return, the imperial garrison arrived.
Fifty soldiers in the prince's livery—a silver bridge on a field of blue—marched into the village square, their disciplined ranks and polished helms a stark contrast to the villagers' rugged readiness. Their captain, a stern man with a neat beard, sought out Headsman Orryn.
"By order of Lord Martellon," the captain announced, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet square. "The garrison of Oakhaven will assume oversight of Hearthstone's defenses until this 'beast tide' is assessed and neutralized. All militia are to report to my sergeant for integration. Further fortifications require my approval."
It was a blow to Orryn's authority, but also a shield. The imperial presence was a complicating factor, a layer of scrutiny that could not be brushed aside. Orryn met the captain's gaze and nodded, the picture of a relieved leader. "Your strength is welcome, Captain. The Weald has grown… restless."
The news of the imperial garrison's deployment flew faster than any merchant's gossip. It reached the Marquis Ralke's spymaster, Velyn, within days.
In his solar, Ralke absorbed the report, his wintery eyes glinting with cold calculation. He stood before the Whispering Stone, its dark surface swirling with faint, malicious light.
"Martellon's lapdogs," he murmured. "An inconvenience. A garrison means reports, musters, inspections. It draws eyes." He tapped a ringed finger against his lips. "To move now—to unleash the Drakespine's blight with imperial troops on the doorstep—would be to invite an inquiry I cannot afford. The Stone's secrets must remain in the shadows."
He turned to Velyn. "Delay the Shamans. Hold their… concoction in reserve. Let Martellon's men grow bored guarding against fairy tales and shadows. Let the winter snows isolate the village. Garrisons shrink in the cold; their vigilance wanes. We will let imperial scrutiny dull into routine."
A smile, thin and patient as a crack in ice, appeared on his face. "Let the Haelend boy enjoy his respite. Let him think the walls of wood and the shields of the prince will protect him. It will make the fall of those walls, when it comes, all the more despairing. Spring is a time of growth. And of rot. We will strike when the garrison is lethargic and the thaw makes the roads too muddy for quick reinforcement."
The immediate, crushing pressure was lifted, replaced by a suspended, waiting dread. Arrion, slowly regaining his strength within the fortified village, felt it. The imperial guards were a visible threat to their autonomy, but an invisible shield from the greater evil. He had time. Time to heal fully. Time to retrieve what was lost.
Time, he knew, for Ralke to devise a new, more terrible method to reach him. The serpent had not retreated. It had merely coiled, waiting for the protective boots to march away before striking at the heel.