The maces, bound with tarnished silver, swung in practiced arcs. Each impact on the training dummies echoed the weight of generations. Old grievances. The Elkhire. They hadn’t stood shoulder-to-shoulder in centuries, not since the Split. Now, a shadow army massed on the Black Mire, forcing the fractured kin to… cooperate.
Fiana traced the whorls of a healing poultice. Mint and firepetal, crushed to a paste. She preferred tending life, not preparing for its end. But even a healer served in wartime. Even a healer felt the shift in the valley, the pull toward something… more.
“Another bloom for the mix?” Kaelen asked, leaning against the doorway. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, scanned her work. He was the war leader of the North Ridge clan, all grim angles and coiled strength. And, unfortunately, tasked with keeping her safe.
“It won’t change the outcome,” Fiana responded, her fingers steady as she layered the paste on a linen cloth. The scent, sharp and sweet, filled the small hut.
“Hope’s a stubborn weed. Grows in the worst places.” Kaelen pushed off the doorframe, his gaze lingering on her hands. “Council meets at dusk. They’ll want a report on readiness. On injuries.”
“They’ll get it. I’m not a messenger.” Fiana glanced up, meeting his stare. A flicker of something – surprise, maybe? – crossed his face.
“No, you aren’t.” He turned away, his shoulders tight. “Just… be careful.”
The Council chamber smelled of pine and old stone. Each clan head sat rigid, faces carved from granite. Old Man Hemlock, of the Riverbend, cleared his throat, the sound like pebbles grinding together.
“The Mire Legion advances. Scouts report a new tactic. Something with shadow-walkers.”
“Whispers, old man,” boomed Torvin, the Southpeak leader, a brute with a beard braided with iron rings. “Always whispers.”
“These are *seen*,” Hemlock insisted, his voice reedy but firm. “They move between the trees, dissolving into the gloom.”
Fiana noticed Kaelen was watching her. A steady, unnerving gaze. She shifted, focusing on the intricate carvings above the hearth. Dragons locked in eternal combat. A fitting metaphor.
“We need a unified defense,” Kaelen said, cutting through the rising argument. “Riverbend, you hold the western flank. Southpeak, the east. North Ridge will lead the center, and shield the village.”
Torvin snorted. “You propose we trust you, boy? After your clan nearly starved us all out during the drought?”
“We have no choice.” Hemlock’s voice carried a weight that silenced even Torvin. “Survival demands unity. However… uneasy.”
Later, as darkness gathered, Fiana found Kaelen on the battlements. The wind tugged at his dark hair, revealing the sharp line of his jaw. Below, torches flickered, casting long, dancing shadows.
“Why here?” she asked, joining him at the stone railing.
“Needed air.” He didn’t turn. “And a clear view.”
“Of what? The coming war? The inevitable bloodshed?”
He finally faced her. His eyes, dark and intense, held a question she couldn’t decipher. “Of you.”
A wave of warmth flushed her cheeks. It was… disconcerting. This was the leader of a warring clan, not someone to inspire… anything.
“You shouldn’t be thinking of that.”
“Shouldn’t I?” He moved closer, his shadow falling over her. The air crackled with unspoken tension.
“It complicates things.”
“Everything is complicated.”
Fiana’s gaze drifted to the edge of the forest. A figure, cloaked and indistinct, moved among the trees. It dissolved into the shadows, leaving her with a growing sense of dread.
“Someone was watching us.”
Kaelen turned, instantly alert. He scanned the treeline, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Shadow-walker.”
“I felt… something. A coldness.”
He turned back to her, his expression grim. “They’re not just on the battlefield, Fiana. They’re among us.”
