Roric Tulley had once been a healer—a man whose strength lay in his hands, not his words. He wasn’t one for long speeches or grand gestures. His hands, rough and calloused, could set bones and stitch flesh with the same care they’d once cradled his daughter or held his wife close. He had been a man of action, grounded by purpose and steadied by the belief that doing what was right, even when it was hard, was its own reward.
In those days, Roric had known happiness—the quiet, steady sort that fills a life without fanfare. His wife, Merrith, shared his heart with a warmth that softened the edges of his world, her laughter carrying through their small home like music. And their daughter, Emara, was a light all her own, with her wide, bright eyes that mirrored her mother’s, and an endless fascination with the lake that bordered their town. Their simple life had felt complete, grounded in love, and shaped by the rhythm of seasons and healing.
But that world, that life, had shattered in an instant, leaving only the hollowed-out remnants that had become the man who now gripped his staff at the head of the council. He forced his mind away from the memory, feeling its pull like a distant light. The past was a dangerous place—a dark, unhealed wound that festered just beneath his skin.
It was the lake that had taken everything.
It had been a simple trip, a routine gathering of herbs along the lake’s farther shore. Merrith, a skilled healer herself, had planned the journey with Emara by her side, setting off at dawn with the crisp wind at their backs. Roric hadn’t worried when he’d seen the first storm clouds on the horizon—Merrith knew the lake as well as he did. But when the winds turned, swirling up from the lake’s depths, he felt it—a change, a presence that twisted the air itself, thickening it with dread. By the time he had raced to the shore, it was already too late.
The storm had risen with unnatural fury, tearing through the sky and lake alike, as if something ancient and furious had stirred from below. He had seen their small boat—a dot against the churning waters—swallowed in an instant, disappearing beneath the waves with a finality that struck him silent. No cries. No fight. Just silence, consuming everything.
The lake had returned fragments of the boat in the days that followed. A splintered oar. A piece of shattered wood. But there was no sign of Merrith’s hands, always sure and gentle, nor Emara’s wonder-filled gaze. Nothing. He had begged at the lake’s edge, pleaded with the gods, calling out with a voice turned raw and broken, offering his life, his soul, anything in exchange. But the lake had remained cold and silent, reflecting only his own emptiness back at him.
Roric was a shadow of himself. No longer a healer, no longer a husband or father. Just… empty. He wandered from day to day, hollow, detached from the world he once loved. The people could see the change; he spoke only when spoken to, moving with a numbness that no healing could fix. Then, one evening, the council had come to him.
Their offer had been surprising, though in hindsight, perhaps it was fate. The role of Shorewalker was one of reverence and solitude, a role requiring neutrality and sacrifice. Shorewalker: the keeper of the town’s traditions, the one to stand between the people and the lake, the one to heed its call when danger loomed. It was a role for someone without ties, someone who had known loss and could bear the weight of the lake’s silence.
Roric had accepted. He was already a man adrift, and the mantle of Shorewalker gave him purpose once more—a duty without warmth, but a duty, nonetheless. For thirty years, he had served, his voice the town’s guide through crisis and conflict. He stood at the helm of the council, clothed in ceremonial robes, embodying the wisdom of countless generations of Shorewalker’s. Yet, to him, they felt like a shroud—marking the burial of the healer, the husband, and the father he once was.
The man who had sung lullabies and cradled his daughter, who had once been strong, confident, whole—that man was gone. Only the Shorewalker remained. The keeper of order. The bridge between the people and the lake. A figure revered, yet bound, forever watching for the lake’s next demand.
And now, as he gripped his staff and scanned the faces before him, he felt the weight of that role more than ever. He was the town’s final line of defence, the guardian of an uneasy peace. And though the lake had taken his family, the lake now defined his life—binding him as firmly as the council’s oaths and rituals.
Roric’s ceremonial robes—woven in deep hues of moss green and lake blue—flowed around him as he stepped through the massive stone doors of the Great Hall. The intricate patterns embroidered along the hem and sleeves traced the meeting of waves and shore, like the constant ebb and flow of his responsibilities. Each step sent a soft, rhythmic clinking of beads echoing through the hall, a sound as steady as waves on the lake’s edge, grounding the town in their ancient traditions. To the townsfolk gathered in reverent silence, he was not merely a man; he was the Shorewalker.
The Shorewalker—protector, watcher, the one who stood as a sentinel between the town and the lake. His presence reminded the people that they lived beside the waters but were not of them, and that his role, unyielding as stone, would stand as a barrier to whatever lay beneath those dark depths. They watched him, and in their gazes, there was awe, unease, and a silent, unbreakable trust.
Roric moved forward, the beads in his robe sleeves clinking softly, a cadence that mimicked the lake’s steady pulse. The council members, seated in a crescent around him, straightened in unison as he approached. Orla gave a formal, slow nod, her sharp gaze focused and respectful. Daithi, often warm and animated, now bore a mask of solemn respect, his hands tightly clasped in his lap. Leora, known for her bright laughter and wry remarks, bowed her head, subdued by the occasion. And Finnian—Finnian’s usual easy smile was absent, his face an unreadable mask, as dark and calm as the lake at midnight.
But it was Selis whose reaction was the most pronounced. The old shaman, face drawn tight with an anxious energy, gripped his staff, his knuckles whitening as he hunched forward. His eyes darted between Roric and the council, an unspoken desperation in his posture.
As Roric reached the centre of the hall, he lifted his staff—a long, polished piece of driftwood, smooth and worn by time. He tapped it once, twice, against the stone floor, each strike echoing through the hall like thunder, cutting through murmurs and drawing every gaze to him.
Silence fell over the assembly.
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Orla inclined her head further in acknowledgment, her gaze as steady as ever. Daithi’s shoulders stiffened as though bracing himself, while Leora sat, uncharacteristically still, her usual smile nowhere in sight. And Finnian… his face remained still, impassive, though something unreadable glinted in his eyes.
Roric’s gaze swept slowly over each of them, lingering a fraction of a second longer on Selis. Then, he turned, his gaze traveling past the flickering torches and the audience. For a moment, his eyes settled at the back, and Ada felt her heart stutter. His pale gaze seemed to pierce through the shadows, as if he could see everything she kept hidden within her own thoughts. But then, just as calmly, his gaze moved on, passing through the crowd and resting at last on the empty seat.
He stepped forward and lowered himself into the seat, his movements unhurried, smooth as water filling a waiting vessel.
“Let us begin,” Roric spoke, his voice a low rumble that filled the hall.
The council members adjusted in their seats, each one now fully alert, their eyes trained on Roric as if watching a signal flame in the dark. Even Selis, whose restlessness had been evident only moments before, had gone still, his gaze fixed intently on the Shorewalker.
Roric leaned back in his seat, his hands resting lightly on the carved armrests. The beads on his robe shifted softly, filling the silence with the gentle cadence of waves washing against stone.
“The land is troubled,” he said, his voice low and resonant. “And the lake is restless.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, townspeople exchanging uneasy glances, a shared tension passing among them. Ada’s heart pounded in her chest. Restless? she thought, her mind whirling. What could he mean? She’d always thought of Roric as detached, a man apart from the town’s daily lives. But here he was, his words steeped with a familiarity, a knowledge that suggested he felt the lake’s unrest as keenly as any of them—perhaps more so.
In that moment, it was as if Roric were not simply a figurehead but a living conduit between the lake and the town. They watched him with a renewed tension, unspoken questions hovering in the heavy air: What did he know? What had he seen?
Roric’s gaze swept over the council, resting on each member in turn, his pale blue eyes as calm and cold as the lake’s surface on an autumn morning. Finally, he straightened, his presence filling the space, his very bearing a reminder that, for all their fears, he was the Shorewalker—the one who would stand between them and whatever darkness stirred beneath the lake’s waters.
“Tonight,” Roric said, his voice steady and deliberate, each word wrapped in the weight of ancient tradition, “we address matters that go beyond the ordinary. We weigh burdens of tradition and honour, of safety and survival. The will of our town, of its ancestors and its descendants, lies in our hands tonight.” His gaze shifted to Selis, who stood as if carved from stone, his entire being coiled in tense expectation, like a man standing on the edge of a precipice.
“The council will now vote on whether the shaman, Selis Kitezh, shall be allowed to return to his place among us.”
Selis Kitezh—the shaman cast aside, the man whose fervent devotion had led him down path’s others feared to tread.
Selis’s fingers tightened around his staff, his eyes glistened with a restrained, desperate hope. This moment, this judgment, was what he had awaited, and now, his fate hung in the silence, ready to be shaped by the voices of the council.
Roric’s voice, calm yet weighted with ancient significance, called the assembly to order. "Council members," he intoned, “speak your hearts and cast your votes.”
Orla lifted her chin, her gaze steady as she looked directly at Selis. “For his return,” she declared, her voice crisp, unyielding, as if her decision were carved from stone. “We are not the council we were without his voice. Regardless of disagreements, Selis’s opinion has always been valuable. It is the balance of perspectives that has kept us strong through hardship. A council without his insight is incomplete.”
Finnian followed, his words cool and deliberate. “For his return,” he echoed, the words slipping from his lips without a hint of emotion yet carrying a sharp edge of certainty. “The years have been difficult, but Selis has always brought… perspective.” He let the words linger, a faint smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “Perhaps his absence has done him good, taught him humility. I believe, now more than ever, he has something to offer.”
The hall held its breath as Daithi’s gaze shifted, his expression tinged with sadness as he looked upon Selis. His brows drew together, as if weighed down by a heavy burden. “Against,” he said, his voice low, carrying a hint of sorrow. “Progress has been made in his absence. We have worked tirelessly to build unity, to take steps toward a better future. Selis’s… fervour for the old ways has always been divisive. I fear his return will only reopen wounds we are trying to heal.”
Leora shifted in her seat, the light-heartedness that usually danced in her eyes absent, replaced by something cold and hard. She looked at Selis, her expression unflinching, and with a disdainful glance, she spoke. “Against,” she declared, her tone dismissive, the words clear and final. “Madness, zealotry, and poor character. These are what he has brought to us before. His absence has been a blessing. Selis cannot be trusted to speak for us, or with us, while he courts the shadows.”
And then… silence. The hall stilled, caught in the weight of their words and the tension of the tied vote. All eyes turned to the man at the head of the council—the Shorewalker, the one who held the balance, whose word would tip the scales.
Roric lifted his staff once more, letting it hover above the stone floor, his gaze sweeping over the gathered faces, lingering a moment on each council member, on Selis, before finally raising his eyes to the ceiling, as though drawing strength from the very stones around him.
“The Shorewalker decides,” he intoned, his voice low, resonant, ancient. The words fell like stones into a well, deep and echoing, pulling every listener to the edge of their seats. He let the silence linger, his gaze distant, the gravity of the decision seeming to weigh upon him.
Then, at last, he spoke, each word resonant, deliberate. “The Shaman returns.”
A collective exhale swept through the hall as Selis’s face broke into a smile of triumphant relief, his entire frame loosening as though a great weight had lifted from him. The hall was silent, but the tension, the anticipation, was palpable.
Roric’s expression remained unchanged, his voice calm and solemn as he addressed the gathered crowd. “Now, with our shaman restored among us, we may cleanse our souls as we were meant to, embracing the lake’s gifts in full.”
“For years, our ritual has been incomplete,” he continued. “Without the shaman’s blessing, we have only honoured tradition in part. But tonight, with Selis returned, we are granted the rite to face the lake’s will in earnest—to cleanse ourselves and receive the blessings of the water.”
Roric’s voice lowered, yet each word seemed to vibrate through the hall, reaching every ear. “We gather tonight to decide our course. To choose our way forward in a time of uncertainty. The lake is changing. Our people are troubled. And we must face what lies ahead—together.”
Roric leaned forward slightly, his eyes half-closed, his hands clasped loosely before him. His gaze swept the council, and finally, it settled upon Selis.
“May the council of Halrest begin.”
Selis stood slowly, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, as he stepped forward. “As it has been since the days when the lake gave us life, we gather here tonight to honour tradition. To weigh the needs of our people and find the true path forward.” His voice, low and commanding, each word imbued with the weight of generations, filled the hall.
With those words, the town, bound by ritual, sat in hushed reverence, awaiting the will of the lake.
Ada let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her gaze darting back to Thorn. The outsider remained still and impassive, his face unreadable as he shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest.
And in that moment, Ada understood.
This was not just a council meeting. This was a reckoning.
And whatever happened next… it would change everything.