The voices in the Great Hall rose like the gentle lapping of water against a shore, hesitant at first, then gradually building as the weight of the ceremony lifted. The spell of the ritual had broken, but its ripples still lingered, casting an invisible shroud over the hall. Eyes darted across the room—wary, curious, caught between relief and lingering unease.

The council, however, was already shifting, reorienting themselves like seasoned navigators adjusting their bearings after passing through dangerous waters. They spoke in the measured tones of those well-acquainted with the grave matters brought before them, the ritual’s shadows still fresh in their minds.

Roric, at the heart of the assembly, moved with deliberate slowness, his gaze calm and distant, almost as if he drifted in some place far removed from the hall. But then, he gripped his staff, his hand tightening around the smooth wood as he lifted it above the stone floor. With a deep, resonant echo, he struck it three times—each strike cutting through the murmur like thunder rolling over the lake.

Silence settled like fog.

“Council members,” Roric intoned, his voice low and weighted, yet clear as a bell. The sound filled the hall, reaching every corner, every ear, with a gravity that commanded attention. He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping slowly across each council member and the gathered crowd beyond. “What is the first matter to bring forth for discussion?”

His words hung in the air, as if etched into the silence, each one carrying the full weight of tradition and expectation. The townspeople leaned forward, every face intent, as if they might catch the first ripple of change before it disturbed the still waters.

Thorn felt it too—the quiet tension that stretched between the council members. Each shifted in their seats, glancing toward one another with expressions both cautious and resolute. Every person in the hall was caught, as if by invisible threads, waiting to see who would break the silence, who would be the first to cast their voice into the waiting air.

It was Daithi who broke the tension, his broad shoulders squared, hands braced on the table’s edge as if grounding himself against the weight of what he was about to say. He cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the silence with a steady calm, carrying the kind of authority that came not from position, but from the lived experience of seasons past.

“We’re facing shortages,” he began, his voice strong, yet measured. He let the words settle over the crowd before continuing. “Winter bit down harder than we expected. Harder than any of us were prepared for. And though we stretched our reserves, used every ounce of caution we could, we’re dangerously low.”

His words drew a murmur through the hall, a mixture of understanding and unease. They’d all felt it—the smaller portions at mealtimes, the quiet sacrifices. But hearing it so plainly spoken made the threat tangible, close, inescapable.

Daithi let the silence settle, his gaze sweeping the room, meeting the eyes of people. “We know the cause: the late frosts that killed the crops before they were ever ready, the dwindling fish that haven’t returned to the lake in numbers we can depend on, and even the forest, which yields less game than before. We’ve tried new paths, found new traps, and still, we’re seeing less.”

He took a breath, his voice quieting, becoming almost solemn. “This isn’t just a season of misfortune—it’s something more.” A hint of reluctance flickered in his eyes, an admission unspoken, as he looked briefly down at his hands before lifting his gaze back to the crowd. “There have been... other challenges. The roads we once counted on for trade and supply have become dangerous. We’ve lost more than a few shipments meant to sustain us through these lean times.”

Daithi’s gaze flickered to each council member, lingering on their faces as if silently sharing the weight of an unspoken truth. His mouth tightened, reluctant but resolved. “It seems there are those outside our town who see opportunity in our struggle, those who would take what little we have left for themselves.”

A ripple of chatter passed through the hall, some in shock, others in quiet frustration. A few whispered the word bandits to each other, the reality settling in like a cold draft cutting through the room.

“But this isn’t the first time we’ve faced hardship. And it won’t be the last. We’ve been through lean years, through harder winters, and somehow, we’ve always found a way forward,” he continued, his tone unwavering, though a flicker of unease remained.

“There’s hope, though. With spring upon us, the forest will come back to life. There’s game to be had, resources to be managed if we’re just cautious enough, wise enough, to make it last. We have everything we need within us and around us to pull through.”

“It’s just a matter of endurance. Of patience and unity. We need to keep it going, a while longer. Just until we’re sure the lean season is truly behind us. And we will, together.”

Orla was the first to break the silence, her voice cool and deliberate. “And what of the reserves?” She adjusted her spectacles, peering over the rims at Daithi with her sharp, unblinking gaze. “We’ve dipped into them more than planned, Daithi. You know that better than anyone. And from what I hear, they may not be replenished as quickly as we’d like.”

“Yes, but that’s what they’re for,” Daithi countered, though his voice held a flicker of tension. “We saved so we could make it through winters just like this. And we’ve still got enough if we’re cautious.”

Orla leaned forward, her gaze hardening. “If we’re careful, you say? And if we’re not?” She let the words hang, each one like a drop of icy water. “Time is a luxury we might not have. What happens if the fish stay scarce?”

A chill settled over the room at her words, heads nodding in reluctant agreement. Leora, usually quick with a jest, seemed to hesitate, a faint crease appearing between her brows as she considered the weight of Orla’s concern.

“Well, let’s not be all doom and gloom,” Leora finally interjected, her tone as breezy as she could manage, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ve weathered lean seasons before, and we’ve always come out stronger. We have our hunters, our foragers, and come spring, the lake’s fish will be plentiful again. A little hiccup, that’s all.”

A few weak chuckles rose from the crowd, an attempt to shake off the unease in the room, but they faded as quickly as they came.

“But what about the coffers, Daithi?” Orla’s voice pierced the noise, her tone sharp and unrelenting. Her eyes, unwavering and piercing, locked onto Daithi. “All these failed ventures—the promises of trade deals that have led to nothing but empty wagons and dwindling gold. How much longer are we expected to bear the cost of these... missteps?”

Daithi’s face tightened as he met her gaze, his jaw clenched. “We took a risk, yes,” he said, keeping his voice steady, though tension strained beneath his words. “It didn’t yield what we hoped, but we can make the roads safer, prepare well enough, and with the right precautions—”

“Precautions?” Orla cut in, her tone biting. “Precautions that would drain us dry. More hours spent, and the reserves would grow thin.” She didn’t let her gaze waver, her expression unflinching as she awaited his response.

Leora folded her arms, her face deceptively mild. “And let’s not forget the poor horses,” she added, her voice cool and edged with disappointment. “Each one gone, and not a single coin or sack of grain to show for it.” Her words carried a quiet sting, more cutting than outright accusation.

Daithi’s jaw tightened further. “I understand your concerns,” he replied, his tone firmer now, though his gaze dropped briefly before meeting Orla’s once again. “But it’s easy to judge in hindsight. At the time, it seemed the best way to keep the town thriving. And even now, I believe we can recover—if we hold together and act with unity and patience.”

A tense silence followed, the weight of Daithi’s words settling over the hall. Townsfolk exchanged anxious glances, each face reflecting shades of doubt, worry, or grudging agreement. Orla’s eyes narrowed.

“Unity and patience,” Finnian echoed, his voice smooth and darkly amused, his gaze shifting between Daithi and the other council members. “Tell me, Daithi—how much unity do you think we’ll have when our supplies run dry and there’s nothing left to eat?”

“That’s why we’re here, Finnian,” Daithi replied quietly, his voice steady, though it carried an edge of resolve. “To find our way forward. Together.”

Finnian’s gaze flicked toward Selis, his tone softening into something almost reverent. “Perhaps it’s time we ask for guidance, then. Selis, what does the lake say to us? What would it have us do?”

Selis shifted, his eyes distant, as though he saw something none of them could. His voice was soft, almost solemn. “The lake has spoken before. It will speak again—if we listen.”

The hall fell into an expectant hush at Selis’s words, a ripple of unease and reverence passing over the crowd. Thorn’s instincts sharpened, every nerve alert as the weight of Selis’s pronouncement settled around them.

Orla’s gaze swung to Selis, sceptical yet thoughtful. “And what would it say, Shaman?” Her voice was low and measured, as if testing his words. “What wisdom does it offer us now?”

But before Selis could respond, Daithi straightened, his eyes flicking toward the empty chair reserved for the outsider. Thorn’s breath caught as Daithi’s gaze shifted, meeting his.

“We have another voice to add to this discussion,” Daithi announced, his tone calm and deliberate, resonating with the conviction of someone revealing a long-considered solution. Turning fully to face Thorn, he spoke clearly, his voice carrying across the hall. “Thorn Everwind of the outer woods. It has always been tradition to leave a place for those beyond our borders. In times of uncertainty, when our own sight is clouded, the clearest perspective often comes from someone who stands apart, untouched by our worries and fears.”

A ripple of surprise spread through the audience, heads turning as one to look at Thorn. Even the council members exchanged glances, some of them visibly caught off guard by Daithi’s proposal. Only Finnian remained impassive, his expression carefully neutral, though a hint of dark amusement flickered in his eyes as he watched Thorn.

Daithi pressed on, his voice unwavering. “The council has agreed to extend the courtesy of a seat,” he continued, each word carrying weight and authority. “To offer a new perspective, a perspective that honours the old ways, as our fathers did before us.”

Roric inclined his head, his expression distant but measured, like a man addressing some ancient ritual. “If anyone objects,” he intoned, his voice a low, resonant echo, “speak now.”

Silence stretched through the hall as every gaze turned to Thorn, the outsider. Thorn could feel the weight of their anticipation, the collective breath held as they awaited the council’s decision. It was as if the air itself had thickened, every unspoken question hanging in the room like mist over water.

And then Finnian broke the silence, a faint smile tracing his lips as he said softly, “I object.” His words were almost gentle, a stark contrast to the cold edge in his eyes.

A pulse of shock swept through the hall, Thorn’s pulse quickening as his gaze locked with Finnian’s. But Daithi remained calm, a faint, knowing nod betraying no surprise, as though he had anticipated this very moment.

“You are heard, Finnian,” Roric replied, his tone grave and steady, yet distant, as though his attention lay elsewhere, beyond the hall’s stone walls. “But the council holds authority in this matter.” He turned his gaze across the room, pausing briefly on each council member. “Does anyone else object?”

Another silence followed, deeper this time, resonating with a sense of finality. Each face around the table held a hint of resolve, some expressions tinged with curiosity, others with quiet resignation.

When no further objections arose, Roric inclined his head again, his voice solemn and unwavering. “Then it is decided. Thorn Everwind, you are invited to sit among us.”

The townspeople shifted, glancing uneasily at one another as Thorn stepped forward, their eyes following him with a blend of curiosity, caution, and suspicion. He could feel their judgment, their unease, as if he were crossing into a world where he did not belong.

But he kept his back straight, his gaze steady. He wouldn’t let them see his fear. He wouldn’t let them see how deeply this unsettled him.

And as he lowered himself into the empty chair, the whispers around him faded into silence.

The council had convened.

And now, the real meeting could begin.

As Thorn settled into the wooden chair, he could feel the scrutiny of every eye in the hall—pinpricks of focus like the touch of icy rain on bare skin. Never in his life had he been the centre of such attention, and yet here he was, sitting before an assembly of strangers in a place steeped in unfamiliar ritual, surrounded by figures who had lived and breathed this town’s air for their entire lives.

Roric’s gaze turned toward Thorn slowly, as if shifting through thick water. His eyes—those strangely vacant pools of autumn blue—fixed unblinkingly on him. Leaning forward ever so slightly, the loose folds of his ceremonial robes brushed against the table. Thorn felt the force of Roric’s attention, like a hook sinking into his chest, pulling him closer.

"The floor is yours, Thorn Everwind," Roric intoned, his voice low and emotionless, cutting through the hall like a blade dipped in ice.

Thorn didn't speak. He sat there, unmoving, his gaze steady on Roric, his face calm and inscrutable. The hall buzzed with anticipation, heads leaning forward, eager to witness.

The council members stirred, subtle movements that sent ripples through the tense atmosphere. A collective murmur arose from the crowd—sceptical whispers, the rustling of disbelief, the uneasy shifting of feet.

The room seemed to narrow, shadows deepening until there was only him—this enigmatic man who had emerged from the woods, whose eyes held secrets untold, whose presence filled the hall with an unsettling weight.

The crowd's mockery swelled—a wave of jeering laughter and incredulous whispers rippling through the rows of people. Even some of the council members shifted in their seats, their expressions ranging from scepticism to thinly veiled contempt. Leora tossed her head back, her bright laughter like the tinkling of wind chimes in a storm. Orla's mouth tightened into a sharp, disapproving line, while Selis frowned faintly, his brows drawing together in puzzlement.

Only Finnian sat still, his eyes dark with triumph, the ghost of a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest, watching Thorn with a look that spoke of satisfaction. This outsider would have nothing worthwhile to say—nothing that could stand against the weight of tradition and the authority of the council. It would be over before it began.

Moments stretched, the silence growing heavier with each passing second. The mocking laughter began to falter, whispers fading into uneasy quiet. Thorn's stillness commanded an unexpected gravity, unsettling those who had been so quick to judge.

And then, slowly, Thorn turned his head. His gaze swept over the room—over the rows, the stern faces of the council members, the lingering traces of derision. He met each pair of eyes in turn, his own expression unwavering, until even the murmurs dwindled into silence.

A tension hung in the air, thick and palpable. The audience shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, the mockery replaced by a creeping uncertainty. Thorn had not uttered a single word, yet his silence spoke volumes.

Roric's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—passing across his otherwise impassive face. The weight of expectation pressed down upon the hall, as everyone waited to see what the outsider would do next.

Thorn took a steady breath and began, his voice calm yet deliberate. “The bandit raids aren’t an unsolvable problem—they’re an invitation to negotiation.” He looked across the council, his gaze steady. “Most traders want their goods protected as much as you do. If we approach them directly, we might find they’re willing to pool resources to ensure safer passage for all. Protection breeds profit. It would be in everyone’s interest.”

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A few heads nodded around the hall, expressions shifting as Thorn’s words sank in. Thorn continued, his voice clear and practical. “As for the routes themselves, bandits prey on opportunity. They’re disorganized, not strategic. What they see are easy targets, isolated travellers, scattered routes. To counter this, create one maintained route and establish it as the only option for trade. Set up a patrol of organized men and women who can walk and oversee this path. A single route, consistently monitored and patrolled, would deter attacks simply by showing strength.”

Orla leaned forward, considering, her eyes sharp with intrigue. “One route. We’d need to train patrols—keep it well-maintained. It would mean focusing our resources but with better returns.”

“And it would mean cooperation,” Thorn added. “Talk to the traders, share the costs, the resources. Together, you’d all gain from a stable route.”

Satisfied by the nods of approval, Thorn shifted, his tone adapting as he moved on to the hunting issues. “The hunting grounds don’t have to be pushed farther out, not if you work with the land rather than against it.”

Daithi’s brow creased in interest, his gaze locked on Thorn.

“Stay close to the town,” Thorn advised. “Set traps—small, clever ones that don’t spook the game. You’ll catch smaller animals, but with more consistency. And by reducing pressure on the larger game, you’ll ensure the herds aren’t driven off. Focus on balance, not taking too much from one area, and the forest will give back.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, thoughtful and considering.

“And the hunters?” Roric asked, his voice deep and measured.

“Send them in pairs,” Thorn replied, his tone calm but resolute. “Two hunters working quietly are worth more than a dozen crashing through unfamiliar territory. They’ll move like the animals do, cautious and unseen. Let them learn from the forest and adapt their movements. It’s how I survived as an outsider.”

The hall fell silent, each council member weighing his words carefully. Thorn’s gaze swept across the attendees, seeing nods of understanding ripple through them.

Finally, Daithi spoke, his tone resolute. “What you’re saying makes sense, Thorn. It’s unconventional, but I think it’s time we try something different.”

Orla nodded, glancing between Thorn and the council. “It would mean discipline, but it could bring order to what’s now chaos.”

A sense of relief passed through the room, the weight of their recent struggles eased, if only slightly. Thorn settled back; his gaze steady as he observed the council’s response. The work ahead was formidable, but now they had a direction. For now, it was a start, a foothold in the journey toward stability.

There was a long, stunned silence. Leora’s mouth hung open slightly. Orla’s gaze was narrow, thoughtful, as if weighing his words against some unseen scale. Daithi’s expression was taut, almost painful in its intensity.

But it was Finnian’s reaction that adjusted the mood.

“Are you suggesting,” Finnian said slowly, his voice dripping with mock civility, “that our hunters don’t know their own woods?”

Thorn didn’t flinch. He met Finnian’s gaze calmly, steadily. “I’m suggesting,” he said softly, “that these are no longer the woods you think they are.”

The words fell like a stone into a still pond, sending shockwaves through the hall. There was a collective intake of breath, a sharp, startled sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke.

“The game’s patterns have changed,” someone muttered. “He’s right. The herds aren’t where they used to be…”

“I heard the last hunting party went missing for two days…”

“The woods are… different now. Strange.”

The whispers built, gaining strength, until they were a soft, insistent hum filling the air. Thorn remained still, watching, waiting. He had cast his line, and now he waited to see what he would catch.

The sound of Roric’s staff rung out three times.

The hall fell silent instantly, every eye snapping back to the Shorewalker.

Roric’s gaze was fixed on Thorn, and for the first time since the meeting had begun, there was something in his eyes—something alive and burning, something that flickered like the reflection of firelight on the water’s surface.

“Your words are noted,” Roric said slowly, his tone thoughtful, each syllable laden with a gravity that drew every eye. “And your advice… is sound.”

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the room, tension easing as shoulders relaxed, heads nodded. Thorn noticed Daithi’s expression soften, as though a heavy weight had been lifted from him.

Roric paused, his gaze drifting over the council with a quiet authority. “Does anyone have reason to object?” he asked, his voice resonating through the hall with a firm but open invitation.

The council members exchanged glances, each silently measuring the moment. Finnian’s eyes narrowed slightly, his face unreadable, but he remained silent. Orla, calm and assessing, inclined her head in agreement, her gaze momentarily settling on Thorn with a hint of reluctant approval. Leora, her usual wit tempered for once, gave a small, approving nod. Beside them, Selis sat unmoving, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the hall, detached and indifferent—this was not his concern, his gaze making clear that his focus lay far from the matters of the forest.

No one spoke. No objections.

“Then it is decided,” Roric continued, his gaze resting on Daithi. “We will follow Thorn’s recommendations. Daithi, you will oversee the adjustments, ensuring our resources are used wisely. And Thorn…” Roric’s gaze settled on him with a solemn weight. “If you are willing, we ask that you lend your expertise to our hunters.”

Thorn inclined his head slightly, his expression calm. “I will.”

Approval ran through the hall, quieter this time, more certain. Relief softened the lines on many faces—a small victory, but one that felt hard-earned.

“Good.” Roric leaned back, his gaze sweeping the council, his expression serene as he observed the ripple of unity taking root. “Then the matter of the shortages is settled.”

For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the council had found its footing again, their decision a tentative balm for the anxieties that plagued them. Small, hopeful smiles flickered on a few faces. Thorn could feel the mood lifting, the tension unwinding as they steadied themselves, as though the shadow of scarcity had momentarily lifted.

But then Roric’s gaze shifted, drifting slowly over the crowd. His expression turned distant, glassy.

Roric’s voice was low, deliberate, each word dropping like a stone into the silent hall. “What is the next matter to bring before this council?”

And with those words, the sense of reprieve dissolved, giving way to the next looming shadow.

The hall fell silent, every eye scanning the council for the next to speak, their gazes settled on Orla. She was forward, her fingers clasped tightly together. Her spectacles glinted in the torchlight, hiding the emotion in her eyes. Slowly, she adjusted them, a faint tremor in her hand the only betrayal of her inner turmoil.

“I… I have something,” she said at last, her voice clipped and precise, each word measured out with meticulous care. “A concern… of a more personal nature.”

A ripple of surprise ran through the room. A personal concern? From Orla, of all people? Ada and Marin exchanged a glance, their curiosity piqued. Even the council members leaned forward slightly, frowning in confusion.

Orla took a deep breath, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence of the Great Hall. The townsfolk leaned in, eyes wide, ears straining to catch every word. Even the council members seemed transfixed, their gazes locked on the treasurer, their shock and confusion palpable.

“My husband,” she exhaled, her voice taut, wavering ever so slightly. “He hasn’t woken. His body is cold—like ice. His skin… it’s dry in places, rough like old leather. And his breathing…” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “It’s shallow. Weak. As if he’s clinging to life by a thread.”

A horrified murmur rippled through the crowd, bodies twisting in their seats, casting fearful glances at one another. Ada felt her own breath hitch, her heart pounding in her chest. Cold, rough skin? A sleep that wouldn’t end? The very words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and foreboding.

Marin’s gaze was fixed on his mother. The shock in his eyes was raw, unfiltered—like a child suddenly seeing the world unravel around him. Ada’s grip on his arm tightened, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at Orla as if she were a stranger.

“Mother…” he whispered, his voice so soft it was barely audible. “You—”

“There have been others,” Orla continued, cutting him off. Her gaze swept the room, her voice carrying above the growing whispers. “A few, at first. But then… more. Always the same. They grow lethargic, weak. Their bodies grow cold. And then… they sleep. And they don’t wake.”

A wave of panic swelled in the hall, whispers building into a near roar as each turned to one another, fear stark on every face. Ada’s stomach twisted painfully. This wasn’t just a personal tragedy for Marin’s family. This was something much, much worse.

Daithi’s voice cut through the clamour like a blade. “How many?” he demanded, leaning forward, his gaze fierce, searing into Orla. “How many people are we talking about, Orla?”

Orla’s gaze met his, and for a moment, she faltered. The treasurer—always so composed, so unflappable—looked almost… lost. She pressed her lips together, her hands trembling slightly as they tightened around the edge of the table.

“Six,” she whispered at last, “Six that I know of. But I suspect there may be more.”

Gasps broke through the room, Six? How could such a sickness spread silently, consuming their loved ones without a whisper of warning?

“That’s absurd!” Finnian’s voice rang out, slicing through the silence. He shot to his feet. His expression was a strange mixture of rage and disbelief. “How could this go unnoticed, Orla? How could you let it get this far?”

Orla’s face flushed, her composure breaking. “I thought it was just a winter ailment!” she shot back, her voice cracking with frustration and fear. “It’s been a harsh season—people grow tired, they weaken. I never imagined it was… this.” She looked down, her voice softening, almost pleading. “I thought I could contain it, find a solution before it spread. But…”

“But it did spread,” Daithi interrupted, his voice tight, cold. He leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. “And now we have people across the town falling into this… this unnatural sleep.” He paused, “How many more are there, Orla? How many of our people are at risk?”

Orla’s face was a mask of regret and pain. “I don’t know, Daithi. I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “All I know is that it’s spreading, and I… I can’t stop it.”

The crowd shifted anxiously as dread rippled through them. Ada glanced around, her heart racing. How many families were quietly suffering, hidden away, hoping for help that would never come?

“And why didn’t you come to us sooner?” Leora questioned.

Orla’s voice trembled. "The council—"

"The council should have known immediately. Because this isn’t just a concern, Orla. This is a threat." Daithi cut in.

As the council members exchanged dark looks, Thorn’s heart sank.

Roric’s staff sounded out, “Order!” He turned his head slowly, his gaze locking on Orla, his eyes dark and empty. “Tell me, Orla. What makes you think… it’s spreading?”

The treasurer hesitated, then straightened, her expression tightening with resolve. “Because I’ve had reports,” she said quietly. “The same symptoms. Lethargy. Cold skin. Darkness in the eyes. And it always ends the same way. The victims fall into a sleep… and they don’t wake.”

“Darkness in their eyes?” Leora whispered, her face ashen. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’re dying!” someone shouted from the back of the hall. “We’re cursed! The lake is angry—”

“No, we’re infected!” cried another, their voice trembling. “This is a plague!”

“Cursed or plagued, we’re being punished!” an elder wailed, clutching her shawl tight around her shoulders. “We’ve angered something beyond our understanding!”

The council members looked shaken, glancing at one another as the panic escalated, but no one moved to quiet the crowd. The unity they’d briefly achieved had shattered, replaced by raw fear and desperation.

“We need answers!” a young man shouted, his face flushed, fists clenched. “If you knew about this, why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Why did you hide this from us, Orla?” another demanded, their voice harsh with betrayal. “People are suffering—dying—and you kept it secret!”

Amidst the chaos, Daithi’s voice thundered above the rest. He turned on Orla, his expression a twisted blend of fury and fear. “What were you thinking? Why didn’t you warn us?”

Orla’s composure collapsed. “I thought it was nothing!” she cried, her voice cracking as her gaze swept the hall, filled with both shame and desperation. “I thought… I thought it was just an illness, something we could handle on our own—”

“You thought wrong!” Daithi roared, his face contorted with rage. “You put us all in danger, Orla! Your secrecy has jeopardized us all, and now we’re left scrambling for answers while you play with lives!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Orla shot back, her voice raw with anguish. Her eyes flashed as she met Daithi’s accusatory glare. “Do you think I’m not living with that every moment? My husband is lying there, slipping away, and I have to watch him suffer and rot while you scream at me about protocol!”

The crowd shifted restlessly, watching the exchange, their anger and frustration bubbling over. Marin’s gaze flickered between his mother and Daithi, his face a mask of confusion and grief, his hands clenched at his sides as though holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“Enough.”

The word was spoken barely above a whisper, but it cut through the chaos like a blade. The hall fell silent, every eye turning toward the figure at the head of the council. Roric had not moved, his face an unreadable mask. Yet his voice held a depth of power that froze even the most fearful among them.

“Enough,” he repeated, his tone soft yet chilling, and the room grew deathly quiet. The audience glanced around, fear and anger giving way to trepidation under Roric’s quiet authority. The council members exchanged wary glances, the tension crackling like lightning in the air.

Roric’s head turned, his movements slow and deliberate, his gaze drifting until it settled on Thorn. For a long, unnerving moment, the Shorewalker’s pale blue eyes held Thorn’s, like a hook reeling him closer.

“Outsider,” Roric spoke, the word drawn out with a chilling calm. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

The hall fell into a suffocating silence, every eye shifting to Thorn as if he held the answers to a riddle no one could solve. Thorn could feel the weight of their stares, the desperation, the hope, the panic swirling around him like smoke. His pulse pounded in his ears, his instincts screaming at him to tread carefully, to choose his words with caution.

“Something like it,” Thorn said quietly, his voice steady though his insides twisted. “But never… never quite like this.”

Roric’s gaze didn’t waver. His eyes, still shadowed and distant, stayed fixed on Thorn for a long, unnerving moment. It felt less like a question and more like a test.

“And what is your opinion, then?” The words slipped out flatly, the tone devoid of the usual weight of Roric’s commands. There was no respect in his voice, no real interest—just a formality, an obligation fulfilled.

Thorn hesitated, the intensity of the room pressing in on him, suffocating. He glanced around, meeting the frightened gazes, the council members’ calculating stares. But even as he struggled for the right words, the right approach, Roric turned away, looking past him as though Thorn’s response had already faded into insignificance. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but to Thorn, it was like a slap. A dismissal. He was already deemed irrelevant. The attention shifted off him as if a door had been closed in his face.

And the silence stretched on, a quiet so deep it seemed to hold the hall in a vice, until a voice finally broke it, raw and pleading:

“What are we supposed to do now?”

Roric’s gaze swept past the council members, lingering briefly on each one. Orla, with her face drawn and tense. Daithi, still trembling with barely suppressed anger. Leora, who shifted nervously in her seat. Selis, wide-eyed and visibly shaken. And finally, Roric’s gaze settled on Finnian.

The tavern keeper’s expression remained smooth, his dark eyes steady. But there was something… Thorn couldn’t quite place it. A flicker of motion. A tightening at the corner of Finnian’s lips, so subtle it might have been a trick of the light. For a fraction of a heartbeat, their eyes met.

And in that instant, Thorn felt it—a ripple, a shift, as if something unseen passed between Finnian and Roric. It was over in less than a breath, so fleeting Thorn almost doubted it had happened at all. But the way Finnian’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile…

Thorn’s skin prickled. There was something here. Something hidden. But what?

Roric’s gaze snapped back to Thorn, his expression as neutral as a frozen lake.

“Very well,” he said softly, his tone still distant, as if reaching Thorn through layers of murky water. “Thank you for your… thoughts.”

He turned away fully now, dismissing Thorn entirely. “Council members, hear me,” Roric continued, his voice gaining strength and purpose. “We will proceed with caution. Isolate the afflicted immediately. No one should encounter them unless necessary, and any signs of illness—any at all—must be reported to us at once.”

There was a collective nod from the council members, and even a ripple of reluctant agreement from the townsfolk. It was a logical suggestion. A measured approach. And yet… something about it felt wrong. Incomplete.

Thorn’s brows knitted together, unease crawling down his spine. What about the source? What about finding out why this was happening?

Thorn shook his head minutely, his eyes still on Roric. The Shorewalker’s posture was too relaxed, his gaze too unfocused.

Roric continued as if nothing were amiss, his voice calm, commanding. “Orla, I want detailed reports on each household where the sickness has taken root. Every name, every symptom. Leave nothing out.”

Orla’s lips tightened, but she nodded. “Yes, Shorewalker.”

“Daithi, ensure that the town complies. Send a few men around to check in on the more isolated homes. We cannot afford any gaps in our knowledge.”

Daithi’s jaw clenched. “Understood.”

“And Leora.” Roric turned to her, his gaze heavy. “Spread the word. Quietly. We don’t want panic. Tell them it’s routine, a precaution. Reassure them that the council is… handling the situation.”

Leora swallowed, nodding rapidly. “Yes, of course. I’ll see to it.”

The hall was silent now, the tension coiled tight and sharp. Thorn could feel it, like a wire stretched to its breaking point. He glanced around, seeing the fear and confusion etched into every face. And then his gaze returned to Roric.

The Shorewalker sat still. For a moment, Thorn thought he saw something—something dark and twisted, flickering behind those blank eyes. But it was gone in an instant, leaving only emptiness behind.

“Good,” Roric returned, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We will wait. And we will watch.”

He paused, his gaze drifting to the back of the hall, lingering on the faces of the town, as if seeking something… or someone. And then, slowly, he turned back to the council, his expression hardening.

“But there will be no rash actions. No wild accusations. Until we have evidence… until we know what we are facing, we will not act.”

Thorn’s chest tightened, his instincts flaring with a sharpened sense of danger. Roric’s words weren’t just caution; they were a refusal—a refusal to face something everyone else could sense looming just beyond reach. Thorn’s eyes narrowed, trying to catch any shift, any break in Roric’s otherwise emotionless face, but the Shorewalker’s expression was as still as the lake’s darkest depths.

What was he waiting for?

The thought coiled around him, tightening with every second of silence that Roric let slip by. Thorn’s every instinct urged him to act, to urge the council to root out the source, to hunt down the sickness before it spread further. He wanted to shout, to force their hand, to break this paralyzing grip of hesitation holding Roric back. But the Shorewalker’s calm had a finality to it, as if this delay, this restraint, was part of something deeper, something Thorn was not meant to understand.

The council members shifted again, uneasily, their eyes flickering with the same unspoken questions that Thorn dared not ask aloud. Finnian’s faint, mocking smile returned, curling at the edges of his mouth—a look Thorn knew too well. Satisfaction, lurking just beneath the surface. And yet, Thorn saw the shadows shifting in the faces around him: Leora’s gaze flitted nervously across the hall, her usual confidence strangely absent, while Selis sat motionless, his vacant eyes hinting that his mind was somewhere far from the council room, perhaps within the lake itself.

Thorn’s attention locked back onto Roric. He was certain of it now—this wasn’t caution. This was avoidance. Roric was shielding something, something buried so deeply that even his words were wrapped in layers of calm, obscuring whatever truth he carried within.

But why? Why would he protect the sickness? The thought sent a chill down Thorn’s spine, a cold unlike any he had ever felt.

Without thinking, he clenched his fists, feeling a gnawing helplessness begin to eat away at him. How much time did they have? He glanced at the faces in the crowd, searching for reassurance, but found only dread, only fear, the same shadow that haunted him lingering in every eye, every breath.

This town… these people… He felt it—the faintest pulse, the creeping sense of a ticking clock, of a sickness that was gaining ground, spreading beneath the surface, undetected and uncontained. He had seen the signs before, in other places ravaged by famine and sickness, where hesitation had been the death blow.

And yet Roric’s words hung in the air, thick and heavy, casting a darkness over the hall that settled deep in Thorn’s bones. “Without evidence… we will not act.”

The words pounded in Thorn’s mind, filling him with a dreadful certainty. This was no mere reluctance. This was something worse. Thorn’s thoughts whispered a warning, a question that would not be silenced.

What was he protecting?