The sky had taken on a soft hue of gold and lavender that morning, casting a peaceful glow across the village rooftops. Maelra stood by the well, a woven basket on her hip, exchanging quiet greetings with the early risers as they fetched water or opened their shops. She had no real business being there, yet she came every morning, always before Kaelen.
They didn't speak today. He'd offered her a nod and a half-smile before continuing toward the training grounds. She returned the gesture, hiding the sudden heat that rose to her face.
She told herself it was just the sun.
Maelra had meant to keep her distance. She was here for a reason, not for friendships or warmth. But the people of Velrath's outskirts were kind in a way that disarmed her. A stubborn elder named Corin had taken to calling her "storm eyes" and insisting she come by for stew. Tomas sweet, wide-eyed Tomas still shyly offered her bread and asked if she'd join him and the others for festival planning. She'd said no, of course. But she'd stood nearby. Listened. Smiled, even if only faintly.
There was a softness in the rhythm of this village that had begun to wear down her edges.
That evening, a storm rolled in. A tree had fallen near the west path, trapping a mule beneath it. For a split second, panic flared in the air but Maelra's voice cut through it like steel.
"Get ropes and a saw! Two of you brace the tree from rolling further! We'll need leverage , bring a plank or beam!"
The urgency in her voice didn't come from fear, but control. Clear. Unshaken.
Villagers scrambled, following her instructions without question. Within moments, the tools were gathered, and under her direction, they stabilized the tree and worked together to carefully free the frightened mule.
When it was over and the mule stood shaky but unharmed Maelra stepped back, soaked in rain, her arms folded as the others celebrated.
She glanced toward the crowd, watching their smiles and praise with unreadable eyes. Then, so quiet no one could hear over the rainfall, she whispered to herself,
"They're cheering for the wrong person."
"You're full of surprises," Kaelen had said later, handing her a dry cloth. She didn't respond, only glanced at him through wet strands of hair.
They sat under the edge of a shop awning, watching the rain.
"You care about them," he said after a pause.
She didn't answer.
That night, long after everyone had gone to sleep, Maelra sat in her room, the window cracked open. A low caw cut through the silence as a crow perched on the sill, its eyes gleaming like coals.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she untied the small scroll attached to its leg.
"The runes are nearly complete. Do not waver. Do not forget why we chose you."
—The Arcane.
The words were simple, and yet they dug beneath her skin like thorns.
Maelra crumpled the scroll and tossed it into the fire. Her reflection wavered in the windowpane—half cloaked in shadow, half lit by the flames.
She had come here as a weapon. A ghost meant to disappear after the job was done. But something in this place had begun to haunt her. Kindness. Trust. The scent of bread. The laughter of children. Kaelen's quiet eyes.
She stepped outside, drawn to the stillness. The village slept peacefully, unaware of the storm that hadn't yet come.
And yet…
As she looked up at the stars above, a quiet thought rose in her:
"They shine so brightly… it's almost cruel, how peaceful it feels before everything falls apart."