Borin moved through the snow-laden pines with his steps light but deliberate. He kept his ears tuned to the wind, his eyes scanning the dense underbrush and the shadows between the trees. A direct confrontation had gone as well as it could have, considering, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. They could easily have sent men to flank him, to cut off his retreat.
He skirted around frozen streams and low-hanging branches, his bow held loosely in his hand, ready to nock an arrow in a heartbeat. He wasn't running, not exactly. His pace was swift but controlled, a steady, ground-eating stride designed for covering distance efficiently without attracting undue attention. He knew the woods around Oakhaven intimately, the places where snow drifts hid shallow pits, where the ground gave way unexpectedly, where thickets offered hiding spots. He used the landscape to his advantage, moving from cover to cover, pausing occasionally behind a thick fir to listen, to observe.
The air grew colder as the sun began its slow descent behind the peaks. The woods began to take on a bluish tint, the shadows lengthening into amorphous shapes. Borin pushed on, the crunch of his boots on the snow the only sound besides his own breathing.
Finally, the tree line began to thin. The first faint lights of Oakhaven twinkled through the branches ahead. A deep, physical wave of relief washed over him, loosening the tension coiled in his shoulders. He wasn't built for standing toe-to-toe with a dozen armed men. Not like a Fighter could, shrugging off blows through sheer brawn and determination. He didn't possess a Mage's ability to unleash raw elemental power, wiping out foes with a single devastating blast. His strength lay in patience, in observation, in the silent hunt. He trapped his quarry, wore down stragglers, used the environment as a weapon. Retreating had been the smart play, the Ranger's play.
He stepped out of the woods, the familiar sight of the first few scattered cottages of the village edge greeting him like an old friend offering a comforting promise of warmth and safety. Head low, he made his way towards the central meeting hall, his mind already turning over the details he needed to report to Hemlock. They were called mercenaries, their leader carried a cudgel, and there were at least a dozen of them, maybe more lurking out of sight. It was enough information to go on, for now.
* * *
Borin pushed open the heavy wooden door of the meeting hall. The warm air inside wrapped around him, a stark contrast to the biting cold he just left. Old Man Hemlock sat by the hearth, stirring a pot of food. He looked up as Borin entered, his ancient eyes sharp.
"They're south," Borin said, shedding snow from his shoulders, his voice tight. "Tucked away in a hollow near the old collapsed beaver dam. At least a dozen hard cases I saw, maybe more dug in out of sight."
He walked closer to the fire, holding his hands out to the heat.
"Had one jump me, hidden on watch. Sharp blade. Took him down easy. Then I got their attention."
Hemlock nodded slowly, his gaze steady on Borin.
"Their leader," Borin continued, detailing the encounter. "Gaunt fellow, carried a big cudgel. Tried to bluff me, called themselves mercenaries passing through with sick men. Didn't look sick to me. Looked like trouble. Outnumbered six to one, I backed off."
Hemlock stopped stirring the pot, the wooden spoon suspended above the simmering mixture. His weathered hands, marked with age spots and tiny scars from decades of herb gathering, set the utensil aside. He rose from his seat with the deliberate movements of an old man who refused to be hurried by age.
His keen eyes swept over Borin, taking in the ranger's snow-dusted cloak, the slight tear on his sleeve, the small scratch across his cheek that had barely broken the skin. Hemlock's gaze lingered on Borin's right hand, which flexed unconsciously at his side.
"Any wounds that need tending?" Hemlock's voice carried the rough texture of bark, quiet but firm.
Borin shook his head. "Nothing worth mentioning."
Hemlock's bushy eyebrows drew together, his face grave in the firelight. "Do you believe they pose a genuine threat to Oakhaven?" He placed a hand on Borin's shoulder, his fingers surprisingly strong. "Not just poachers passing through, but something more?"
The question hung in the air between them, weighted with implications. Borin felt the responsibility of his answer settle heavily on his shoulders as the fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the wooden walls of the meeting hall.
Borin considered Hemlock's question carefully, his mind replaying the encounter in the woods.
"They're not just poachers," he said finally. "Too organized. Too many. And that leader—something off about him. Didn't have the look of a simple bandit captain." Borin rubbed his chin, the stubble rough beneath his fingertips. "The way they've positioned themselves, the timing of their arrival... it feels deliberate."
Hemlock's expression darkened. He moved to a small table where a worn map of the region lay unfurled, its edges curling slightly. "Show me exactly where they've made camp."
Borin leaned over the map, his finger tracing the southern woods until it stopped at a specific point. "Here. Sheltered on three sides by the hills. Good vantage point. Easy to defend."
"Strategically chosen," Hemlock muttered, more to himself than to Borin. "And with the Awakening Ceremony approaching..."
The two men exchanged a look of shared concern. Whatever these strangers wanted, their presence so close to Oakhaven, at such a significant time, couldn't be coincidence.
"We need to prepare," Hemlock said, his voice hardening with resolve. "And we need to know what they're really after."
"Borin," Hemlock's voice was low, but carried an edge of steel. "Gather the villagers. Here. Now."
Borin hesitated. "All of them, Teacher Hemlock? Isn't this a matter best kept amongst the… experienced? Less to worry the others, especially the young ones."
Hemlock shook his head, the firelight glinting off his silver hair. He'd intended to discuss this solely with Elara. Discretion, caution – those were his usual tenets. But Borin's assessment of the strangers, their positioning, their timing… it stirred a disquiet he couldn't ignore. Oakhaven's future, its young initiates on the cusp of the Awakening Ceremony, were too precious a commodity to gamble with.
"These are not ordinary poachers, Borin. Something feels… wrong. I'd planned to keep this contained, but your report changes things. We will face this together. Oakhaven stands as one."
* * *
While Borin and Hemlock strategized, Alph had spent the remainder of the day immersed in the quiet company of his books. The encounter with Finn, and Astrid's casual mention of Old Man Hemlock's views on physical readiness for the Awakening, had only fueled his determination.
He meticulously sifted through the legends and local histories, his lawyerly mind from his past life surprisingly adept at separating plausible accounts from folkloric embellishments. He began to see patterns.
Alph started to understand that the so-called 'Professions' weren't just random gifts. Their advancement wasn't always linear; certain texts hinted that if a practitioner met specific, often obscure, requirements, they could branch into more specialized and potent forms of their craft.
Furthermore, the 'talents' that seemed to predispose someone to a path were less about innate magical destiny and more about upbringing and focused aptitude. Finn, for example, having spent his youth learning the ways of the hunt from his father, was far more likely to awaken as a Hunter, with skills honed by experience, than as a Mage pulling spells out of thin air.
He also noted down mentions of 'bloodline' inheritances, like his Aunt Elara's Frostmoon lineage, which seemed to grant a natural, potent affinity towards certain elements or powers, significantly influencing one's potential awakening. This, Alph wryly realized, was likely what Elara meant when she said you couldn't truly 'prepare' for the ceremony in the way one studied for an exam. The development of these affinities, whether through blood or dedicated, long-term practice, was gradual. Had he, or rather the original Alph, spent months or years actively trying to cultivate a specific skill set, it might have swayed the outcome. But with less than two weeks until the full moon, there was precious little he could do to fundamentally alter whatever lay dormant within him now.
As Alph carefully closed the last scroll he'd been examining, a loud rumble from his stomach broke the silence of his small study. He blinked, realizing with a start that the light outside his window had dimmed considerably; in his fervor for knowledge, he'd completely forgotten about lunch. Just as he was about to drag his tired body towards the kitchen in search of leftovers, a frantic pounding on his front door was followed by a familiar, high-pitched voice. "Alph! Alph, are you in there? Open up!" It was Emil.
Puzzled by the urgency in the boy's voice, Alph quickly unlatched the door. Emil stood on his doorstep, chest heaving, his small face flushed red from exertion and the cold. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, catching his breath in ragged gasps. "Alph," he panted, once he could speak. "Grandpa… Grandpa Hemlock… he's calling everyone. To the meeting hall. Now. Says it's an emergency."