The peace, in the weeks that followed, was like a too-tight lyre string—it hummed with potential, but the slightest wrong note could make it snap. The joint patrols with Howling Crag were a show of force that bred not fear, but a cautious, weary stability. Trade routes reopened. Scouts reported the forests free of grey cloaks. The scar on Darius's hand became just another feature, a topic for awed pups and respectful nods from veterans.
But I could not settle. The mountain's connection, once a deep, resonant hum, now carried a faint, discordant tremor. It was not the sharp wrongness of the acolytes, but something slower, deeper. A sickness in the soil, far from our borders.
It began with Grynn. He arrived for a scheduled council meeting with a deep frown etching his weathered face. "Our
