Chapter 3 – The Storyteller’s Warning
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The tavern at the edge of the wildlands was the kind of place where secrets gathered like dust in the rafters. Smoke curled in the low light, carrying the smell of old ale, wet wood, and something faintly metallic—the scent of rain about to fall. Elias entered quietly, pulling his hood lower, his boots leaving dark prints on the warped floorboards.
He had ridden for two days without rest. The forest path had been cruel, full of whispers and the echo of wings he could not see. But here, amid rough laughter and the crackle of a dying hearth, the world seemed almost ordinary again. Almost.
He ordered bread and broth, kept to the shadowed end of a long table, and listened.
At the hearth, an old man sat with a lute upon his knee. His hands were thin, the veins like blue vines against pale skin. When he spoke, the room quieted—not out of respect, but because his voice held that uncanny rhythm that made men forget their cups halfway to their lips.
“She was called Mira,” the bard said, plucking a single, mournful string. “Once the healer of Kareth Vale, a woman whose touch could knit flesh and soul alike. They said her heart was light itself, that she could coax roses to bloom in winter. But love—”
He looked into the fire, and the flame seemed to dim.
“Love is the cruelest of magics. It gives, and then it takes.”
The tavern’s chatter faded into silence. Even the wind outside seemed to listen.
Elias leaned forward, every word catching against something raw in his chest.
“She loved a man who came from the northern mountains,” the bard went on, “a hunter, like you. They were bound by the quiet sort of love—no songs, no vows, only the sharing of breath beneath the stars. But the mountains are jealous gods. One winter, he never returned. Some say the beasts took him. Some say her magic did.”
A murmur rippled through the listeners, half-fear, half-wonder. The bard continued, his voice thinning to a whisper.
“She waited for him until spring, and when he did not come, she climbed the northern peaks to call him back. What returned was not her lover, but her curse. The snow melted wherever she walked, rivers ran black, and grief itself took form around her.”
Elias’s hand tightened on his cup. The broth had gone cold.
He had heard fragments of this story before—different names, different endings. In one, the witch had drowned her village. In another, she had turned to stone. But here, in the tremble of the old man’s voice, it felt real.
“They say she dwells now where the wildwoods meet the mountains,” said the bard. “A place where time folds and no birds sing. Those who enter seeking her do not return, save as whispers in the wind. She heals the broken still, but each heart she mends takes another piece of her soul.”
The fire cracked. A log collapsed into glowing ash.
“Why tell such tales?” someone muttered from the crowd.
The bard smiled sadly. “Because fools keep chasing them. Every decade or so, a knight or a hunter thinks himself immune to sorrow. They go looking for her—to slay her, or to save her—and the forest eats them whole.”
Elias rose before he realized it, the bench scraping softly. The bard’s gaze found him, sharp despite the years clouding his eyes.
“You wear a hunter’s coat,” he said. “And a weary one. You’ve lost someone.”
Elias froze. The room’s warmth vanished.
“Everyone’s lost someone,” he replied.
The old man tilted his head. “Aye. But not everyone carries it like a brand.” He gestured to the dagger at Elias’s belt, the silver glint catching the firelight. “That’s no tool for beasts. You’re chasing ghosts.”
“I’m chasing truth,” Elias said quietly.
The bard chuckled, a sound like dry leaves. “Truth and ghosts often share a bed, lad. Tell me—what do you hope to find? The witch? Or the piece of yourself you left behind?”
For a heartbeat, Elias almost answered. But the words felt too heavy.
He turned instead toward the door.
“You’ll find her only if she allows it,” the bard called after him. “And if she does, pray she finds mercy first.”
Outside, the rain had begun to fall, soft and steady. The world smelled of iron and pine. Elias pulled up his hood and walked toward the stables, the bard’s words clinging to him like damp air.
He saddled his horse, tightening the straps with trembling fingers. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and waiting.
As he mounted, the tavern door creaked open again. The bard stood there, framed by the firelight, the rain streaking his gray hair.
“Hunter!” he called. “Every man who hunts sorrow becomes its prey.”
Elias paused. “Then I suppose I’ll learn what kind of prey I make.”
The bard said nothing more. He only lifted his lute and played a single note—a sound that echoed across the rain-soaked plain, carrying with it something like a warning, or a farewell.
The road to the north uncoiled before Elias, slick with mud and memory. The moon rose behind a veil of cloud, pale and watchful.
He rode on.
Hours later, when the tavern had emptied and the last ember died, the old bard sat alone, his fingers tracing the strings of his lute.
“Poor fool,” he murmured. “He has the same eyes.”
And somewhere in the forest far ahead, a woman with hair black as midnight lifted her face to the rain.
She felt it then—a heartbeat she did not know, echoing faintly through the storm.
- Writer
