The forest quieted. Hemlock stood for a long moment, the amber-eyed Treant a silent, imposing sentinel at his side. He ignored the dull throb in his forearm, his focus fixed on returning to his post.
His gaze fell upon the splintered remains of his bark shield. He spotted the mercenary's short sword, its blade still embedded in the woody debris. A well-made weapon. He pulled it free, testing its balance before retrieving his own gnarled staff from the snow. One could never have too many sharp blades in a remote village.
With a slight nod, he set off. He and the Treant began the walk back towards the glowing grove, the guardian's heavy footfalls muffled by the deep snow.
The thief staggered out of the darkness, half-carrying, half-dragging Roric with him. They collapsed into the flickering light of the campfires, a mess of tangled limbs and ragged breathing. Roric stumbled blindly, his hands clamped to his temples, a low moan escaping his lips.
Gregor was on his feet in an instant, his face a thundercloud of fury. He stomped over to them, his heavy cudgel in hand.
"What is this? Report!"
From the entrance of the largest tent, Valerius appeared. He remained silent, his sharp gaze taking in Roric's vacant stare and the thief's bruised, exhausted state. He assessed the scene not with a captain's anger, but with a spymaster's cold curiosity.
The thief, gasping for breath, found his voice. "A druid. An old man, but Tier 2. He summoned a Guardian."
Gregor swore, a low, vicious sound. He gave the snow beside Roric's prone form a frustrated kick. "Useless. Lyra! Get out here!"
The hedge-sorcerer emerged from her tent, her dark eyes taking in the scene. She knelt beside Roric and placed a cool hand on his forehead, muttering a low chant. A faint scent of crushed lavender and ozone filled the air.
Valerius watched, his lips curled in a slight, humourless smile. "To be so thoroughly routed by a single village elder," he commented to the air, his voice dripping with condescension. "One begins to question the quality of the tools, Captain."
A muscle twitched in Gregor's jaw, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed on his fallen man.
A shudder wracked Roric's body. The Hunter pushed himself into a sitting position, shoving Lyra's hand away. The vacant look in his eyes had been replaced by a pained, but lucid, clarity.
"My mistake," Roric grated out, his voice rough. He looked past Gregor, his gaze fixed on Valerius. "I tried to read the summon. Its master's will... it was absolute."
Gregor ignored Roric's self-recrimination. He jabbed a thumb at his second-in-command. "The entire event. Speak."
Roric took a ragged breath, the headache a dull hammer behind his eyes. He recounted the encounter with a soldier's precision. He detailed the druid's control over the Graspervines, the shield of woven bark, the sudden, violent summoning of the Guardian. He finished by describing his own foolish attempt to use Beast Empathy and the psychic backlash from the druid's overpowering will. He owned his failure without excuse.
Valerius listened, his face a mask of detached concentration. His gaze grew distant. "A bloodline activation," he murmured, his voice a low whisper almost lost to the wind. "The druid was protecting the source. He let you retreat because he could not leave it undefended." He looked at Gregor, a flicker of cold amusement in his eyes. "The disturbance was not a beast, Captain. It was a villager."
Gregor's expression soured. "So now we face a Tier 2 summoner and a fresh-made Tier 0 frost mage? Our numbers mean little against that kind of power. The scales have tipped."
"The situation has grown more complex, certainly," Valerius conceded. He gave Gregor a long, appraising stare. "I continue to have faith in your company's strength, Captain." A slight pause. "Your brains, less so."
He turned without another word and swept back into the privacy of his tent, leaving Gregor clenching and unclenching his fists in the cold night air.
Back at the pine grove, Elara stood her ground, a lone sentinel before the roaring vortex. Iska paced restlessly at her side, a low whine rumbling in the great wolf's chest. The sounds of combat—shouts, the splintering of wood—had carried faintly on the wind, then ceased, leaving only an agonizing silence. She did not know if Hemlock was victorious, or if he had fallen. Her vigil was here.
Minutes stretched into an eternity.
Then, two figures emerged from the treeline. Her teacher, and the lumbering form of the Treant Guard beside him.
Relief, sharp and fierce, washed over her.
As Hemlock and his guardian reached the edge of the clearing, the old druid pointed a gnarled finger toward the far side of the vortex. The Treant gave a low rumble of understanding and lumbered to its new post, a silent, moss-covered bastion of wood and earth.
With the perimeter secured, Hemlock turned his attention to the swirling snow. He took a step toward it, and the words of question died on Elara's throat.
He held his body stiffly, his left arm pinned close to his side. Her eyes, trained to spot the smallest disharmony in nature, narrowed. As he drew closer, she saw it: a fresh tear in the thick fabric of his sleeve. Beneath it, a patch of skin was already an ugly, bruised purple.
"Teacher!" Her voice was sharp with alarm. She closed the distance between them in an instant. "You are hurt."
He glanced down at his arm as if noticing it for the first time. "A trifle. The venom is weak. I will purge it come morning."
Elara said nothing. Her fingers gently but firmly took his forearm. She pushed the torn sleeve away, revealing the small puncture at the center of the discoloration. A faint black line, thin as a spider's thread, crept away from the wound.
He started to wave a dismissive hand, but stopped as he saw the fierce determination in her eyes. It was the resolve of a healer, of his apprentice, of the young woman he had raised. He gave a quiet sigh, a soft sound of acquiescence, and offered her his arm.
Without another word, she pressed her palm flat against the afflicted area. A soft, emerald light bloomed from her hand, warm and smelling of fresh moss and spring thaw. She closed her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration. Hemlock watched as the venom, the black thread under his skin, writhed. It began to recede, drawn toward the wound, neutralized by the clean, living magic flowing from his apprentice. He saw not a girl playing at magic, but a true druid coming into her own power. And in his weary, ancient heart, he felt a flicker of pride.
The green light faded from Elara's palm. She pulled her hand away, revealing skin that, while still bruised, had lost its venomous purple hue. The black line was gone.
A warm, rare smile touched Hemlock's lips. He placed his good hand on her shoulder. "Your control is precise. Oakhaven will have a new Tier 1 Druid soon." His gaze drifted past her to the roaring vortex of snow. "That, and a boy of the Frostmoon blood finding his path ahead of schedule. A double blessing for our village."
The smile vanished, replaced by a familiar, weary scowl. He let out a low grumble, his voice rough with annoyance. "A fine cause for celebration, it would be. If not for those vultures circling our mountain."