Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze as Elder Rio led the group through the dusky streets. The air was laced with the scent of roasted beans drifting from chimneys, blending with faint woodsmoke. Serenity Creek looked quaint, almost painted in warm strokes of gold and shadow.
"This way," Rio said softly, her walking stick tapping against cobblestones. "Hearth Hall will see to your needs. I've made arrangements with the keeper."
Cana's eyes darted toward a stall where steaming cups were being served. "Arrangements, eh? If it includes endless refills, consider me sold."
Rio chuckled low in her throat, though her face remained somber. "You'll find enough to keep you warm, child. But remember—the village's peace is thinner than it seems."
When they reached the inn, its wooden sign creaked faintly—two hands cupping a carved flame. Inside, the hum of voices greeted them, punctuated by clinks of mugs and the thick aroma of stew bubbling somewhere in the back. The atmosphere carried a practiced cheer, but beneath it lingered a hush of unease, as if joy had been carefully stretched over something fragile.
The innkeeper, a stout woman with hair tucked into a scarf, wrung her hands apologetically. "One suite left, I'm afraid. Roof repairs have taken half my rooms, and we're hosting other travelers for the festival. Still, it's cozy enough."
Levy's brows knit slightly. "One room?"
"Better than no room," Yume said evenly, taking the key before Cana could protest. His voice carried quiet finality.
Upstairs, the suite opened to reveal woven quilts laid neatly on narrow beds, a small fire glowing in the hearth, and faded art depicting serene landscapes. On the nightstand rested a small carved bird, wings spread as if frozen mid-flight.
Cana flopped onto the nearest bed with a grin. "Cozy enough. As long as there's coffee in reach, I'm set."
"You'll end up jittering through the night," Levy teased, then caught herself, her gaze flicking toward Yume as he set down his pack by the fire. His movements were measured, precise, but something about the way he glanced at the carved bird—almost lingering—made her chest tighten in an unfamiliar way. She turned quickly, pretending to adjust her satchel.
Yume's voice broke the moment. "We'll need rest before we face the fields. Don't let the comfort fool you. This town's smiles are strained."
Levy nodded, forcing her tone into casualness. "You're right. It feels… brittle, like they're holding something back."
Cana stretched, already reaching for the small kettle by the hearth. "Then let them hold it back. We'll deal with it in the morning. For now—let's drink to surviving another day."
The fire crackled, mugs clinked, and for a brief moment, laughter softened the edge of unease. Yet even as warmth wrapped around them, shadows still seemed to linger just outside the window.
Village Survey: Hopeful With Foreshadowing
Yume's sigh still lingered in the inn's air, his words echoing like quiet orders. First a place to stay. With that secured, he rose from his seat, fastening the worn strap of his pack. "Rest will have to wait. We need to see what's happening in the village before we fall into routine."
Levy straightened eagerly, parchment already clutched in her hands. "Right. Observations now, analysis later." She tucked a stray lock of blue hair behind her ear, stealing a glance at Yume before turning it into a pretend stretch. Her voice had the edge of forced brightness, as though she didn't want him to notice her nerves.
Cana groaned but pushed herself up. "Figures. No drinking until the homework's done, huh?" Her tone was half jest, half resignation, but she followed without complaint.
The trio stepped out into Serenity Creek, where midday light filtered through rolling mist. The village was smaller than expected: neat rows of cottages leaned into one another like conspirators, roofs thatched with straw and shingled wood. The air was laced with roasted beans and damp earth, every corner humming with quiet productivity.
At the heart of the settlement, a crystal-clear creek carved its way through cobblestones, spilling into a tiered fountain. Children played along its edge, laughter trailing like ribbons, but Yume noticed how quickly mothers called them back, voices sharpened with worry.
Further up the valley, plantations stretched in careful tiers, each slope bound by low stone walls. Magic shimmered faintly around them—thin veils of warding designed to protect crops from pests and storms. Normally such spells were steady, almost imperceptible, but here they flickered like candlelight, as if uncertain.
"This place is… beautiful," Levy whispered, her eyes widening at the sight of flowering vines curling along bridges and shop fronts painted in warm pastels. She scribbled notes with her quill as they walked, sketching the way runes glowed faintly over coffee plants. "Almost too beautiful. Like a storybook trying too hard to be perfect."
"Idyllic on the outside," Yume murmured. His gaze swept across faces in the square: merchants forcing smiles, elders hurrying conversations the moment someone mentioned the plantations, hands tightening around baskets as though even carrying crops demanded caution. Every gesture is brittle. Fragile.
Cana nudged him lightly with her elbow. "Your face just screamed something's wrong here. Care to share with the rest of the class?"
"Listen," Yume said softly. They paused at a stall where a vendor sold roasted beans in paper packets. Over the bustle of trade, he caught it: hushed words cut off the instant their group passed, like curtains drawn against prying eyes. "Hear that? Silence travels faster here than sound."
Levy bit her lip. "They're hiding something. Or maybe afraid of saying it out loud."
The three followed the creek to the first plantation slope. Rows of coffee shrubs spread like a green sea—yet the closer they looked, the more the beauty faltered. Some plants stood vibrant, leaves glossy, blossoms perfumed with faint sweetness. Others, however, were marred by veins of unnatural black, like ink bleeding through paper.
Levy crouched beside one, brushing the brittle leaves with careful fingers. The veins traced jagged patterns, and when she pressed lightly, the leaf cracked like glass. Her brows furrowed. "This… it's not just rot. It's invasive. Magical corruption."
"Blight," Yume confirmed quietly. His tone held no surprise, only the grim weight of recognition.
Cana crouched nearby, picking up a stem that had snapped clean. She twirled it between her fingers, frowning. "Never seen crops curl like this before. Looks like the damn thing died fighting itself."
Yume crouched next to Levy, studying the plant she held. His voice softened, steady, almost reassuring—though it was for the plant as much as the girl beside him. "You did well noticing the veins. It means the corruption travels internally before showing outside. Whatever it is, it's patient."
Levy glanced at him, her lips parting as though to respond, but she hesitated. Instead, she looked quickly back to her parchment, cheeks tinged faintly pink. She scribbled furiously, disguising the moment as work. Still, her heart thudded just a fraction faster. He notices everything, she thought. Even when I wish he didn't.
They moved along the slope, marking differences, cataloguing patches of health and decay. The breeze carried scents of soil and river, yet beneath it was something sour—like wood left too long in rain. Yume inhaled slowly, cataloguing it with the same precision he applied to enemies. Decay. Not natural. Not accidental.
By the time the sun sank low, Serenity Creek glowed in soft embers of dusk. Orange light brushed the rooftops, lanterns winked awake along the streets, and the square filled with voices as villagers finished their day's work. Yume, Levy, and Cana had been pacing between plots and wards for hours, their journals thick with sketches and hurried notes.
The signs weren't good.
Half the plants by the lower terraces were thriving, their leaves broad and glossy, veins pulsing faintly with natural mana. But beside them, sometimes only a row apart, were twisted shrubs. Black veins webbed across their stems, and their leaves curled inward as though recoiling from something unseen. A few bore pods that rattled dryly, as if already hollow.
"Whatever this is," Levy murmured, crouching to trace a finger near the black veins without touching, "it spreads unevenly. That makes it worse—harder to isolate."
Cana leaned against a fencepost, flask in hand, trying to mask her unease with casual bravado. "Uneven or not, it's ugly. These look like they've been… strangled. Makes you wonder what's doing the strangling."
Yume didn't answer. His eyes narrowed at the rows, cataloguing the pattern in silence. Something about the way the healthy and the blighted plants grew side by side didn't feel natural. Like two forces locked in a tug-of-war, right down to the roots.
They might have stayed in their quiet speculation if not for the rowdy noise spilling from the nearby tavern veranda. Laughter, cups clinking, and the slurred bravado of men who'd had more ale than sense.
The group exchanged a glance, then drifted closer, ears sharpened.
The firelit chatter of the tavern was a warm, welcome hum after the cool dusk. The group drifted closer, drawn by the rowdy noise spilling from the veranda—a sound punctuated by the clinking of mugs and the uneven laughter of men who'd had more ale than sense.
They found a secluded spot near the veranda railing, close enough to listen without joining in. Three men leaned against the railing, their tankards swaying in their hands. One, a thin man with a crooked nose, was waving dramatically at the fields below.
"I'm tellin' you! They whisper at night!" he slurred, his voice stumbling over the words. "Those bloody plants! I've heard it myself—like… like voices hidin' in the leaves."
A broad-shouldered farmer beside him burst into loud, dismissive laughter. "Ha! The only whisper you hear is your wife callin' you a fool for drinkin' too much!" He slapped the first man on the back so hard his tankard sloshed over.
Levy, her ears perked, scribbled furiously on her parchment. She caught herself watching Yume out of the corner of her eye, noting how his expression remained perfectly calm,
almost unnervingly so. She quickly ducked her head, pretending to adjust her satchel. The air beside her felt suddenly electric, and she felt a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.
Cana, noticing the exchange, offered a conspiratorial smirk. "Something interesting, Levy?" she whispered, her tone playful. "Found the secret to not needing notes? A little magic of your own, perhaps?" She took a long swig from her flask, her eyes never leaving the group of men.
"Drunks say all sorts of things," she continued, her voice light. "But sometimes drunks are the only ones reckless enough to say the truth out loud."
The first villager, emboldened by his drink, jabbed a finger at the terraces again. "Laugh if you want, but I know what I heard! Plants rustlin' when there's no wind, whisperin' like they're gossipin' behind your back. Mark my words, it's not natural."
His friend hooted again, almost doubling over with laughter. "Next you'll say they're singin' lullabies! Go home, sleep it off before you scare the chickens!"
The third man, who had been quiet until now, shifted uncomfortably. He stared into his tankard as if the bottom of the cup held an answer.
"…He's not the only one who's heard it," he finally said, his voice low and grave.
A hush fell over the group, and a chill settled over the tavern. Even the noisy farmer looked at his friend sideways.
"My boy swears the fields talk when he passes them at night," the man continued, his grip tightening around the tankard. "Says it sounds like… humming. Sometimes calling his name. He doesn't lie. And I told him—never walk the terraces after dark."
Yume's eyes lingered on them, weighing every word. He could see the tremor in the quiet man's hand, the way the brash one's laughter suddenly rang hollow. Fear lurked beneath their banter, coiled and heavy.
Levy shifted closer to Yume, her forced smile gone. "If… if even half of that's true…"
Yume's gaze stayed fixed on the darkening fields. His voice was low, steady. "Then the blight isn't just killing plants. It's touching minds."
The firelit chatter of the tavern seemed suddenly distant, the warmth of Serenity Creek no longer so comforting. A cold breeze crept through the evening air as though the fields themselves were listening.
End of chapter.
Author's note: Don't forget to add this story to your library and drop a Power Stone to show your support!