The morning broke with a crisp, cool air that carried the scent of wet stone and sea salt. Doren awoke to the sound of Macy's soft snorts and the gentle clatter of Varen packing up the camp. The sun, a pale disc in the misty sky, was just beginning to burn away the last of the night's fog.
He sat up, the Focal Stone still warm in his palm, a constant, grounding weight. Varen was already harnessing the Fenhoof to the wagon, her movements efficient and practiced.
"Time to go," she said without turning around. "The village is just over that rise."
The final leg of their journey was short. They crested a hill, and below them, Havenport spilled out onto the shores of a large, restless lake. The village was built of sturdy gray stone, its buildings clustered together with thick, mossy roofs. A central market bustled with early-morning activity, and the air hummed with the noise of fishermen mending nets and vendors setting up their stalls.
Doren and Varen guided the Fenhoof through the winding lanes until they found a quiet stable just off the main square. After securing Macy and leaving their heavier supplies in the wagon, they walked into the heart of the village, a fresh wave of energy washing over them. The smells of baking bread, fried fish, and damp stone filled the air.
As the morning wore on and a light rain began to fall, they decided to find a place to get out of the damp weather. Varen spotted her favorite inn tucked away on a side street. The sign above the door showed a stylized hearth with flames made of gold leaf. "The Hearthlight Inn," Varen read aloud.
They pushed open the heavy wooden door, and a blast of warm air, mingled with the scents of roasted meat and woodsmoke, washed over them. Inside, the main room was cozy lit by a large stone hearth. A few locals sat at tables, talking in low tones.
Near the fire, a young woman with wild, dark hair and a playful smirk was gesturing with her hands. Opposite her, a man with a wide, kind face and hands calloused from hard work was patiently sorting through a bag of smooth, river-worn stones.
Varen's stern expression softened into a flash of recognition. "Meko? Katarina?" she called out, her voice a low murmur.
Katarina's head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. A delighted grin spread across her face. "Varen! You're back!" she exclaimed, pushing her chair back.
Meko looked up, a slow smile spreading across his features. "We heard you might pass through," he said, his voice as low and steady as the deep earth.
Varen pulled out a chair and sat down next to Katarina. Doren remained standing, his hands still in his pockets. The familiarity between Varen and these two strangers made him feel even more like an outsider.
Just then, a server approached their table. Her name was Mara, a young woman with a round, pleasant face and eyes that widened the moment they landed on Doren. She paused, a small crease forming between her brows as she tilted her head. She seemed to be looking through him, at a memory. Her stare was so intense that Doren shifted uncomfortably, an unease building in his gut.
Mara placed two wooden mugs of water on the table with a soft thud, her eyes never leaving Doren's face. "Would you be wanting mead or bread to start?" she asked. Her eyes seemed to be searching for something, anything. Doren just looked way too familiar to her.
"Two meads," Varen stated, her gaze now fixed on her friends at the table. "I knew I'd find you two here."
The server, Mara, nodded absently, her eyes still lingering on Doren as she turned away. She moved to a nearby tap and filled two mugs, the foaming liquid a bright, inviting gold. As she returned to their table, she placed the mugs down with a quiet finality, her gaze on Doren once more before she walked back toward the kitchen, her steps slow and thoughtful.
Doren felt the weight of her stare even after she was gone. He glanced over his shoulder, drawn by the lingering tension. He saw her at the kitchen doorway, her hand on her hip as she spoke to the cook, a large man with a flour-dusted apron. As Doren watched, Mara turned and pointed, her finger aimed directly at him. The cook followed her gesture, his face a mask of confusion that slowly shifted into a frown of concentration.
Doren felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He didn't know these people, and yet they looked at him as if they did. He quickly fixed his eyes back on the table, forcing himself to focus on the comforting, worn wood. The gentle crackle of the fire and the low rumble of Varen's conversation with her friends were a welcome distraction.
Meko, an older gentleman with long brown hair pulled back into a simple bun, was carefully running his fingernail over the surface of a smooth, gray river stone. The stone yielded to his touch, the surface flaking away to reveal a faint, swirling pattern underneath. It was a silent, unnerving display of his power. He didn't look up as he worked, but his voice, deep and resonant, cut through the noise of the inn.
"Who's your friend, Varen?" he asked, his gaze finally lifting from the stone and settling on Doren. His eyes held the same quiet, patient depth as the earth itself.
"This is Doren," she said, her voice low and direct. "He's traveling with me. I think he's a neighbor from the area I love."
"Nice to meet you, Doren," Meko said, setting the carved stone aside. He held out a hand, his palm calloused and thick.
Doren hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took his hand.
The instant their skin touched, a profound, physical sensation pulsed through Doren's arm. It wasn't pain, but a deep, resonant hum, as if the very ground beneath the inn had suddenly found its voice. Through their connected hands, Doren felt Meko's presence not as a person, but as an entity.
Meko's gentle smile didn't falter. The quiet look he gave Doren in that moment seemed to say: Ah, I see. You are a part of this world just as I am. He didn't flinch or show any surprise, but Doren felt a clear, undeniable recognition pass between them.
"This is Meko and Katarina," Varen said, gesturing to each in turn. "Meko here makes a bunch of stuff out of stone. And Katarina..." Varen paused, a rare, small smile on her face. "Katarina is a dancer."
As if on cue, Katarina gave a dramatic bow, her hair swinging in front of her face. "A dancer!" she repeated, her voice musical and light. She spun in her chair, a playful gust of wind ruffling the pages of a nearby book. "Why just move when you can fly?"
Meko offered a calm, knowing smile. He set down the stone he was carving and leaned forward, his hands folded on the table.
Katarina settled back into her chair, her bright eyes fixed on Doren. "So, Doren," she said, a playful lilt to her voice. "What brings a traveler like you to our little town?"
Doren hesitated, his eyes flicking from Katarina's bright, expectant face to the deep, patient gaze of Meko. "I'm looking for answers," Doren said, his voice low and steady. He glanced at Varen, a silent request for support. She simply nodded, a look of quiet encouragement on her face. "My father... he went to war ten years ago. I'm trying to find out what happened to him."
Katarina's playful smirk faded into a look of genuine sympathy. She reached out and lightly touched his hand, a silent gesture of comfort. "A lot of fathers went off to war and never came back," she said softly, her voice losing its airy lightness.
Meko's calm demeanor didn't change, but a shadow of something he had seen before passed over his eyes. "That was a bad time," he rumbled, his voice a deep, quiet echo. He then looked at Doren, a new understanding passing between them. He understood the look of loss in Doren's eyes, the quiet desperation in his voice. He had seen it a hundred times before.
Just then, Doren felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He looked up, his eyes drawn to the kitchen doorway. Mara, the server, was standing there, a half-filled pitcher in her hand.
Doren looked up from his conversation with Meko and Katarina, his eyes drawn to the kitchen doorway. Mara, the server, was standing there, a half-filled pitcher in her hand.
Mara's eyes, wide with a searching intensity, seemed to find the answer she was looking for. She placed the pitcher on the table with a soft thud, her gaze fixed on Doren. The pleasantness of her demeanor had been replaced by a quiet, fierce determination.
"Can I ask you something?" She asked. Doren looked up at her. "Are you a Mercer?" she asked, her voice a low, direct murmur.
The question hung in the air, a final, stunning blow to Doren's carefully constructed secrecy. His last name. He froze, his hand hovering over his mead mug, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Meko and Katarina, unaware of the name's significance, looked at the scene, their faces a mask of confusion.
Doren kept his look on her.
"Yes," he said, the word a soft, hesitant breath. "I am."
Mara's face lit up, a brilliant, genuine smile spreading across her face. The searching look in her eyes was replaced with a warm, joyful recognition. "I knew it!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with a profound delight. "You have his eyes! His kind, quiet eyes!" She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your father... he used to come here. Every week. He would come here and he would tell stories. He was the best storyteller in the whole village! He was funny, he was kind, he was a little bit wild, but he was always... good."
Her eyes filled with a wistful, tearful fondness. "He's missed, you know," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "He's missed in this village. We all heard he was dead. That the war had taken him." She looked at Doren, a new kind of hope in her eyes. "He didn't come back," she said, her voice a low, heartbreaking whisper. "He just... stopped."
The weight of her words hung in the air, a silent mirror to his own family's pain. His father was a hero to her, a man of laughter and stories. A man who was a part of a community that missed him.
Mara's smile widened, a quiet, knowing pride in her eyes. "You're a Mercer," she said, her voice filled with a profound delight. She looked at the table, her gaze sweeping over the mugs. "On the house," she declared, her voice filled with a quiet authority. "You and your friends, you're not paying for a thing. We got the next two pitchers on the house."
Mara returned to the kitchen and came back with two large, foaming pitchers of mead. She placed them on the table with a flourish and a cheerful smile before heading back to her duties.
The atmosphere at the table, which had been tense just moments before, instantly shifted into one of lively celebration. Katarina, with a wild, unrestrained joy, poured a round for everyone. The gold liquid caught the firelight, glinting like liquid sun. "To Mercers!" she exclaimed, her voice light and musical. "Apparently this guy's dad is a legend!"
They all drank, the mead a warm, comforting presence for them. Katarina began to tell a wild, exaggerated story about a mischievous air sprite that had once stolen all of Meko's carving tools, forcing him to track it down for three days through the mountains. Meko, with a slow, patient smile, would interject with a quiet, truthful detail, a grounded counterpoint to Katarina's fanciful tale.
Doren laughed, a deep, genuine sound that felt foreign on his tongue. He had never had this before. The conversation was easy, the mead was good, and the company was warm. He felt the tension that had been a part of him for so long finally begin to melt away. Varen, her guard down for the first time since he had met her, shared a story about Macy's stubborn refusal to cross a stream.
Hours passed in a blur of laughter and stories. The pitchers were emptied and refilled, and the fire in the hearth crackled merrily. Finally, as the night began to wind down and the other patrons began to leave, Meko stood up, his movements slow and deliberate.
"The night grows late," he said, his voice a low, kind rumble. He looked at Doren and Varen with a gentle, patient expression. "Katarina and I will show you to your room. It's on the house, you know. Mara's orders."
Doren and Varen, a little unsteady on their feet from the mead, stumbled behind Meko and Katarina as they made their way up a narrow set of stairs. The laughter and stories from the common room were a distant echo now, replaced by the soft creak of the old wooden floorboards and the quiet shuffle of their feet.
They arrived at a small, cozy room with a single bed and a small window that looked out onto the cobblestone streets of Havenport. The air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain and sea salt. Meko and Katarina gave them a last, knowing smile and a final "good night" before disappearing down the hall.
Doren leaned against the door, a sudden wave of humility washing over him. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur. "I had no idea... I had no idea my father was... a legend here." He gestured vaguely toward the inn, toward the memory of Mara's face. "I had no idea he left a legacy."
Varen, already sitting on the bed and pulling off her worn boots, laughed. "Don't apologize, man," she said, her voice filled with a quiet amusement. "It's not your fault. We probably should have exchanged last names in our first encounter."
She looked at him, her green eyes filled with a new kind of understanding. "It seems your father was more than just a man who went to war," she said, her voice a low, kind murmur.
They decided to call it a night. Doren, with a gentlemanly grace, laid a blanket on the floor and curled up, using his pack as a pillow. Varen, with a tired sigh, climbed into the bed. The sound of her slow, even breathing was a comfort to Doren. He was a long way from home, but he was not alone.
During the night, Varen's deep sleep was suddenly disturbed. A low, guttural rumble, a sound that was a part of the earth itself, reached her from the stable. It was Macy, the Fenhoof. Her usual calm presence was gone, replaced by a restless, frantic energy. The sound was one of distress, of a powerful creature being deeply unsettled by an unseen force. Varen, her bond with the creature as strong as any blood relation, felt the creature's terror as her own. She rose from the bed, her movements quick and quiet.
"It's alright, old girl," she whispered, her voice a low, soothing murmur. "I'm coming. Calm down."
She left the room, her bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. She made her way to the stables, the air growing colder with every step. She found Macy in her stall, the Fenhoof's stone pads grinding against the cobblestone, her eyes wide with a primal fear. Varen reached out, a soft, soothing touch against the creature's bristly mane.
"It's alright," she said again, her voice filled with a quiet, fierce determination. "I'm here."
It was at that moment that it happened. A dark figure emerged from the shadows, a man's face shrouded in a hood. Varen didn't have time to react. He was faster than her and with a single, brutal motion, he silenced her. The last thing she heard was the frantic snort of her Fenhoof.
Doren, still lost in a deep, dreamless sleep, was completely unaware. He awoke the next morning, the room cold and empty. He sat up, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. He assumed she had gone down to breakfast, to get an early start on her business. He got dressed and headed to the main room, a warm, hopeful smile on his face. But she wasn't there.
He walked outside, his feet sinking into the damp earth. The scent of roasted meat and fried fish from the village market filled the air. He looked toward the stable, his heart pounding in his chest. Macy was there, but she was frantic, pacing in her stall, her eyes wide with a raw, primal fear. The Fenhoof's wagon was untouched, but her supplies were gone. The only sign of a struggle was a small, almost imperceptible detail. A single, small, jagged stone, a part of the Fenhoof's pad, had broken off.