The newcomers were a ragged, desperate group of a dozen, carried and supported by the Hold's scouts. They weren't soldiers. They were families—men, women, and children, their faces etched with a terror that went deeper than anything the Hold had seen. Their clothes were torn, and they bore the marks of a frantic flight through wilderness. But the most chilling wounds were not physical.
One man, his arm hanging at a sickening angle, trembled uncontrollably, his eyes wide and unseeing. A woman clutched a silent, listless child to her chest, humming a broken tune. They were shattered, not just in body, but in spirit.
Lyra and the Hold's healers moved among them, offering water, poultices, and calming herbs. But it was clear this was a trauma that needed more than medicine.
Their leader, a grizzled man named Finn with the weathered look of a farmer, told the story in a hollow voice. They were from a remote village called Oakhaven, a place that had quietly tolerated a small community of Unattuned for generations—a woman who could soothe bees, a man whose touch encouraged crops to ripen. They were useful. They were neighbors.
Then the Church's decree arrived.
"The priest gave the order," Finn whispered, staring into the middle distance. "He called it a 'cleansing.' Our neighbors... people we broke bread with... they came with torches and scythes. They were afraid. The decree said their own souls were at risk if they did nothing." He shuddered. "They turned on the 'cursed' families. It wasn't the Church's soldiers. It was the miller. The baker. It was a massacre."
A cold fury settled over the Echo Hold. This was the true face of the Church's strategy. They had outsourced the violence, weaponizing fear to make every citizen a potential inquisitor. This wasn't a battle against an army; it was a plague of suspicion.
The arrival of the Oakhaven survivors was a seismic event. It shattered any remaining illusion that they could remain a hidden academic haven. The war was no longer at their gates; it was burning homes and turning neighbors into murderers all across the land.
A council was called, and the atmosphere was grim.
"We cannot hide here while this happens!" Anya the captain slammed her fist on the table. "We must act! Show them that there is a price for this butchery!"
"And do what?" Morwen countered, her voice sharp. "March on every village? We would become the very monsters they fear. We would be confirming the Church's lies."
"The river song is not enough," Thorn said quietly, her sharp fingers tracing the grain of the wood. "A lullaby cannot stop a mob."
All eyes turned to Kaelen and Elara. The philosophical leaders now had to find an answer to raw, grassroots hatred.
Elara's face was pale, but her voice was steady. "Anya is right that we must act. Morwen is right that we cannot meet violence with violence. We must do what we do best. We must tell the story."
She outlined a new, dangerous plan. They would not attack the village of Oakhaven. Instead, they would go there. A small, unarmed group. They would bury the dead that had been left to rot. They would tend to the scorched earth. And they would bear witness.
"It is a gamble," Elara admitted. "They may kill us on sight. But if they do not... if they see us not as demons, but as people coming to mourn their victims... it will sow a doubt that no decree can erase. We will show them the cost of their fear."
It was a mission of profound moral courage, and it was infinitely more dangerous than facing the Purifier.
Kaelen knew he had to go. His presence was the statement. The "Grey Apostle" kneeling in the ashes of a village butchered in his name.
Before they left, he went to check on the survivors. He found Lyra sitting with the woman who held the listless child. Lyra was singing a soft, watery melody, and as she sang, she gently washed the child's face with a cloth. The child, a little girl, slowly blinked, and a tiny, shuddering breath escaped her lips. It was a small victory, a single note of life returning.
The woman looked up at Kaelen, her eyes full of a grief so vast it seemed to swallow the world. "They called her a witch," she whispered. "Because the flowers bloomed when she smiled."
Kaelen felt the void inside him stir, not with power, but with a cold, sorrowful resonance. This was the true enemy. Not the Church's armies, but the poison they had dripped into the world's heart. As he prepared to walk into the heart of that poison, he understood that his greatest test would not be controlling his power, but controlling the rage and despair that threatened to consume him. The mission to Oakhaven would not be about decay or song. It would be about grief. And he had to ensure that grief did not curdle into a hatred that would make him no better than those who had lit the torches.