For an instant, she doubted her own eyes, but the hand on her shoulder dispelled all illusion. He stood tall, his body sculpted by discipline, his face covered by a wooden mask carved by water and sand. His skin, painted and anointed with herbs, gleamed like moss under the dappled light, blending with the surroundings. In the shifting shadows, he could vanish at will: one step back, and he was bark and leaf, silence and earth, his breathing perfectly syncing with the light wind swaying the branches.
That was Tahl-Maruk, chief of the Watchers: the last ember of a flame that once burned powerfully. They descended from Lord Vaelric's personal guard, who had ruled with wisdom and fire, his name etched in history as a just and noble leader. When he fell, they did not disband. Instead of steel and banners, they took moss for cloaks and wood for shields, becoming shadows. Their names faded into myth and legend, but the earth still whispered that eyes watched from their forests—loyal beyond blood and time, their steps leaving barely an ephemeral trace in the moss.
Tahl-Maruk's presence commanded loyalty and duty. Though his eyes remained hidden behind the mask, he seemed to see through everything, his stance emanating silent authority that thickened the air. Maruk knelt before Sira and greeted her with one word: "Matu." The gesture was respect, deference to her perseverance and wisdom, his knee sinking into the soft earth like a renewed oath.
Sira's aged hand rested on his shoulder; age had not diminished her resolve. Her eyes still burned with a quiet fire, piercing the mask as if reading the soul behind. "The children are here. She camps in Batien Meadow," she whispered, barely audible, her voice laden with contained urgency that vibrated the air between them.
Maruk nodded with his masked head in response: "Each clan, like twelve points of time, rises around her. The hawk, bear, serpent, and deer guard the dawn. Heron, fox, wolf, and bison prowl until day's end. The hound, ram, boar, and lynx watch the night," he repeated, his grave tone resonating like an ancestral echo, each animal invoked bringing vivid images of their forms stalking in the gloom.
"Good. Protect her men; let no harm touch them. Bring her to me without delay. The raven accompanies her as a sign," Sira ordered. Her words were commands, rarely questioned or negotiated, slicing the air with surgical precision. Maruk bowed deeper, his mask nearly brushing Sira's knees, in sign of absolute obedience, the gesture prolonged to emphasise his willing submission.
Then he rose with fluid motion, silent as a feline, and vanished among the trees' shadows, his form blurring in a blink, leaving only a faint scent of herbs and disturbed earth. To untrained eyes, he had disappeared like a spectre. But Sira felt his presence, along with the swift impetus of his fulfillment. She knew Maruk would not fail: he would act with stealth and precision to ensure Serenya's safety and bring her, his Watchers deploying like an invisible net around the meadow.
The forest seemed to devour him, leaving Sira alone once more. Yet she was not truly alone; the Watchers were there, protecting her, moving as invisible, faithful shadows in the darkness, their presences a subtle tingle on Sira's nape. She straightened slightly against the tree, staff firm, awaiting destiny's next move she had set in motion.
Serenya sat on her improvised throne. To her left, the scar from her ramp's landing reminded her how she had arrived. Calwen stood behind her, silent and alert, his presence an anchor in uncertain times, his hand casually near his sword's hilt. Before her, Darven and Kaelis spread maps on the table—parchment, leather, even sailcloth scraps—each worn and creased from use. The largest, gold-edged, showed a single black dot at its centre: a mark hinting at the unknown, their fingers tracing hypothetical routes with palpable tension.
Wingbeats tore the air, interrupting the study, and a raven descended to perch on her throne's back. Its feathers gleamed faintly, dark eyes fixing on hers with unsettling intensity. For a moment, the tent fell silent, attention centreing on the unexpected visitor, the air charging with ominous foreboding. The maps lay forgotten, hands frozen in mid-air.
Serenya's lips curved slightly. She knew instantly that the bird was no ordinary creature. Something in its gaze—a spark of intelligence and purpose. A faint hum seized her again, as if Eryndor had placed his gong by her ear, reverberating in her temples with growing insistence. The hum seemed to carry a message she couldn't grasp; she sensed the raven's presence awakened it, its feathers ruffling slightly under her scrutiny.
The bird watched her serenely, as if waiting for her to understand its arrival's importance with its head cocked in an almost human gesture. Serenya leaned forward, her robes whispering over the rugs, approaching the raven, heart quickening with curiosity and apprehension. The raven issued a dry caw, then bowed its head to her like a knight to his queen—a strange yet familiar gesture that sent a shiver down her spine.
Serenya's gaze hardened. A sudden weight tightened against her chest, dense and inescapable. The raven's ominous silence said it all: their presence in the meadows had not gone unnoticed, and unseen eyes watched them, lurking from the forest shadows encircling the camp, poised to act at any moment.