I remain in the forest long after the sun dips below the ridgeline, shadows lengthening like threads unraveling. My breath clouds in the cooling air, and I trace the pulse beneath my sleeve. The ring hums—a steady heartbeat reminding me of the days yet to come.
*1,823 days.*
That's how many sunrise-and-sunset cycles stretch between now and the rival's return. Five years, give or take, before he steps through the Ash Spire's heart again. I learned that in the visions it granted me—visions I won't forget.
In my satchel: dried roots from Marga's forest. Last night, I traded a handful of them to a passing peddler at the crossroads, earning enough silver for cord, charcoal, and candle wicks. Root trade will be my first income—quiet work, hidden trades in the half-light.
I lean against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. The road to Stonefold would take two days' walk: first through these woods, then across Crystale Creek's marshes, and finally down the dusty trade road into the city gates. That distance buys me time. But safety without preparation is a lie.
Darnem Hollow, my birthplace, lies farther still—four days on foot, through rolling hills and pitted tavern roads. It's small, sheltered, overlooked by misty hills. In my memory, it's quiet enough to hear the heartbeat of the earth. It will be *my* base—a place I know better than any corridor in Stonefold.
I close my eyes. I build the Hollow in my mind: the crooked huts clumped around the old well, the orchard fence, the broken watchtower, the hidden cellars beneath every other house. Every exit, every entrance. Every secret passage from cellar to forest floor.
*If I'm to last five years,* I plan, *this is where I endure.*
I adjust the pouch at my waist. More roots remain—coins to be made on many silent nights. Enough to gather supplies and craft what I need in secret.
Tomorrow, I'll map the forest route more precisely: mark fallen logs that guard shallow caves, dig discreetly for hidden alcoves, set simple snares at creek crossings that only I can navigate.
In Stonefold proper, my silent network will form from root trades and whispered favors: orphan couriers at the Back Vein, tanner's apprentices, smith's errand runners—anyone overlooked, anyone desperate. They'll feed me names, rumors, half-heard plans. I'll reward them with silver and shelter in the Hollow.
My fingers tighten around the ring. It doesn't command me; it *echoes* my resolve. In five years, I will be the storm the rival fears.
Five years to cultivate power, to weave alliances, to sharpen every blade in my mind and on my belt. Five years to turn Darnem Hollow into the dagger hidden in plain sight.
*One day at a time,* I tell the ring. *One day at a time.*