(ARC I – The Village in the Hills)
Works I – Of Fog and Faces
Dawn bled slowly into the forest, pale and formless.
Thick white fog clung to the trees like breath to cold glass, blanketing the earth in a silence so complete it felt intentional. Even the birds were hushed.
Their camp was still, tucked under a bent cedar where roots curled like grasping hands. A dying fire whispered its last breath. Naru lay wrapped in his cloak, unmoving but not peaceful — a furrow in his brow even in sleep.
Jarn twitched in his bedroll.
Flash.
A scream. Not his.
A village burning. Smoke twisting into the shape of a face — too many eyes, mouths whispering backwards.
He was running. He was a child. Or someone else was.
Then—A glint of blue.Eyes that swallowed light.
Jarn snapped awake.
Gasping, his hand shot out to steady himself. His heart pounded. It wasn't real.It couldn't be real.
But it felt real.And worse — familiar.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, already damp with morning chill. The forest's stillness pressed around him, the fog wrapping everything in gauze. Too quiet.
He stood slowly, packed his things with practiced hands, though his eyes kept flicking to the trees.
That's when he saw it.
Between the trunks, just beyond the edge of vision — where mist curled tight —a figure stood.
Still.Wrong.Watching.
Its body was long, shrouded in layers of gray.But the face—
No.There wasn't a face.There were many.
Dozens.All fused into one head — some weeping, some wide-mouthed in laughter or pain or awe. Eyes closed. Eyes open.
And in the center of them, a single forward-facing mask, smooth and black, with two eyes glowing pale blue, like deep water under ice.
Jarn didn't breathe.Didn't blink.
Then — movement at the edge of his vision —and it was gone.
"Jarn?"
The voice tugged him back.
He turned — Naru was up now, standing crookedly, cloak loose over one shoulder.His hair stuck to his face. His eyes were glassy, but clearer than they had been.
"Bad dream?" he asked, though his tone lacked real concern. More like a formality — or like someone speaking through layers of fog themselves.
Jarn didn't answer.He only nodded, tightening the straps on his bag.
"We should go," he muttered.
Their boots crunched soft over damp needles, footsteps swallowed in mist. As they moved, the forest began to breathe again — faint birdcalls, wind teasing through branches. Shapes grew clearer.
The fog thinned, and so did the trees.
At last, the forest broke open into a soft hill clearing, dew glittering on grass like crushed glass.The world beyond waited — wider, colder, but alive.
A dirt path wound toward it.
The sun was fully risen now, though still filtered through the haze of highland morning. Four hours had passed since they'd left the last trees behind. The trail had curved gently through uneven hills, grass now yellowing at the edges, whispers of harvest creeping into the breeze.
Jarn's boots were caked in dried mud. Naru walked a step behind, humming tunelessly to himself, sometimes breaking into half-sentences like someone arguing with ghosts.
"No, no — it wasn't supposed to bend like that, not after... not once the cut was clean. That's what it said, right?"
He paused mid-mutter and then grinned absently at Jarn, as if forgetting he'd spoken at all.
His eyes were clearer now — more focused — but his words wandered like threads in wind. The gem was gone, but something had shifted. Like the world still shimmered unnaturally for him.
Jarn didn't speak much. The echo-faced man haunted the edges of his thoughts. That blue-eyed stare had stayed — even now, even in the sun.
The road crested a slope — and below it, a rickety wooden cart stood idle beneath a solitary wind-bent tree, its horse lazily swatting flies.
Three figures milled nearby: a young boy with a long stick, a woman wiping her brow, and a man tightening the harness straps.
"You two headed to Grinrock?" the man called, seeing them approach.
He was broad-shouldered, sunburnt, with a lazy eye and a mouth like he hadn't smiled in years — not properly. Still, there was no malice in his tone.
"Bit o' a walk yet. We're from there — just back from Brindleport. Room on the wagon if you ain't afraid of a slow ride."
Jarn exchanged a glance with Naru, who was now staring off into the grass like it might answer a riddle. Jarn nodded.
"We'd be grateful."
The ride was uneven, wood creaking, and the wheels screamed on every turn of gravel. The man introduced himself as Bren, a trader of smoked fish and dried limes. His wife, Hessa, handled the ledgers. The boy, Tomm, mostly scowled and kicked his feet.
For the first while, small talk filled the air like dust.
Bren talked about weather patterns.About port taxes.About a "slightly haunted" tavern near the coast that served good ale if you could ignore the crying in the walls.
Then, off-handedly:
"Funny thing. Before we left Brindle, there was some commotion. City guard all torn up over a group of vagrants — said they got roughed up in an alley. Not robbed. Just... beaten. Humiliated. Stripped of sigils."
He looked sideways at Jarn.
"Strange, that. No one's dared that since the greencloaks were disbanded. Not unless they're looking to vanish, that is."
Jarn didn't answer. His jaw clenched.
Naru chuckled suddenly.
"Sigils are just tattoos with rules. You strip rules, you strip power. Or maybe dignity? Same difference in their books."
The carriage went quiet.Even the creak of the wheels seemed to hush for a moment.
"He always like that?" Bren asked.
Jarn's voice was low.
"Not always."
The rest of the ride passed in uneasy silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the boy chasing birds on the trail's edge.
As the sun dipped behind a distant ridge, the village came into view — Grinrock, nestled high into the hills, stone buildings and tiled roofs stacked like bones in a forgotten place.
But even from here, something about it looked... off.
Like it had too many windows.
Grinrock met them like an old breath held too long — quiet, unmoving, and watching.
Stone and moss-covered walls curved up the incline like a half-forgotten fortress. Slanted rooftops, wooden chimneys, and crooked cobbled paths folded into one another. Windows — too many windows — caught the light strangely, flickering pale against the deepening orange of the sky.
The cart jolted to a stop near the central well.
"This is us," Bren said, pulling at the reins.
He didn't dismount. Instead, he helped his boy down and gave his wife's hand a quick squeeze.
"I won't be staying," he added, glancing at Jarn and Naru. "Got a last delivery to make in Windlepost. Be back in two suns, give or take."
Then he offered a parting nod and a gruff smile.
"Welcome to Grinrock — don't let the stillness fool you."
With that, he flicked the reins, and the cart rolled off, vanishing slowly around a bend between two looming homes.
Hessa turned to them, adjusting the shawl across her shoulders.
"You two look new. And green."
She smirked softly, not unkind.
"This place has its ways. If you're planning to stay even a while, you'll want someone to walk you through the bones of it. I'll send someone to meet you."
Jarn nodded, cautious.
"We appreciate it."
"There's a tavern just ahead — The Dull Drum," she said, pointing toward a squat stone building near the village center. "Go sit, rest your feet. I'll send someone soon."
They thanked her again, and she and her boy vanished through a narrow alley lined with stacked firewood and wet laundry.
Inside The Dull Drum, it was warm and loud in that way quiet places pretend not to be. The low ceiling made the laughter bounce low, and the candlelight cast tall shadows on the timber walls.
They stepped in and every head turned — not aggressive, just aware.
Strangers didn't pass through often.Strangers weren't just eyed — they were measured.
Jarn kept his head down, eyes sweeping the room for trouble. Naru was muttering something about invisible strings and balance, but at least he was walking straight.
They found a table in the corner, near a dusty old piano and an unlit hearth.
A woman approached — mid-30s, curly dark hair tied in a knot, apron slightly stained with berries or wine. Her voice was kind but sharp around the edges.
"You boys look half-dead. Drink?"
Jarn glanced at her, hesitated.
"No, thank you. We're... just waiting for someone. We don't have coin."
She looked at them, tilted her head.
"Huh. Lucky for you, I know a place. Bit of work, bit of shelter. Beats sleeping in the mud."
Jarn blinked, caught off-guard.
"That'd be... kind of you. We were thinking of staying a while."
The woman winked.
"I figured. You've got that look — like people running from something but trying to look like they're not."
She was gone before he could respond, disappearing through a curtain behind the bar.
As the tavern eased back into its rhythm, Jarn leaned back, the wood of the chair creaking faintly under him. His eyes stayed low, but his mind clawed upward, reaching — reaching for what, he couldn't say.
That face in the fog, those shifting features stitched like memory into something living — it wasn't just a trick of light. Or fear. Or sleep.
It meant something.
And the gem — Naru's gem — no, not his, not anymore — the thing was gone but left behind a stain, or a hole, or some kind of rip. It was hard to explain. Harder still to think through without getting turned around inside his own skull.
He wanted answers — no, needed them — but he didn't even know the shape of the questions yet.
What was I looking for? A name? A history? An origin? A rulebook? A weakness? A cure?Was it about the gem, or about the things it once kept away? Or maybe the things it pulled in?
His thoughts tangled like vines — no beginning, no clear end.
The village might have stories. A record. A rumor. A mistake someone made once that no one dared speak of.Something. Anything.
He wasn't even sure how to ask the right person the wrong thing.But the fog was gone now.
And whatever that thing was — it wasn't done with them.
Scene: Dusty path leading toward the hills, late afternoon sun casting long shadows.
The waitress walks ahead with a casual grace, her apron still on, though her blouse is rolled up at the sleeves now. She glances back at them with a faint smirk.
"So… where're you two from?"Her tone is light, breezy — but there's a pinch of curiosity tucked inside it.
Jarn catches the edge of Naru's gaze and answers first, smooth but deliberately vague:
"Just outside the crossroads... took odd routes getting here."
"Hmm," she hums. "That's not much of a name for a place, is it?"
"It's not much of a place," Jarn mutters, playing it down.
"Right," she replies, letting the word hang.
They walk in silence for a stretch — the gravel crunching, cicadas whispering — before she tries again.
"And what do you do, then? You look like folk used to lifting more than just promises."
Naru chuckles, too loud — too quick.
"We're… uh… carpenters. Woodwork. All sorts."
"Not very woodsy hands," she says dryly, eyeing their scarred knuckles and callused palms.
Jarn jumps in with a shrug.
"Had a bad stretch. Lost the shop. We've been moving."
But the waitress is sharp. She doesn't press, just tosses a grin over her shoulder like she's testing their footing.
"Well, whatever kind of woodworking makes arms like that, might want to teach it to the oxen."
Jarn snorts — Naru forces a laugh — and then they both stumble into a detour of made-up tales.
"We once built an entire stall from driftwood while camped near a lake," Naru adds, animated but clearly improvising."Right," Jarn says, running with it, "sold it to a fishmonger who used it for weddings. Or something like that."
The waitress says nothing for a moment — then chuckles under her breath.
"You two're strange."
The path finally tilts into an open field — and suddenly, the land swells into view.
A vast wooden fence, posts stretching into the horizon, runs along the edge of a rolling farmland, golden with tall grasses and dotted with livestock farther in. Rows of trees bend with fruit in the breeze. The scope is massive, almost surreal in its neatness.
"Gods," Naru mutters, slowing, "this is… huge."
The waitress smiles at his wonder.
"Welcome to Grinrock's backbone."
They continue in silence for a while — Naru turning his head left and right to drink in every inch — until they reach a heavy wooden gate, bound in iron.
She turns to them and gestures.
"This is it. You'll have to wait here — I'll go get the owners."
She slips past the gate and into the farmstead beyond, leaving them outside — wind tugging softly at their clothes, the warm hush of field life settling around them.
Scene: Outside the farm gate – early evening settling in.
Jarn and Naru stand before the wide gate, the dusty path behind them vanishing into the deepening dusk.
Beyond the fence, the farm stretches out like a living canvas — horse stables glowing softly under swaying oil lamps. The warm yellow light flickers against wooden walls, casting the long shadows of stirring horses.
Somewhere deeper in the field, chickens cluck and scatter, a sharp burst of roosters squabbling echoing through the yard. Pigs squeal, distant but clear, followed by the heavy lowing of cattle, then a bleating choir of sheep and goats.
This is no humble homestead.This is the estate of a man with land and legacy.
Jarn exhales, taking it all in. Naru murmurs something under his breath — a whistle or a prayer — but the awe is clear.
A few minutes pass in that pastoral chorus, until the gate creaks again.
Melinda returns — still wearing her tavern apron, though she's brushed her hair back now — beside her walks a broad-shouldered man with weather-worn skin and the calm stillness of someone who knows this land like his own bones.
"So," the man says, his voice low and steady, "you're the boys Melinda thinks have potential."
He stops before them, looking them up and down — not with suspicion, but practical appraisal, like livestock at a market.
"Well, I'll be the judge of that."
There's a pause. Then:
"But it's late. You'll take a bunk in the workers' quarters. Tomorrow's another matter."
Jarn nods, shoulders slightly tensed but grateful. Naru just watches, still wide-eyed from the land's size.
Melinda places her hands on her hips.
"I'm sticking my neck out here," she says, mock-stern. "So don't bring me trouble. I'll see you two around."
"Thanks, Mel," Naru offers with a grin.
"We won't forget it," Jarn adds.
She waves them off, walking back down the trail with the same calm ease she came with — vanishing into the fading light like a thread cut clean.
"Come on," the man says, turning.
"Name's Kuro. Try not to snore — walls are thin."
The two follow him through a smaller side gate, boots crunching against the earth, the low sounds of livestock marking time around them. The dusk deepens.
End Scene.