Arrion's return to Hearthstone Village was a quiet homecoming. The watchman on the palisade, old Jorn, simply raised a hand in greeting, recognizing the silhouette that towered over any other traveler. The village itself was a cluster of sturdy timber and stone homes nestled in a protective curve of the Whispering Weald, smoke curling from hearths into the twilight sky. At its heart stood the chief's longhouse, Arrion's home for five years.
It was not a fortress, but it spoke of solid prosperity. Two and a half stories of aged, honey-coloured timber, its roof steeply pitched to shed the mountain snows, carved with the likenesses of forest spirits and protective knots around the doorframe. Light and the rumble of conversation spilled from its open door.
He was met not by servants, but by a whirlwind.
"Arrion! You're back!" Elara, fifteen and all restless energy, bounded from the doorway, her braid flying. Close behind, more reserved but with bright eyes, came Lyra, twelve and observant. "Did you see it? The Verdant King? Did you see his crown of thorns?" Elara's questions tumbled out.
Arrion allowed a small smile, the expression softening the hard lines of his face. He unslung the hares and handed them to Lyra. "For the pot." Then, he reached into his pouch and carefully withdrew the piece of glowing moss. In the dimming light, it cast a soft, gold-green aura on their awestruck faces.
"A gift," he said, his voice a low rumble. "From the King himself."
Elara gasped, and Lyra reached out a tentative finger, not touching it, but feeling the warmth that radiated from it. "It's humming," she whispered.
Their reverie was broken by a deeper, practical voice from within. "Stop cluttering the doorway and let the man in. He's likely half-frozen and starved."
Borryn filled the frame. Arrion's uncle was a pillar of a man, though his nephew now stood taller. His brown hair was heavily streaked with the grey of wisdom and hard-won peace, his face a roadmap of laugh lines around eyes that missed nothing. He wore a clean apron over his tunic, smelling of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and ale—the scent of his domain, the tavern he now ran, 'The Stubborn Stag', next to the bustling Adventurers' Guild hall in the village square.
"Uncle," Arrion nodded, ducking under the lintel.
Inside, the longhouse was a scene of controlled, hearty chaos. The great central hearth roared, casting dancing light on hanging herbs, well-used weapons, and carved furniture. Orryn, Arrion's cousin and the village headsman, sat at the large table, frowning over a parchment—a dispute about pasture rights, by the looks of it. He was a younger mirror of Borryn, with a commander's stillness. He glanced up, giving Arrion a tight, approving nod. The hunt had been for his mother.
In a wide chair closest to the fire, wrapped in a thick blanket despite the warmth, sat Aunt Maren. Illness had pared her down to a fragile lattice of bones and will, her face pale, but her eyes, green with amber flecks, were alert and full of quiet love. A wet, wracking cough had haunted her for a full turning of the moon.
"Let me see, then," Borryn said, his tone gentle but dismissive of the 'magic'. He peered at the moss in Arrion's palm, his expression that of a man examining an interesting but dubious mushroom. "Pretty fungus. Glows. Will it thicken a stew or mend a fence?"
"Father!" Elara cried, scandalized. "It's from the Verdant King!"
"It's a warmth, Borryn," Maren said, her voice a soft rasp. She extended a thin hand. Arrion knelt before her, a giant gentled. He placed the moss in her palm. Her fingers closed over it, and she closed her eyes. A faint sigh, one of relief, escaped her. The terrible, tense lines around her mouth seemed to ease, just a fraction. "It feels… like sunlight on old stones. Like the deep, quiet earth." Her cough, when it came a moment later, was less searing.
Borryn's pragmatic expression softened at the sight of his wife's momentary peace. He clapped a heavy hand on Arrion's shoulder. "Well. If it pleases her, it's worth more than gold. Good hunting, lad." His tone conceded the point without admitting to any mysticism. "Now, the girls will brew whatever tea or poultice their stories dictate. You come with me. The Stag is full tonight—a caravan from the south, full of loud mouths and loose coin. I need your back near the ale-kegs. Guild lot are getting rowdy over a bounty."
As they walked the short path to the village square, the sounds of 'The Stubborn Stag' grew louder: laughter, the thump of tankards, a bard's lute struggling to be heard over the din. Next door, the Adventurers' Guild hall was a beacon of lamplight, its sign—a shield crossed with a sword and wand—swinging in the evening breeze. Arrion could see figures in leathers and mail moving within, examining parchments on a large board.
Borryn paused before entering his tavern, his eyes on the Guild door. His voice dropped, losing its tavern-keeper's boom. "Saw a new posting today. On their board. Parchment was too fine, seal too sharp for local work."
Arrion's blood, still warm from the forest's majesty, ran cold. He didn't need to ask. The world narrowed to the space between heartbeats.
Borryn's gaze was knowing, heavy with the secret they had sheltered for five years. "It offered a king's ransom for information. Not on a person. On a *ledger*. A lost family heirloom, it said. Last seen in the eastern reaches, possibly in the possession of a runaway scribe." He looked at his nephew, his eyes old and tired. "The seal was a stylized 'R'. Garnet wax."
The Verdant King's peace shattered. The forest's gift was still warm in his memory, but here, in the smell of spilled ale and smoke, the past had found its scent again. Marquis Ralke was still hunting. And the trail, cold for so long, was warming.
Arrion's hand went, not to the axes on his back, but to the smooth, familiar curve of the purple-wood bow. He gave a single, slow nod. The supplicant was gone. The protector, the hunter, the son with a debt unpaid, returned.
"I see," he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the tavern's roar from within. "Let's get to those kegs, Uncle."