The Town of Oakhaven
Oakhaven sits in a natural basin, surrounded by the "Sentinels"—ancient, towering oaks whose roots have long ago buckled the cobblestone streets. The town is a labyrinth of uneven alleyways and timber-framed houses that lean toward one another as if whispering secrets. Because of the dense canopy of the surrounding woods, Oakhaven exists in a state of perpetual twilight, lit by flickering gas lamps and the occasional glow-stone.
Perched on the highest incline of the town, St. Jude's is less a cathedral and more a fortress of faith. Built from gray river stone that has turned black with moss, its architecture is jagged and defensive.
Tucked directly behind the church is the Ash-Tree Orphanage, a three-story building that seems to be held together by luck and layers of peeling white paint.
It was a night when the Sentinels"—those ancient, gnarled oaks—groaned under the weight of a summer storm. The flickering gas lamps of the town had long since surrendered to the deluge, leaving the streets in a thick, suffocating darkness. Only the high incline of St. Jude's Church of the Hollow offered a silhouette against the jagged flashes of lightning.
A woman moved through the mud, her boots sinking deep into the buckled cobblestones. She walked with a desperate, rhythmic haste, clutching a bundle to her chest as if it were the only solid thing left in a dissolving world. She reached the heavy, iron-studded doors of the church, where the moss-covered stone gargoyles seemed to sneer at her from the eaves.
She didn't knock. Not at first.
She knelt in the shallow alcove of the doorway, the only spot partially spared from the downpour. Gently, she pulled back a layer of sodden wool to look at the infant. The child didn't cry. Instead, he looked back at her with eyes that should have been impossible—irises of a deeppolished gold that seemed to catch and hold the faint light of the distant lightning.
"Don't look at the world too closely, my little bird," she whispered, her voice breaking over the thunder. "If you see too much, it will never let you go."
She tucked a small, wooden trinket into the folds of his blanket—a carving of an open eye. With a trembling hand, she reached out and pulled the heavy brass ring of the door knocker. The sound echoed through the hollow stone of the church like a gunshot.
By the time the heavy bolts groaned and the door creaked open to reveal the tired, lantern-lit face of Sister Martha, the woman was gone. She had vanished into the twilight of the oaks, leaving nothing behind but a set of footprints already being washed away by the rain.
Sister Martha looked down. She saw the bundle, the golden eyes staring up with a terrifying, preternatural focus, and the way the child's gaze immediately tracked the movement of the flickering lantern flame.
"Gods above," the Sister whispered, crossing herself. "What a strange thing the storm has brought us."
She picked up the child, unaware that the boy wasn't just looking at her—he was already observing the way her keys rattled, the fraying hem of her habit, and the exact speed at which the rain fell behind her.
Ren had arrived in Oakhaven. And Oakhaven would never be able to hide its secrets from him again.