Chương 37: Chapter 26: What the City Lord Witnessed- Part I

The thought tears through the dream with enough force to shatter it. One moment I stand upon a blood-soaked forest path, surrounded by butchered bodies and the copper stench of slaughter. Nemain hangs loosely in my hand while crimson light spills across the undergrowth. Aibell clutches Aine tightly against her shoulder. Eammon stands frozen beside Ciara.

Despite leaning heavily upon her walking stick, despite the pain I now understand had accompanied every step she took after Blackthorn, Ciara shifts forward all the same. Positioning herself between the children and me. The sight hurts more than anything Nemain has shown me thus far. Then the world breaks apart. I wake with a violent gasp. For several disorienting heartbeats, I cannot separate dream from reality.

My heart pounds hard enough to drown out every other sound while the scent of blood and wet earth lingers stubbornly within my thoughts. Instinct drives my body before reason has the opportunity to intervene. My hand closes around Nemain's hilt. The blade moves, steel whispers against leather and then I freeze. The sound cuts through the lingering haze of sleep with terrifying clarity. Cold air settles against sweat-soaked skin as awareness returns in abrupt fragments. Silver leaves rustle overhead.

The broad roots beneath me remain warm from the life flowing endlessly through the grove. Dawn has not yet arrived, though the darkness has softened into that strange stillness lingering between night and morning. The cursed sword rests half-drawn within my grasp. A narrow length of crimson metal catches the lantern light filtering through the grove. For a moment, I simply stare at it. Then I force the blade back into its sheath. The motion lacks its usual certainty.

My fingers tighten briefly around the hilt before releasing it altogether. Slowly, deliberately, I draw a breath. Then another. The familiar awareness of the grove answers immediately. Heartwood roots continue their patient journey beneath the district while the Silverwood stretches high above the canopy, ancient and steadfast. The countless lives woven throughout the grove remain present at the edge of my awareness, safe. Unaffected by whatever darkness Nemain had conjured within the dream.

"You were struggling." The voice arrives quietly from somewhere nearby. I look up. Lord Havlar sits a short distance away beneath the Silverwood canopy. The bed the grove had created for him remains undisturbed behind him, though judging by the alertness in his expression, I suspect he has not returned to it for some time. The city lord's gaze remains fixed upon me with the same careful attention he once reserved for council debates and infrastructure reports. Only now that attention rests upon Nemain.

The silence stretching between us feels oddly fragile.

"I apologize," I say eventually. My voice sounds rougher than expected.

"I didn't intend to wake anyone."

"You didn't." The answer arrives without hesitation.

"I was already awake." That somehow feels less reassuring. Neither of us speaks for several moments afterward. Beyond the garden walls, eastern Fallowspire remains wrapped in predawn quiet. Somewhere in the distance, an early riser begins preparing the morning fire. Water trickles softly through irrigation channels weaving between the gardens. The grove continues existing with complete indifference toward nightmares and cursed swords alike. I wipe a hand slowly across my face.

"How much did you see?" The question leaves my mouth before I have time to reconsider it. Havlar's expression remains unreadable.

"You appeared to be having a difficult dream," he says after a moment's consideration.

"Then you reached for that sword." His gaze shifts briefly toward Nemain.

"You also seemed determined not to draw it." The observation settles heavily within the silence that follows. The city lord does not sound accusatory. If anything, he sounds thoughtful. I lower my gaze toward the weapon resting across my lap. Nemain remains silent. The absence feels almost more unsettling than its usual commentary.

"It wasn't an ordinary nightmare," Havlar says quietly. I consider dismissing the question. The effort required to construct a convincing lie seems exhausting.

"No," I admit.

"It wasn't." For a while, neither of us attempts to continue the conversation. The Silverwood whispers overhead while dawn gradually approaches beyond the district walls. Somewhere nearby, a Heartwood branch shifts softly within the canopy. Eventually, Havlar exhales.

"Well," he says, his tone returning to something more familiar, "that certainly places the self-assembling bed lower on the list of unusual experiences." Against all reasonable expectations, a faint laugh escapes me. The sound surprises both of us. It also helps, only slightly. The city lord glances toward the eastern horizon where the first traces of morning have begun chasing away the darkness. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"I suspect," he says, rising slowly to his feet, "that this conversation would benefit from daylight." I remain seated beneath the Silverwood for several moments after he walks away. My hand settles briefly against Nemain's sheath. The sword offers no whispers. Though the silence feels temporary. Above me, silver leaves sway gently beneath the approaching dawn. For reasons I cannot entirely explain, I find myself grateful for the sound. Havlar's POV of the night before.

I do not expect to spend the night beneath a magical tree. To be fair, recent events have expanded my understanding of what constitutes a reasonable expectation. Even so, there remains something distinctly unusual about lying upon a bed assembled by an ancient grove while attempting to convince myself that this experience falls within the acceptable range of responsibilities associated with city administration. The bed remains the most concerning aspect of the arrangement. It is entirely too comfortable.

I shift slightly against the layered leaves supporting my weight and resist the urge to feel offended by the discovery. Years spent within the city keep have accustomed me to practical furnishings designed with durability in mind. The fact that a tree appears capable of producing superior accommodations raises several administrative questions that I strongly suspect would be difficult to answer. Around me, the grove settles gradually into the quieter rhythms of night.

Lanterns glow softly between winding pathways, illuminating vegetable plots, flowering shrubs and the broad Heartwood roots weaving their way through the walled garden. The Silverwood rises at the grove's centre, its pale bark catching moonlight filtering through the canopy above. Even at night, it draws the eye effortlessly. Reports fail to capture its presence. The same proves true of the district surrounding it.

Earlier that day, I walk through the eastern quarter expecting to evaluate an emerging political concern. Instead, I find myself observing residents arguing over irrigation schedules with remarkable enthusiasm. Neighbours exchange vegetables gathered from communal gardens while debating planting arrangements. Children race between pathways beneath the watchful gaze of adults who no longer behave like isolated households sharing proximity. They function as participants within something collective.

Communities do not emerge overnight and they certainly do not emerge through magic alone. Yet somehow, one has taken root here. The realization occupies my thoughts longer than anticipated. The council's recognition of the grove had seemed prudent from an administrative perspective. Establishing official relationships often prevents future complications. The title of Grovekeeper provides a clear point of contact between the city and the district. The practical benefits remain obvious.

Less obvious is the fact that the role already existed. Kaelen accepted the title with all the enthusiasm one might expect from someone informed they now possess additional responsibilities. Yet throughout the day, I observe the ease with which others defer to him. Ciara discusses concerns affecting the survivor group with the assumption that he will listen. Aibell challenges him openly without the slightest hesitation. The children seek him out instinctively.

Even Garrick, whose relationship with authority appears selective at best, places a remarkable amount of trust in the druid. The council formalizes the title. The grove merely acknowledges what has existed for some time. The distinction strikes me as important. Beneath me, the roots shift. The movement remains subtle enough that I initially suspect imagination. Then it happens again. Water flows somewhere below the surface. Leaves whisper overhead despite absent winds. The grove never truly becomes still.

Life continues through countless small motions occurring beyond ordinary notice. I cannot sense mana. I nevertheless find myself increasingly aware that I am surrounded by it. The realization should prove unsettling. Instead, I find it reassuring. Fallowspire gains an unexpected ally. The thought arrives accompanied by another. She also gains a responsibility. Communities require protection. Rare things attract attention. Experience teaches me that extraordinary circumstances seldom remain isolated indefinitely.

The grove offers opportunities I hesitate to quantify alongside risks I struggle to predict. For a long while, I remain awake beneath the Silverwood canopy considering the implications but eventually, exhaustion wins the argument. Then the sound wakes me. Metal scraping softly against leather. My eyes open immediately. The grove remains suspended within the strange stillness preceding dawn. Lanterns burn low throughout the garden while darkness lingers beneath the Heartwood canopy.

For several moments, nothing appears unusual. Then I notice Kaelen. The Grovekeeper rests where he settles earlier beneath the Silverwood roots. At first glance, he simply appears uncomfortable but closer observation reveals something different. His expression tightens; uneven breathing disturbs the otherwise peaceful quiet surrounding him; sweat glistens faintly against his skin despite the cool predawn air. Then his hand moves, toward the cursed sword. A familiar sense of caution settles into my thoughts.

The blade has accompanied Kaelen since before Blackthorn, yet remarkably little is ever said regarding the weapon itself. The omission never seemed particularly significant at that time. Watching him now, I am forced reconsider that conclusion. Kaelen's fingers close around the hilt. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the blade begins emerging from its sheath. Crimson light spills across the Silverwood roots. I remain absolutely still. Years of administration teach many valuable lessons.

One among them involves recognizing the precise moment when intervention without understanding becomes significantly more dangerous than observation. Something is very wrong. I arrive at the conclusion with alarming efficiency. My attention shifts from the weapon to the man drawing it, who remains asleep. Even from across the grove, the strain becomes obvious. Muscles throughout his body tighten beneath an effort directed inward rather than outward. The hand gripping the sword trembles visibly.

Whatever struggle unfolds, it is not against an enemy standing before him. The battle takes place entirely within while the blade continues emerging. The crimson light intensifies and then stops. For one suspended heartbeat, nothing moves. Kaelen's expression tightens further and the trembling worsens. Then, with an uneven gasp, Kaelen awakens. For a brief moment, confusion clouds Kaelen's expression.

His hand tightens instinctively around the hilt and the cursed blade slides another fraction from its sheath before awareness catches up with action. Then the struggle returns. Gradually, with visible effort, the sword begins sliding back into its sheath. The motion remains painstakingly slow, deliberate and resisted. Only when the blade disappears completely do I realize I have been holding my breath. I look towards the druid and say,"You were struggling."