He kept to the cover of trees, where shadow and branch offered shelter enough to remain unseen, though his gaze never strayed far from the village stretched out below. It was not as he expected. The air alone was different here, carrying scents that did not belong to forest or sea, but something softer, layered and unfamiliar. Smoke drifted from stone chimneys, yet it lacked the harsh bite of burning wood alone. There was something more to it—herbs, perhaps, though not the sort he knew. Sweeter. Calmer. It settled in the air rather than stinging it.
He drew a slow breath, testing it, as if it might reveal its nature if given time. It did not.
His attention shifted.
The cottages stood close enough to suggest community, yet each held its own space, marked by small gardens and narrow paths worn by frequent use. There was caring here—intentional, quiet care—not only in the way the homes were kept, but in the details that adorned them.
Wreaths hung upon many doors. Not for celebration, he thought, or at least not in any way he recognized. These were not crafted for show, but for purpose. Twigs bound together, woven with dried blooms, sprigs of greenery, and what appeared to be small stones or shells tucked carefully within the design. No two were alike, yet all held the same thoughtful hand. His gaze lingered on one longer than the others. There was meaning in them. He was certain of it.
Lines strung between posts and walls held bundles of herbs left to dry, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze. Some he recognized by shape alone, though not all. Others were entirely unfamiliar, their colors muted but distinct, their purpose unknown to him. The scent he had caught upon the air lingered here more strongly, woven into the very life of the place.
Movement drew his attention again.
Villagers passed along the paths, their pace unhurried, their manner unguarded. A woman paused to speak with another, their heads inclined toward each other in easy conversation. A man carried a basket heavy with what he could not see, though it seemed no burden to him.
A child darted past him—too close to the trees—then another followed, laughter breaking free and rising clear into the air before fading just as quickly as they disappeared around cottages. The sound lingered longer than it should have, echoing in a place within him that did not welcome it easily. No one called them back with urgency. No sharp voice followed. No wary glance was cast toward the forest’s edge, though the children had come near enough to it. Near enough to him.
The breeze shifted, carrying with it the scent of drying herbs and something faintly floral, brushing past him before slipping back toward the village. A strand of it lingered, unfamiliar and strangely persistent, as though it sought to be remembered.
He remained where he was, unmoving, though his attention sharpened without his willing it. His gaze traveled once more across the cottages, the wreaths, the quiet work of hands that knew their purpose, the ease with which voices rose and fell without care for who might hear them.
Nothing here reached toward the forest. Nothing here expected anything from it.
His fingers curled slightly against the rough bark at his side, steadying himself against the pain that stung at him.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He slipped deeper into the forest and headed for the path that would take him into the village.
