There are paths in Scotara that feel as though they were made not by hands, but by time itself—softly worn through forest and field by those who walk them often and those who have long since passed. One such path winds its way from Willowmere, slipping between slender birch and towering pine, carrying with it the scent of sap, moss, and earth warmed by a gentle sun.
It is a path Bria knows well. She takes it when her thoughts grow too full or when her hands itch to create something new, for beyond the forest lies the sea—and the sea, in all its restless beauty, offers gifts no village ever could.
The forest thins gradually, as though reluctant to release those who walk beneath its shelter. The air shifts first, touched by something sharper, cleaner. Pine gives way to salt. The steady hush of wind through branches softens, replaced by the distant, rhythmic crash of waves meeting shore.
Then the trees part. The sea stretches wide and unending, its surface a shifting blend of steel and blue, never still, never entirely welcoming. It is not a gentle sea, nor one that invites lingering in its embrace. The waters remain cold even in the height of summer, their currents strong, their moods quick to turn. Few in Willowmere would ever think to swim in it. But they respect it, and they gather from it.
Bria steps onto the pebbled shore, her boots pressing into a mix of sand and smooth stones shaped by years—no, centuries—of ceaseless tides. Each one has been turned and tumbled until its edges soften, its surface worn to a quiet sheen. She often wonders how long they have journeyed before finding their place here, carried from distant shores or hidden depths before the sea finally releases them.
She crouches, letting her fingers drift over them, selecting with care. Some will find their way into wreaths—tucked among evergreen sprigs and dried blossoms—while others will be strung into simple necklaces, small tokens of the sea to be worn close. Shells, too, are gathered when they can be found unbroken, their pale curves catching the light like something delicate and fleeting.
A movement along the rocks draws her gaze.
Two seals rest near the water’s edge, their sleek bodies glistening in the muted light. One lifts its head as if to regard her, dark eyes watchful but unafraid, before settling once more beside its companion. They come and go as they please, belonging as much to the sea as to the shore, and are treated with the same quiet respect as the waves themselves.
The wind stirs, carrying a stronger breath of salt, and Bria rises, brushing her hands clean against her skirts. She turns her face toward the horizon—a habit more than a thought—and pauses.
The clouds, which often linger low and heavy above the water, begin to shift. It happens slowly, as though the sky itself hesitates. Then, in a widening break of pale light, the distant outline emerges… Drogath.
It sits across the sea like a shadow given form, its cliffs rising stark against the horizon, its presence unmistakable even from this distance. There are days when it cannot be seen at all, hidden behind mist and cloud, leaving one to wonder if it exists beyond stories and whispers. But on days such as this, when the sky clears just enough, it reveals itself—and with it, the quiet reminder that Scotara is not alone in this world.
Talk of Drogath has grown in recent months. Not loud, not openly spoken in every gathering, but carried in quieter conversations, in lowered voices, in the careful way certain subjects are approached and just as quickly set aside. Traders who travel farther than most bring word of unrest. Fishermen speak of unfamiliar vessels glimpsed at a distance. And always, there is mention of its ruler—Warlord Tharne—a name spoken with a mix of caution and curiosity.
War is not something that belongs to Willowmere. It feels distant here, as though it exists in another life, far removed from the simple rhythm of days marked by healing, crafting, and tending to one another. Yet standing at the edge of the sea, with Drogath visible beyond the shifting light, it becomes harder to think of it as something entirely apart.
The waves roll in as they always do, steady and unchanging in their motion, breaking against the shore with quiet persistence. The seals remain where they are, untroubled. The wind continues its restless path along the coast.
And still, something lingers in the air. Not fear. Not yet. Just the sense that beyond the horizon, beyond the reach of even the longest path through Scotara’s forests, there are forces moving that have not yet made themselves known.
Bria gathers what she has come for, her basket holding the sea’s small offerings, and turns back toward the path.
Behind her, the sea continues its endless song, and before her, the forest waits, unchanged, familiar, and welcoming… for now.
