A Regional Chieftain
* * *
Elara entered Ancrum on foot, just as she intended.
She knew this village.
The packed earth path curved gently into familiar ground, and the sounds of life met her like remembered music—hammer against wood, a woman’s laughter, the low murmur of conversation carried on the air. Chickens scattered at her approach, and somewhere a child squealed in delight.
Ancrum was thriving.
That had always been true, but today the sight eased something tight in her chest.
The cottages were well kept, stone walls fitted tight and clean, roofs mended, smoke rising from chimneys in steady plumes. Gardens bordered nearly every home—late-season greens, bundles of drying herbs tied beneath eaves, baskets set out to air. This was a village that worked with the land, not against it.
She felt eyes on her, curious, then recognizing.
A woman paused in her sweeping. A man straightened from stacking wood. A pair of children whispered before one pointed openly.
“Elara?” someone called, uncertain at first.
She turned, a small smile lifting her lips. “Aye.”
Relief followed recognition, easy and unguarded and a call of welcome reached her.
She moved deeper into the village, no longer a stranger but a familiar presence returning after too long an absence. She had come here before—shared work, traded knowledge, walked these paths with healers whose hands bore the same stains as her own.
Near a wide table set outside the low stone cottage, she remembered well, three women worked together, sorting bundles of plants—comfrey, tansy, yarrow.
One of them looked up sharply, then broke into a knowing smile.
“Well,” the older woman said, setting aside a bundle. “If it isn’t the herb-scribe who listens more than she speaks.”
Elara felt warmth bloom in her chest, and she smiled at the old healer. “Vanessa, it is good to see you again.”
The work at the table continued, hands moving as they spoke, the rhythm familiar and grounding. Elara welcomed it—the sorting, the quiet decisions of leaf and stem, the shared understanding that came without explanation.
“It eases the heart, knowing the healers are being returned,” the younger woman said at last, tying a bundle with practiced ease. “We feared the worst when they were taken.”
“Aye,” another agreed. “Old wounds were reopened. Too many still remember what it cost us the last time fear ruled the king’s hand.”
“The road has felt lighter since the word spread,” Vanessa added. “As if the land itself breathed easier.”
Elara nodded. “It has been much the same elsewhere.”
They worked a while longer, the sun climbing higher, shadows shifting across the stones. Time passed easily—long enough that Elara felt the gentle pull of it, the sense that she should soon move on.
“Talk of war still lingers,” one of the women said quietly. “Drogath does not sharpen blades to leave them to rust.”
“Nay,” Elara said. “Nor do kings search for what they believe will save them without cause.”
“You’ve heard more than most,” Vanessa said.
Elara hesitated, then said carefully, “On the road, a wanderer spoke of something… strange. He claimed to have seen fae folk in the woods.”
Silence fell so suddenly it felt heavy. Hands stilled. Faces paled.
“That is not a tale you should repeat,” Vanessa cautioned, her voice low but firm.