I rise before the sky bleeds light, cloak heavy with dew. The mask presses cool against my face—my first creation, worn into anonymity. Beyond its wood grain lies the world's secrets, ready to be uncovered.
Thane waits at our meeting spot, silhouetted against the dim horizon. When I nod, he hands me a small scrap of folded parchment along with two silver coins earned from last night's root trade. I tuck the coins into my pouch and unfold the note: **"Smugglers move near east ridge at dawn. Four carriages. Heavy bone-thread seals."**
A smuggler's trail could mean contraband… or an early test of the rival's influence. I memorize the details before folding the note again. Thane bows and melts into Stonefold's waking streets.
I press east, following Crystale Creek toward the marsh. There, I plant the first traps—wire snares hidden beneath reeds, simple alarms of twisted roots tied to bells. They will tangle pursuers long before they reach my hidden clearing.
Midday finds me returning to the sunken archway's clearing. I unseal my hidden cache—food, water skins, flint—then kneel before the rune circle I unearthed. In silence, I trace fresh glyphs around its perimeter, each stroke guided by the ring's stormlight. The stones glimmer faintly, bound to my will.
By afternoon, the forest hums with a new resonance: my presence woven into its veins.
I think of Darnem Hollow's crooked huts, of Marga's crooked smile, and how her kindness deserves more than my absence. As dusk settles, I slip back along the winding trail without announcing myself.
At her hut's edge, I pause. Through the narrow window, she tends her hearth, humming a tune older than memory. I slip inside, mask still in hand, and place a small pouch of fresh roots on her table—roots picked just before dawn, their scent sharp and healing.
She looks up, eyes narrowed. I offer a curt nod before I turn away. Marga does not know of the smugglers near the east ridge, of snares in the marsh, of vaults beneath her floorboards. She simply sees a boy bringing her a gift again.
I step back into the dusk, mask pressed to my chest.
Tomorrow, I will follow Thane's lead to the east ridge, observe the smuggler carriages, and decide how best to engage. Until then, the Hollow's foundations grow deeper each day—silent, hidden, hungry for the threat to come.