Seeds of Discontent

The air in Kinlan thickened as summer surrendered to autumn, heavy with the scent of sun-warmed earth and the brittle rustle of drying crops. It was a fragrance the villagers knew well, a tether to the rhythms they trusted as steadfastly as the dawn. Yet this year, something else lingered—a faint, restless weight that draped itself over the valley like a shadow no one could name.

Nestled in a shallow bowl of land, guarded by low hills that rolled gently into the distance, Kinlan belonged to a quieter age. Its cottages, built of weathered stone and crowned with thatch, flanked paths worn smooth by countless footsteps. The people here were bound by faith, family, and the comfort of the familiar, their lives woven into traditions as deep as the roots of the ancient forests encircling them. Change, when it dared approach, was met with narrowed eyes and murmured prayers, for Kinlan thrived on constancy. But now, that very stillness trembled, as if the land itself sensed a fracture it could not yet reveal.

Beyond the village, Terindale's forests stretched dark and dense, their canopies a tangle of secrets whispered in tales. Locals spoke of places where trees grew too close, where sunlight faltered, and where silence reigned so fully that even the deer tread softly. To most, these were fables, spun to keep children from wandering too far. Yet as autumn deepened, those tales stirred anew, their edges sharpened by an unease that clung to the air like damp moss. Villagers found themselves glancing over their shoulders, their steps lingering closer to the well-trodden paths they'd always known.

That morning, as buckets clanked at the well and the blacksmith's hammer sang its steady song, a trio of hunters from Lorn trudged into Kinlan, their boots caked with mud from the northern road. Their faces were weathered, eyes sharp with a wariness that quieted the usual chatter. The villagers gathered near, drawn by the rarity of such visitors, their hands stilling on ropes and tools. Malak Crosswell stood among them, his broad frame a quiet pillar, shoulders squared from years of guiding the plow. His dark brown eyes, deep-set beneath a brow creased like furrowed earth, tracked the hunters with a stillness that belied the flicker of something older, sharper, in their depths, his weathered tan skin etched with lines of toil, dark hair graying faintly at the edges.

"Wolves up north," the hunter said, his voice rough as the wind over the hills. "Bigger than any I've tracked afore. Found deer torn apart—bones cracked clean through, not a scrap left. Ain't natural, I tell ye." He spat into the dirt, his gaze flicking to the northern horizon. "Been like that for weeks, closer to the hills each time. Sent word to the Lordsman in Lorn—reckon he'll do somethin' about it."

Old Tilda, her hands gnarled from years of weaving, leaned closer, her voice a low thread. "Heard 'em last night, I did. Closer than they oughta be." The other hunters nodded, one hefting a hide marred with claw marks too wide for a common beast, its edges brittle with frost despite the sun's faint warmth.

The villagers exchanged glances, their silence heavier than their words. Wolves were rare this near Kinlan, their howls a distant echo from harsher winters. That they prowled now, bold and vast, felt like a breach in the order God had set. Malak said nothing, but the hunters' words settled into him like stones, tugging at threads he'd buried deep—nights from his youth when howls had heralded more than hunger. The group dispersed soon after, the hunters pressing south with hurried steps, leaving Kinlan's quiet bruised by their tale.