The woods were still, heavy with the anticipation that comes before a storm. The air was thick with the scent of green and wet earth, and every leaf seemed to hush itself as Rayven passed beneath the canopy. She moved through the undergrowth like a shadow, each step deliberate, each muscle attuned to the secret pulse of the forest. Above, slivers of daylight flickered through the leaves, dappling her deep purple skin in shifting patterns.
Rayven’s thoughts were far away, drifting back to the warmth of Neri’Va’s bed, to the taste of the high elf’s lips in the silver pre-dawn light. Her chest ached with a longing that was both sweet and terrifying. All morning, as she made her cautious way through the wilds, she’d carried the memory of that last embrace—a lifeline against the mounting dread.
It was late afternoon when she reached the old, hidden path. The trail was overgrown now, the marks on the trees fading but still discernible to a practiced eye: a slash of moss peeled back, a subtle ring of stones, the faint, spiral rune of Denday carved into bark. Rayven’s lips curled in the smallest of smiles. The tricks of survival, passed down for generations, had kept them safe—but never truly free.
She slowed her steps, eyes sharp for traps and signs of others. It would not do to lead any stray hunter or wandering paladin back to their sanctuary. Her ears caught the distant caw of a crow—a signal. She made the answering click of her tongue, and at last, the trees opened to reveal a hollow so well-concealed it might as well have been invisible.
Within the hollow, her people waited. The clearing was alive with the low murmur of conversation, the scrape of tools, the shifting weight of unspoken fear. Children crouched near their mothers, eyes wide, silent but watchful. Elders sat on logs, passing a battered jug of water between them. A group of young scouts, faces streaked with mud and grime, huddled by a makeshift map scratched into the dirt.
The first to spot her was Dahrin—a broad-shouldered elf, taller even than Rayven, with cropped white hair and a jagged scar that ran from brow to jaw. His face split into a brief grin before his features hardened. “Rayven,” he called, voice carrying across the hollow, relief and caution warring in every syllable.
Rayven inclined her head, acknowledging him and the wary eyes that followed. Others emerged from the shadows: Linya, a wiry woman with clever hands and sharper wit; old Jorin, whose every breath seemed like it might be his last; and the twins, Jassa and Vey, barely grown, their hands never straying far from their knives.
The camp’s mood was restless, like a nest of animals before a storm. Rayven felt it in the air, in the way conversation stilled when she passed, in the way hands hovered near hidden blades.
Linya was the first to step forward, arms crossed, eyes bright with suspicion. “Well? Are we finally to act, or hide like ghosts again?”
Rayven pulled her cloak tighter, letting her gaze sweep the hollow. “There will be a cleansing tonight. Paladins of Quintra—armed, blessed, and hungry for a show of force. They’re coming. All of them.”
The words sent a ripple of dismay through the gathered night dwellers. A young lad—barely more than a child, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles shone white—growled, “We can’t keep running! We’re not rabbits. They drive us deeper every year.”
An older man spat on the ground, the gesture sharp with bitterness. “Let them try. If they want to bring the Light into our woods, we’ll show them how dark the night can be.”
Rayven looked at them all, feeling the weight of command settle on her shoulders. She had always led by skill and example, never by force—but tonight, the consequences of failure would be devastating. “No,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “No fighting. Not tonight. They’re hoping to provoke us, to drag us into the open, so they can finish what they started. We do nothing. We hide, we watch, we let them leave empty-handed.”
A few protested, voices rising, but she stood her ground. “The paladins want an excuse for violence. If we fight, they’ll hunt us to the last. If we vanish, they’ll doubt their own fears. We disappear—into the trees, the earth, the night itself.”
Linya’s eyes narrowed, doubt written plain on her face. “And how do you know all this, Rayven? Where were you last night when we needed you for the watch?”
Rayven met her gaze without flinching, her own heart heavy with secrets. “I was doing what I always do—spying. Listening where none of you can. That’s how I got this information. That’s how we survive.”
The answer was enough for most, but Rayven saw the flicker of suspicion that would not easily die. She felt the sting of the lie, of all the lies—how many nights had she spent not in hiding, but in Neri’Va’s arms? She could not speak of it, not now, perhaps not ever. Their love was a secret too precious—and too dangerous—to share.
The argument settled, the hollow settled into a tense, uneasy hush. Mothers hushed their children, warriors sharpened knives that would not be drawn, and elders murmured prayers to Denday, voice so low that the words seemed to dissolve into the very earth.
As Dusk Fell Rayven busied herself with preparations. She checked every hiding spot—caves half-concealed by ivy, nests built high in the oldest trees, secret tunnels leading out of the hollow. She reassured the children, joked with the twins, pressed her hand to Dahrin’s shoulder in silent solidarity. All the while, her thoughts ran circles around Neri’Va. Was she safe? Did she regret their parting? Would she ever see her again—truly see her, not just as a flicker in a window or a phantom in a dream?
As dusk crept over the woods, the hollow transformed. Fires were doused, supplies hidden, and every trace of their presence was erased. Rayven led small groups to their hiding places, her words clipped but reassuring: “Don’t worry. They’ll search, but they won’t find us. Keep the little ones quiet. Remember the signals. Wait for my sign.”
When the last child was hidden, Rayven found her own perch—a high branch in a venerable beech, thick with leaves and impossible to see from below. She wrapped her cloak around herself, blending into the darkness, her breathing slow and steady.
From this vantage, Rayven watched as the paladins of Quintra entered the woods. Their torches flickered in a long, wavering line, their white robes nearly glowing in the gloom. The air filled with the acrid smoke of burning herbs and the hollow chant of sacred prayers. Rayven could make out the words—old words, meant to banish evil and summon the Light—but they sounded thin and small in the vastness of the forest.
The paladins scoured the woods for hours. They trampled bracken, searched hollows, shouted threats into the shadows. Rayven’s people did not move, did not speak. The children clung to their mothers, elders pressed their backs to stone and root, and even the boldest warriors kept their blades sheathed. The only sounds were the hiss of wind and the occasional snap of a twig.
Rayven’s heart pounded with every shout, every torch that flickered too close. She pressed her palm to the rough bark of the beech and forced herself to breathe. This was what she had promised Neri’Va: no fighting, no bloodshed, just patience. Trust the darkness. Trust her people. Trust love.
At last, as the moon climbed high and pale, the paladins tired. Their shouts faded, their torches bobbed back toward the village. One by one, they vanished into the gloom, their faith—at least for tonight—unable to touch the secrets of the wood.
Rayven waited until the final torch was gone before giving the signal: three low whistles, barely louder than a bird’s call. Slowly, her people emerged—safe, exhausted, but whole.
There was no celebration. Relief, yes, but it was the shaky, desperate relief of survivors. Some mothers wept quietly. Warriors shared silent embraces. The elders gave thanks, but their eyes were haunted by memories of hunts that had not ended so well.
Rayven joined them by the central fire, her body bone-tired, her mind racing. She stared into the embers, letting her thoughts drift to Neri’Va—her gentle hands, the way her voice trembled when she’d said, I love you. Rayven had not said it back, not yet. The words stuck in her throat, a promise she was terrified to make.
The camp was quiet when the messenger came. Footsteps broke the hush—a slim, anxious young man with a patched cloak and wild hair. He burst into the circle of firelight, eyes wide and breathless.
“They found something,” he blurted, not waiting for permission. “Not us, but a way. Down river, the other camps—they’re saying it’s happening soon. At the next full night of Denday, they’ll make their move.”
The words settled on the camp like a fresh blanket of fear. Linya drew in a sharp breath. Dahrin swore under his breath. Even old Jorin, so steady, looked unsettled.
“At last,” someone muttered, but the words were more dread than hope.
Rayven rose slowly, shadows from the fire flickering across her sharp features. “What move?” she pressed.
The messenger licked his lips. “No one’s saying it plain, but it’s big. The other camps want us ready. They want us to be part of it. At the next full night—when Denday is high.”
Rayven looked up through the branches. Denday hung like a silver coin, waxing toward fullness. Not long now.
She dismissed the messenger with a nod and stood alone at the edge of the hollow, letting the voices of her people drift behind her. Her gaze lingered on the moon, blue and distant, and her thoughts twisted back to Neri’Va—her hope, her fear, her light. The love she could not speak, the promise she was afraid to make.
Tonight, she had kept her word. Tomorrow, or the next night, she did not know if she could keep them safe, or herself whole. Whatever storm was coming, it would test every bond—of loyalty, of love, of shadow and of Light.
The days of hiding in the darkness were numbered. Rayven’s heart ached with longing and dread. She whispered a prayer—not to Denday, but to Neri’Va—let us both survive what is to come.