"The village of Oakhaven lies just beyond that ridge," he announced, his voice barely audible above the wind. "According to Eldrin's report, that's where the rumors originated."

  The biting wind whipped at Brandir's cloak, the rough wool offering little warmth against the chill of the human lands now that the sun dipped below the horizon. He tugged the worn leather hood further over his brow, obscuring his features, and squinted at the desolate landscape. The barren plains, dotted with scraggly trees that clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers, stretched towards a horizon shrouded in a perpetual gray haze. He shifted his weight in the saddle, the unfamiliar creak of the leather a jarring contrast to the silent glide of his elven mounts back home. He missed the feel of the wind through his hair, the sun on his face, the vibrant colors of Eldalond?. This world felt... muted. Lifeless.

  Beside him, Cael shivered, pulling his own cloak tighter around his thin frame. He scanned the horizon with a practiced eye, his hand resting on the pommel of the sword concealed beneath his cloak.

  Brandir nodded at the distant cluster of ramshackle huts that marked their destination. Oakhaven. A place of simple folk, rough living, and, if the rumors were true, a potential haven for the one they sought.

  She was here, he could feel it. She had to be. After years of searching, this was their last possible lead. The thought of her, lost and alone in this harsh land, filled him with a renewed sense of urgency. He nudged his horse forward. If all went to plan they would slip in unnoticed, observe, gather information, and, with any luck, find Faela and bring her home.

  The ramshackle huts were huddled together as if for warmth with their rough-hewn timber and mud, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of the perpetual gloom that seemed to blanket the valley. Even the smoke rising from the chimneys seemed hesitant, clinging to the earth as if afraid to ascend to the oppressive sky.

  Brandir rode slowly into the village, his companions following behind. The villagers they passed clutched their cloaks tighter and hurried past, their gazes averted as if fearing any contact with strangers. A heavy silence hung over Oakhaven, broken only by the mournful creak of a rusted weather vane and the distant cawing of crows circling overhead.

  "This place reeks of despair," Nymue muttered, her voice barely audible above the wind. She shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her, her usually vibrant aura dimmed by the oppressive atmosphere.

  Cael nodded grimly. "The Nightwraiths' influence is strong here," he observed, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings, noting the boarded-up windows, neglected gardens, and absence of children's laughter. "They have poisoned the hearts of these people, leaving only paranoia and despair in their wake."

  Elandriel, her senses attuned to the subtle currents of the natural world, grimaced. "The very earth seems to weep," she whispered, her hand reaching down to touch the dry, cracked soil. "There is no joy here, no laughter, no song."

  Aaon scanned the rooftops and alleyways, his hand never straying far from his bow.

  Taren, his presence a subtle shift in the dimming light, nodded in agreement. "The darkness here is deep," he murmured, his voice a whisper that seemed to echo the mournful creak of the weather vane.

  Brandir felt a chill run down his spine, and it wasn't just from the biting wind. This place was a wound on the land, a festering sore that threatened to spread its poison. He knew they had a difficult task ahead of them, but he was determined to find Faela, to bring light back to this desolate village, and to banish the shadows that had taken root here.

  Brandir dismounted with a groan, his muscles protesting after the long hours in the saddle. He stood before a ramshackle building that leaned precariously to one side, its faded sign displaying a carving of a tankard that looked as though it might tumble down at any moment. The tavern, its windows dark and grimy, seemed to sag under the weight of the oppressive atmosphere, a perfect reflection of the village itself. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, the hinges groaning in protest like a chorus of weary bones, and stepped inside, the scent of damp earth and horse manure clinging to his boots.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The tavern's interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the mingled scents of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and woodsmoke that stung his elven nostrils. A peat fire sputtered in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced across the rough-hewn walls and the low, beamed ceiling, creating an eerie, almost spectral atmosphere. To the right, a rickety staircase led to unseen rooms above, its steps worn and creaking ominously with every movement. A handful of patrons huddled around rough-hewn tables scattered across the uneven floorboards, their conversations hushed, their faces etched with worry and suspicion. They eyed Brandir and his companions with curiosity and apprehension, their hands never straying far from the mugs of ale that sat before them.

  Brandir led Elarae, Cael, and the others to a small, empty table tucked into a shadowy corner near the hearth, hoping to escape the scrutiny of the other patrons. The table, scarred with countless spills and burns, wobbled precariously on its uneven legs, threatening to collapse under the slightest pressure. He motioned for his companions to sit, his eyes adjusting to the dim light as he surveyed the room, his senses alert for any sign of danger.

  The tavern keeper, a hulking figure with a bushy beard that seemed to harbor its own ecosystem of crumbs and stray insects, and a suspicious glare that could curdle milk, wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better days, its once-white surface now a tapestry of stains and questionable substances. His eyes, narrowed and shrewd, followed their every move, his demeanor radiating a distrust that spoke volumes about the kind of clientele he was accustomed to.

  Brandir approached the bar, his disguised elven features blending seamlessly with the grim faces of the locals. He tried to mimic their hunched posture and weary gait, hoping to appear as just another weary traveler seeking refuge from the harsh realities of the world. "Ale," he ordered, his voice roughened to match the gruff tones of the villagers, his elven accent carefully masked. "And whatever food you have that's still warm."

  The tavern keeper grunted, his eyes lingering on the group as they settled into their seats, their hands resting near the weapons concealed beneath their cloaks. He slammed tankards onto the counter, one after another, the ale sloshing over the rims, forming sticky puddles on the already grimy surface. He disappeared through a curtain behind the bar, returning with a platter of greasy stew that looked as unappetizing as it smelled, its contents swimming in a dubious broth that shimmered with an oily sheen. He distributed the stew into seven chipped bowls, each one seemingly vying for the title of "most likely to harbor a hidden colony of bacteria."

  Brandir took a sip of the ale, grimacing at the bitter taste that lingered on his tongue like a forgotten curse. He leaned against the counter, feigning casual conversation, hoping to glean some information from the taciturn innkeeper. "Heard any interesting news lately?" he asked, his voice laced with feigned curiosity.

  The tavern keeper grunted again, his suspicion evident in the narrowed eyes that peered out from beneath his bushy brows. "News is scarce in these parts," he muttered, his eyes darting towards the other patrons, as if fearing they might overhear their conversation. "Nothing but trouble brewing up north, they say. Elves coming down from the mountains, raiding and pillaging. Best to keep your head down and your doors locked."

  Brandir's ears perked up. he thought, his mind reeling. He pressed further, hoping to uncover the truth behind the rumors. "Elves, you say? Haven't seen any around here."

  The tavern keeper leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his breath hot and stale against Brandir's cheek. "They say there was one hiding in plain sight," he said, his eyes gleaming with both fear and excitement. "An elf woman, living amongst us. Name of Kayla. But don't you worry none," he added, puffing out his chest, pride in one of their own obvious, "our Jonathan took care of her. Put an end to her wicked ways."

  Brandir's blood ran cold. The names were so similar, Kayla and Faela? An elf woman. Could it be...?

  He felt a surge of nausea, his hand instinctively tightening around the tankard, the cool metal grounding him. He forced his voice to remain steady, his tone casual. "Jonathan, eh? Sounds like a brave lad.

  The tavern keeper nodded, his chest swelling with pride. "Aye, that he is. A true hero. Saved us from the elven menace."

  Brandir's mind raced. He had to learn more about this Kayla, about this Jonathan. He had to uncover the truth, even if it shattered the fragile hope that had brought them to this desolate village.

  "Where can I find this Jonathan?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral, though his fingers tightened around the tankard, threatening to crush the pewter. "I'd like to offer my gratitude to such a valiant protector."