The Inquisitors’ Arrival

The morning after the miller’s recovery, the village of Luthen woke with a strange restlessness. Chickens clucked louder, hounds barked at shadows, and even the crows circled low, as though sensing the shift in air. Elara tried to ignore it, but unease gnawed at her chest with every step she took.

She carried a basket of dried herbs through the square, head down, but couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her. Whispers followed—half praise, half suspicion.

“Did you see him? Walking like he’d never been sick a day.”

“Alenya’s daughter, wasn’t it? The one with the strange hands.”

“No, no—don’t say such things aloud.”

Elara’s grip tightened around the basket handle. Her pulse quickened. She wanted to scream that she was no witch, that she had only done what any healer would do—but the memory of silver light spilling from her palms silenced her. That was not what any healer would do.

She hurried past the murmurs, eyes on the dirt, until she nearly collided with Rowan.

“Well, if it isn’t the miracle worker,” he said, smiling too easily.

Elara’s stomach knotted. “Move aside, Rowan.”

“Not even a thank you for keeping your secret safe?” His voice lowered, sly. “Folk will believe whatever tale I feed them. You might want to be… kinder to those who know the truth.”

Her jaw tightened. “There is no truth to tell.”

Rowan only chuckled, stepping aside with a mocking bow. “As you wish, Elara Veylen. For now.”

She walked quickly away, fighting the urge to run. Rowan’s words weren’t threats yet, but they carried weight. And weight, in a place like this, could drag her straight to the Inquisitors.

The first sign of them came at midday: the distant thunder of hooves. The villagers looked up from their work as four riders entered Luthen, cloaked in black, the silver insignia of the Crown stitched across their shoulders.

The Inquisitors.

Elara’s breath caught.

Their leader, a tall man with a hawk-like nose and cold, assessing eyes, dismounted in the square. He scanned the cottages, the market stalls, the faces of the people who shrank back from him. His voice carried, sharp and clipped.

“By decree of King Aldric Veyrion, this village will be searched for heresy. Any who conceal moonfire shall be punished by flame. Any who confess will be spared the pyre.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Mothers clutched children, men exchanged fearful glances.

Elara froze where she stood, every muscle screaming to run, but her mother’s voice cut through the haze of panic: Don’t draw attention. Don’t give them reason to look twice.

She forced herself to breathe, lowering her gaze to the basket of herbs. Just a healer’s daughter, nothing more.

The Inquisitors spread out, entering cottages, turning over baskets, demanding answers. The hawk-nosed leader spoke with villagers, his gaze sharp enough to peel secrets from their skin.

Rowan stood near the forge, arms crossed. His eyes flicked toward Elara once—long enough to make her blood run cold.

By nightfall, the Inquisitors had found nothing. They camped on the outskirts of the village, but their presence hung over Luthen like smoke. The villagers huddled in their homes, whispering fears into the dark.

Inside the healer’s cottage, Alenya paced by the fire. “It’s begun,” she muttered. “The rumors have reached the Crown. They wouldn’t come to a place like this otherwise.”

Elara sat rigid on the bench, hands clasped tight in her lap. “Maybe they’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” Her mother’s eyes were shadowed, lips tight. “Or maybe they’ll burn us all until they’re satisfied.”

Silence stretched. Elara stared at the flames, remembering the miller’s ragged breaths, the way his life had steadied beneath her hands. She couldn’t regret saving him. But the cost (the danger) it was pressing at their door.

A soft knock startled them both. Alenya stiffened, but Elara rose cautiously and opened the door.

A cloaked figure stood there, face hidden in shadow. For a heartbeat, Elara thought it was another Inquisitor. But the voice that spoke was low, urgent.

“You should not have used it.”

Elara’s blood chilled. “Who are you?”

The figure stepped back, revealing a glimpse of silver-threaded hair beneath the hood. His eyes caught the moonlight—blue, piercing, and haunted.

“I am someone who knows what hunts you,” he said. “And if you value your life, you’ll flee before dawn.”

The door slammed shut before Elara could speak again. She pressed her back to it, heart racing. Her mother’s eyes narrowed.

“Who was it?”

“I… I don’t know.” Elara’s voice trembled. “But he knew.”

Alenya closed her eyes, whispering a prayer to gods long abandoned. “We’re out of time.”

Elara turned toward the window. Outside, the Inquisitors’ campfires burned like watchful eyes in the dark. Somewhere beyond them, the Wilderwood loomed, vast and unforgiving.

Her mother’s voice was barely a whisper. “If they search again tomorrow… you must run.”

Elara’s hands shook as she looked at her mother—the only family she had, the only home she knew. She wanted to argue, to refuse. But deep inside, she already knew the truth.

The village of Luthen would not remain her prison much longer.

It would become her grave—unless she stepped into the Wilderwood.

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