A Plan

The great longhouse of Talmorath was dimly lit, the flickering flames of torches casting dancing shadows on the carved wooden pillars. Halmares sat upon his simple throne, a sturdy structure of dark wood adorned with feathers, bones, and trophies from the hunts of his youth. Around his neck hung charms of carved stone and wood, their gentle clinking punctuating the tense silence.

Nira and Fergus stood before him, their clothes still marked by the grime and sweat of the Wilds. Their expressions, however, were resolute, their eyes clear with purpose. Beside them sat the old woman, Jehala, her posture calm but her sharp gaze fixed on Halmares.

It was Nira who spoke first. "Father, we have seen a threat that cannot be ignored."

Halmares leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Speak, Nira. What did you find?"

Nira glanced briefly at Fergus before continuing. "Darkspawn," she said, her voice steady. "We got into a fight and a woman saved us. The Witch of the Wilds herself: Flemeth, father. She said the darkspawn are gathering a large force in the Frozen Wastelands—a massive force. If they march north, they'll destroy everything in their path. No tribe will survive."

Fergus stepped forward, his voice grave. "We also encountered an ogre leading their vanguard. It was no ordinary patrol. This horde is preparing for something far greater."

Halmares's jaw tightened, and he rose from his throne. The charms around his neck rattled as he began pacing the room, his heavy steps echoing on the wooden floor. "And you expect me to believe this is all true?" he asked, his tone skeptical. "That such a horde exists? That these beasts are organized enough to march on the Chasind tribes?"

Nira opened her mouth to argue, but Halmares raised a hand to stop her. "And this tale of the Witch of the Wilds—Flemeth," he continued, his voice sharp. "Do you think me a fool? Spirits have always played tricks in the Wilds. They whisper false promises to the desperate, lead hunters to their deaths. How do you know this was not one of their games?"

Before Nira could respond, Jehala's calm voice cut through the tension. "Because it was no trick," she said, her tone measured but firm. "They speak the truth."

Halmares stopped his pacing, turning to Jehala with a doubtful frown. "And what makes you so certain, Jehala? You weren't there."

Jehala met his gaze without flinching. "No, I was not. But I know Flemeth's power. I trained under her as a young woman, long before I came to this village." Her voice softened, tinged with reverence. "She is no spirit, Halmares. She is flesh and blood, and her wisdom is beyond our understanding. If she has spoken, we would do well to listen."

Halmares studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turned back to Nira and Fergus, his shoulders stiff with tension.

"And what would you have me do?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Nira stepped forward, her voice firm with determination. "Call the tribes together. All of them. If we don't unite, we'll be slaughtered one by one. This horde will not stop at our borders."

Halmares's eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. He paced once more, the weight of the decision evident in his every step. The old woman watched him carefully, her expression unreadable.

Finally, Halmares stopped and turned to face them. "Very well," he said, his voice heavy. "I will send word to the tribes. We will gather at Tombigbee, the largest of our settlements. If there is to be unity, it must be forged there."

A quiet sigh of relief escaped Nira, but Halmares was not finished. "I will leave at first light. But know this: convincing the tribes to stand together will not be easy. Our people are proud, and old grudges die hard."

"We'll come with you," Fergus said immediately.

Halmares raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to Fergus. "And why should you?"

"To ensure the tribes understand the gravity of this threat," Fergus said. "They need to hear it from someone who has seen it firsthand. Let us help you make them see reason."

Halmares's eyes flicked to his daughter. "And you, Nira?"

Nira straightened, determination burning in her gaze. "I will go as well. This is my fight as much as yours."

For a long moment, Halmares said nothing, his gaze shifting between the two of them. Then, with a low sigh, he nodded. "Very well. But know this—if either of you becomes a burden, I will not hesitate to leave you behind."

Reflections, Tears And Revenge

As they stepped out of the longhouse into the cool night air, the weight of the conversation still hung heavy between them. The village was quiet now, the fires burning low as the Chasind prepared for another restless night.

Fergus stopped suddenly, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I need some time," he said quietly. "To process everything."

Nira turned to him, her expression softening. She stepped closer, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. "I understand," she said. "Take what time you need."

With that, she left him to his thoughts, disappearing into the shadows of the village. Fergus stood alone, the night pressing in around him, the enormity of the path ahead weighing on his heart.

The Wilds were eerily quiet as Fergus wandered away from the village, the cool night air heavy with the scent of damp earth and moss. The faint light of the moon filtered through the canopy, casting silvery patches on the forest floor. He walked aimlessly, his thoughts churning like a storm, his feet carrying him deeper into the shadowed woods.

Flemeth's words echoed in his mind, her voice clear and deliberate. Your father, Bryce Cousland, never made it to Ostagar. Betrayed by Howe. Your wife, Oriana. Your son, Oren. All slain. Your sister fell with the Wardens at Ostagar.

The images in his mind were vivid, though they were conjured entirely from his imagination. Oriana's gentle laugh as she brushed her son's hair. Oren chasing a dog through the halls of Highever. His father standing tall, a figure of strength and guidance. His mother's warm embrace. Aedan, his sister, fearless even in childhood.

All gone.

Fergus stopped, gripping the trunk of a nearby tree to steady himself. His chest heaved as emotions surged within him—grief, regret, guilt. How could this happen? he thought bitterly. How could I have been so blind? So powerless to stop it?

Tears blurred his vision, but as the memories twisted into images of betrayal, his grief began to shift. Howe. The name burned in his mind like a brand. The man he had trusted, the man his family had called ally, had done this. Howe had stolen everything from him.

Fergus's sorrow morphed into fury, a deep and searing rage that demanded release. With a roar, he swung his fist into the nearest tree, the impact sending pain shooting up his arm. He didn't care. He struck again, and again, his voice rising into a raw, guttural cry of anguish. Bark splintered under his blows, but the pain in his heart was far greater than anything his hands could feel.

As his fists slowed, Fergus slumped against the tree, his breathing ragged. His anger still burned, but beneath it lay a hollowness that threatened to consume him.

Then the wind shifted.

It wasn't the natural breeze of the Wilds—this was different. It carried a strange warmth, a faint whispering sound that grew louder as the trees around him seemed to darken. Fergus froze, his instincts flaring. The air shimmered faintly before him, and a shape began to form.

It started as a faint glow, like fireflies gathering in the dark. The glow intensified, coalescing into a ghostly figure that hovered just above the ground. It was humanoid but indistinct, its edges flickering like the flames of a distant campfire.

Fergus stepped back, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his blade. "What… what are you?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

The figure's form solidified slightly, and its voice echoed softly, almost mournfully. "A watcher," it said. The voice was layered, as though many voices spoke in unison. "Bound to the Wilds, tied to the sorrow and anger of those who walk within them."

Fergus narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

The figure tilted its head, as if studying him. "Not what I want. What you seek," it replied. "You rage against betrayal, against loss. Your sorrow calls to the Wilds, and I have answered."

"I didn't call for anything," Fergus spat, though his voice wavered.

The figure's glow dimmed slightly, its tone softening. "You carry a burden," it said. "Loss greater than one man should bear. But you also carry a fire—a will to avenge, to reclaim what was stolen. That fire will burn bright, but beware, Fergus Cousland. Fire consumes, and you may be its next victim."

Fergus's jaw clenched. "Then let it consume me. If that's what it takes to see Howe pay for what he's done, so be it."

The figure seemed to shimmer, its form flickering as if caught in an unseen wind. "Vengeance is a powerful force," it said, its voice quieter now. "But it is not the only one. Remember this, child of Highever: the path of revenge is a lonely one. Choose your allies wisely, for you will need them more than you know."

Before Fergus could reply, the figure began to fade, its glow dispersing into the darkness like embers carried on the wind. The warmth in the air vanished, leaving only the cold stillness of the Wilds.

Fergus stood there, his mind racing. The encounter had left him shaken, but also… resolute. His anger had not dimmed, but something deeper had settled within him—a determination not just to destroy, but to rebuild.

Taking a deep breath, Fergus turned back toward the village. He still had much to do, and now more than ever, he was determined to see it through.