20. Draven
DRAVEN
The town square buzzes with the kind of controlled chaos that precedes any festival, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of fresh timber and canvas.
Merchants unfold their heavy awnings with practiced efficiency, the fabric snapping in the autumn breeze as they work to secure the corners.
Locals jostle and negotiate, staking claims to prime selling spots with a mixture of camaraderie and territorial stubbornness.
Their voices weave together in a dense tapestry of haggling, complaint, and the occasional burst of laughter—the familiar symphony of market day preparations.
I weave through the organized mayhem, my boots finding purchase on the worn cobblestones as I navigate around a cart laden with pottery and a cluster of children chasing a stray dog.
The folded notice in my pocket presses against my ribs, feeling heavier than it should, as though the weight of what it represents—the end of a hunt, a life taken—somehow transfers itself through the paper.
My eyes sweep the crowd automatically, moving from face to face with the same methodical precision I use when tracking game through dense underbrush.
I'm searching for familiar dark curls that catch the light just so, for the warm brown skin and gentle posture that I've come to recognize even at a distance.
For the faint scent of honey and lavender that seems to follow Isolde wherever she goes, marking her presence more surely than any footprint.
Nothing. Just the usual faces—Mrs. Dalloway with her ever-present market basket, Jonathan arguing with a spice merchant, the blacksmith's daughter hauling iron stakes for tent moorings.
The disappointment settles in my chest like a stone dropped into still water, unwelcome but achingly familiar. I've grown accustomed to this particular weight, the dull recognition that what I want and what is available to me rarely align.
I pin the notice to the community board with more force than necessary, the iron tack driving deep into the weathered wood with a satisfying thunk.
The parchment declares in neat, careful script that the wolf threatening the forest paths has been eliminated, the threat neutralized, the roads safe once more.
Around me, conversations pause mid-sentence as people notice the posting, heads turning toward the board.
Relief ripples outward through the gathered crowd in visible waves, shoulders relaxing, worried frowns smoothing into expressions of gratitude.
"Thank goodness," Mrs. Dalloway mutters, clutching her market basket tighter. "That poor little Sarah, attacked by such a vicious beast."
The word 'vicious' grates against my ears like fingernails on slate. The wolf had been hungry, desperate, driven toward easier prey by the encroaching winter. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Draven."
Vaelis's voice carries the particular cadence she uses when performing for an audience. Her fingers find my forearm with practiced precision, the touch light but claiming. The silk of her dress rustles as she positions herself just close enough to suggest intimacy without crossing into impropriety.
"The entire town owes you a debt of gratitude." Her pale eyes scan the gathering crowd, ensuring her words carry to the right ears. "Tracking down such an evil creature, eliminating the threat to our community—it was incredibly brave."
I step back, her hand falling away from my arm like a shed leaf. "It wasn't evil."
The words cut through her rehearsed praise, drawing curious glances from nearby merchants. Vaelis's smile falters for just a moment, the perfect composure slipping before reasserting itself.
"I'm sorry?"
"The wolf wasn't evil. It was doing what wolves do—surviving." I turn from the board, facing her fully. "Part of that means hunting when the opportunity presents itself."
Her laugh sounds like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, carefully modulated to convey both amusement and gentle correction. "Surely you don't mean to defend a creature that attacked sweet Sarah? Such an innocent member of our darling community?"
The phrase 'darling community' drips with the kind of possessive affection that makes my skin crawl. As if the town were a collection of precious objects to be arranged and protected rather than living beings making their own choices.
"I'm not defending anything." The crowd presses closer, drawn by the unusual sight of someone contradicting Vaelis publicly. "I'm stating fact. The wolf was hungry, Sarah was small and vulnerable. Now the wolf is dead."
Vaelis's fingers flutter toward her throat, a gesture I've seen her use when conversations veer away from her preferred script. The movement draws attention to the elegant curve of her neck, the way her silver hair catches the afternoon light.
"How very... pragmatic of you." Her voice carries just enough bewilderment to suggest I've said something slightly barbaric. "Though I suppose your unique perspective on such matters is exactly what keeps us all safe."
The words sound like praise but taste like condescension. Around us, the festival preparations continue, but I can feel the weight of attention settling on our exchange like dust on forgotten furniture.
The shift in Vaelis's behavior over the past weeks hasn't escaped my notice.
Where once her acknowledgments came in passing—a nod at the market, polite inquiries about patrol schedules—now she seeks me out with the persistence of a merchant hawking wares.
The timing feels deliberate, calculated in a way that makes my teeth ache.
Before Isolde arrived, Vaelis treated me like a useful fixture. Present when needed, ignored when not. Now she speaks as if we've been conducting some elaborate courtship dance that I somehow missed the steps to.
Mrs. Dalloway leans closer to Mrs. Penwhistle, whispering behind a gloved hand while her eyes remain fixed on us. The blacksmith's daughter pauses in arranging his display to catch fragments of our conversation. Even the children playing between the stalls slow their games to watch.
Harvest Hollow feeds on drama the way my fire feeds on dry kindling—eagerly, completely, until nothing remains but ash and memory.
"I've been thinking," Vaelis continues, her voice carrying just far enough to include our audience without seeming intentional, "about the upcoming festival. All this preparation, all this excitement—it seems such a shame to experience it alone."
Her fingers trace the edge of her silk sleeve, the gesture drawing attention to the expensive fabric, the careful way she's positioned herself to catch the light. Everything about her movements feels choreographed for maximum effect.
"The harvest celebration brings out the best in our community, don't you think?
The way everyone comes together, the way traditions are honored...
" She pauses, letting the words settle like honey on warm bread.
"I was hoping we might spend it together.
Finally have the chance to know each other properly. "
The phrase 'finally' hangs in the air between us like smoke from a poorly tended fire. As if this moment represents the culmination of something that's been building rather than the beginning of something I never started.
Around us, the crowd continues their festival preparations, but I can feel the weight of their attention like morning fog—present, clinging, impossible to ignore. Sarah flits between vendors, her wings catching the afternoon light as she delivers messages, but even she slows near our conversation.
I shift my weight, the movement causing several onlookers to lean forward slightly. The performance aspect of this exchange sits in my stomach like spoiled meat.
"I'll see you around."
The words come out flat, carrying none of the polite deflection Vaelis clearly expected. Her smile remains perfectly in place, but something flickers behind her pale eyes—surprise, perhaps, or the first hint of genuine emotion breaking through the careful facade.
I turn away from the community board, from her expectant expression, from the crowd of faces that watch our exchange like spectators at a traveling show. My boots find their rhythm on the cobblestones, carrying me toward the forest path that leads home.
The noise of the festival preparations fades behind me, replaced by the honest sounds of wind through leaves and the distant call of evening birds. But the peace I seek, the quiet that once waited for me in the shadows between trees, feels as elusive as smoke through fingers.