Is That him?!

Østberg stirred before the first light crept through his cottage window. The world outside was still draped in predawn hush, save for the distant trill of a skylark greeting the new day.

He blinked, stretching long limbs steeped in the comfortable ache of honest labor. Last night's fireside laughter and Embertrail's magic still shimmered at the edge of memory, now fading like mist under the rising sun.

He pushed himself up on an elbow and glanced around the modest chamber he shared with Uncle Arvid and Aunt Mina. The rough-hewn beams overhead held lanterns of smoked glass, their soft glow extinguished now, awaiting the evening flame again.

A simple wool blanket covered the straw-stuffed mattress, and at its foot lay his worn travel cloak, folded neatly as a soldier's arms at attention. On the small bedside table, a jar of leftover Moonshade Dew caught his eye, but sleep had already banished dreams to realms he could not yet name.

Østberg climbed out of bed, planting bare feet on the cool wooden floorboards. He drew in a slow breath of the cottage's early stillness, the faint tang of chimney smoke, a hint of chamomile from the garden below, and something deeper.

An undercurrent of promise that today might bring more than routine. With a final exhalation, he wrapped himself in his cloak and stepped into the corridor beyond.

Outside, the eastern sky blushed pale rose and lavender. Uncle Arvid was already at work in the herb garden, his straw hat tipped low against the chill.

Rows of rosemary, sage, and thyme stood at attention, dew glimmering like a constellation at their green tips.

"Good morning, nephew," Uncle Arvid greeted without turning.

"Morning, Uncle," Østberg replied, bending to straighten a row of young marigolds.

The familiar ritual, tending the earth, felt like the pulse of Audhild itself.

He ran calloused fingers over each stem, checking for insects and mildew, then tied a slender cane stake to support the branches.

"Looks like rain by midday," Uncle Arvid remarked, hefting his shears. "We'll want to finish before the sky breaks."

Østberg nodded, working methodically. Each task, reshaping tomato vines, weeding between basil shoots, required focus, and his mind found clarity in simple repetition.

As the sun climbed, its warmth coaxed wavelike patterns of light across the neat beds.

After an hour, Auntie Mina emerged from the cottage kitchen doorway, wiping flour from her hands. "Breakfast in ten," she called.

"Porridge and stewed apples, if you two can bear to pause."

Østberg exchanged a glance with Arvid, who cracked a half-smile. "I can bear it," the older man said.

"Come on, boy, breakfast waits."

Inside, the kitchen table groaned under ceramic bowls steaming with hearty oats, spiced with cinnamon and thick drizzles of honey. Stewed apples, soft and fragrant, nestled atop the porridge like jewels.

Fresh bread, its crust crackling as it warmed against the hearth's embers, steamed beside a slab of cream-colored butter. Auntie poured mugs of spiced tea, ginger root, clove, and mint.

Østberg settled onto a bench, spoon poised midair. "There's nothing like your porridge, Auntie."

She smiled, tucking a stray lock of gray-streaked hair behind her ear. "It's made better by good company." She ladled another helping into his bowl.

Arvid chuckled. "And by a morning appetite after hard work."

They ate in easy silence, punctuated by the occasional clink of spoon on bowl. Outside, a single crow cawed, heralding the day's bustle.

Østberg took his time, savoring both the food and the moment, a welcome pause before chores resumed or any unexpected knock disturbed the door.

---

After breakfast, Østberg rose and carried his empty bowl to the scullery. The water drawn from the stone well glimmered as he ladled it into a wooden basin.

Steam coiled upward, fogging the small windowpanes. He rolled up his sleeves and dunked his forearms into the warm water, washing away the sweet stickiness of honey and apple.

He dipped a cloth, lathered a touch of fragrant soap, and scrubbed his face and neck. The scent of pine-scented soap mingled with cedar from the cottage beams.

Clean skin felt unfamiliar after days on the road, and Østberg lingered over the simple pleasure. He scrubbed his hands next, inspecting under his nails before wiping them on a rough towel.

Dressed again in a fresh linen shirt and sturdy breeches, belt fastened snugly, he secured a small pouch of coins at his waist and tucked a pair of shears into his belt, tools for the day's lingering tasks in the garden. Ready.

---

Stepping outside, Østberg felt the village stir around him. The sun had climbed higher, setting rooftops aglow. He walked unhurried past neat hedgerows of lavender, inhaling the sweet floral scent.

Ahead, a cluster of children chased a runaway goat near the blacksmith's forge. Sparks flew in golden arcs as Mr. Garen hammered on a newly shaped horseshoe.

"Morning, Østberg!" called Mrs.

Thane from her herb stall, where bundles of rosemary and sage bobbed in the breeze. She arranged sachets of dried chamomile for sale.

"All grown up, aren't you?"

Østberg smiled. "Yes, ma'am. Just helping Uncle this morning."

He paused, plucking a bundle of dried lavender. "For Elara."

Her warm laugh followed him down the lane. He paused by the fountain in the village square, watching water spill over worn stone.

The central well, carved with images of a thousand seasons past, shimmered in morning light. He knelt, ran fingers through the cool flow, and looked up at the village crest above the fountain, a rising sun flanked by twin pines, a symbol as steady as Audhild's beating heart.

---

He stood, wiping his hands dry against his trousers, and turned toward the path leading back to his cottage. The midday sun felt reassuring, steady, until a new sound reached his ears, a careful rap at the front door.

Guests were rare at this hour, and more so unannounced. Østberg's heart quickened. He glanced toward the garden, where Arvid and Mina tended their plots. Neither had heard the knock yet.

Østberg approached the door and hesitated a moment, taking a steadying breath. "Coming," he called, voice low. Then, lifting the latch, he pushed the heavy oak door open.

On the threshold stood a man he did not recognize. Tall and lean, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to roads less traveled.

His travel-worn cloak was the color of twilight, its hood edged with silver thread. Dust from distant trails clung to his boots and the hem of his tunic.

His dark hair was pulled back in a loose knot, and high cheekbones caught the sunlight as he inclined his head in greeting.

???: "Good day,"

The stranger said.

???: "I hope I'm not intruding."

Østberg studied him, noting a faint scar at the man's left temple and the riders' saddlebag slung at his side.

Under one arm he carried a rolled map fastened with leather straps.

"I-no. You're welcome here. I'm Østberg." He stepped back to admit the visitor.

"Please, come in."

The stranger's gaze flicked past him toward the cottage garden, where Arvid paused at the sound of voices.

"Thank you," he said, crossing the threshold.

"My name is Lorentz Drakven, i'm a traveler and occasional adventurer. I seek one, Arvid Van Asmund."

Østberg's stomach tightened. His uncle's full name, Arvid Van Asmund, he had never heard it spoken with that final name. He swallowed. "My uncle is Arvid. May I fetch him?"

Lorentz nodded, unrolling the map in one fluid motion. "If you would. It concerns urgent matters, news best delivered face to face."

Østberg called back into the kitchen, voice steady despite the sudden flutter in his chest. "Uncle Arvid! There's a guy here, he wants to speak with you."

Arvid set aside his pruning shears, brow furrowed with curiosity. Mina emerged too, wiping her hands on her apron.

They joined Østberg and Lorentz in the small parlor by the hearth. A low table held a teapot and three cups, steam rising in lazy spirals.

Lorentz bowed politely to both. "Mina." he said, inclining his head.

"I apologize for the abrupt visit. I carry a message for your nephew." He looked to Østberg.

"From someone you once knew, and from those you have yet to meet."

Østberg's pulse thrummed. "I don't" He shook his head, uncertainty clouding his gaze. "I'm not sure who."

"You'll know soon," Lorentz said.

He set the rolled map on the table, tugging at its leather ties, Mina poured three cups of tea without prompt, and Arvid offered a sturdy wooden chair to their guest.

The guest, a tall figure cloaked in a patchwork of travel and ash, lowered himself into the chair with the slow grace of someone who had wandered too far and seen too much. He studied the map with eyes like stormclouds, clouded with memory yet sharpened by purpose.

The room, dimly lit by the golden hue of the late afternoon sun, fell into a brief silence as the map slowly unfurled, its edges frayed by time, its ink faded but still defiant. Dust swirled in the air as if time itself paused to witness what would unfold next.