Chapter 46 - Shadows Over The Village

The road to the mountain was smoother than any of them expected. No bandits. No beasts. No sudden storms. Almost... too smooth.

Sera said, "We should thank whoever cleared this path for us."

Ren answered, "Or maybe we're just lucky for once."

But what Ren didn't know was this:

The danger wasn't on the road ahead. It was behind. At the Wasteland.

What Ren didn't know was this:

At the same time, on the opposite edge of the Wasteland. A lone rider approached. Clean, fast, purpose sharp in their eyes.

Sent by Count Velloran.

And in the village, new voices whispered where Ren couldn't hear.

Whispers that would plant seeds of doubt before he ever returned.

***

Tobren had taken the lead of the village. He didn't need to call. Everyone knew their tasks, their spots, where they were needed. The sounds of hammers, saws, and busy hands echoed across the fields, steady as a heartbeat.

Until midday, all was calm. The fields were clear. The houses stood firm. The water supply clean. Nothing out of place. Nothing wrong.

Last stop: the north fence. From a distance, Tobren spotted a figure approaching the gate. A young man. Twenty, maybe. Neat clothes, a shoulder bag slung tight, a metal drinking flask clinking softly at his side. He didn't look like someone in need of help.

When the young man reached him, he introduced himself. "Alfred, sir. From Central."

Alfred's eyes were steady, his voice smooth. The kind of smooth that made Tobren's instincts itch.

"Kicked out of the Count's house," Alfred went on, as if embarrassed. "Accused of stealing. I swear I didn't do it."

Tobren jotted the name down in the village records. "What was your work before?"

"I served Count Vissel," Alfred said.

"Count Vissel? The one from Central?"

"Yeah."

Tobren nodded slowly. "Get some rest. You've traveled far. Had lunch?"

"Yes, sir. Already ate."

"Good. Tonight, join us at the food tent for dinner."

Tobren showed him around. Where to sleep, where to get water, how the work vouchers functioned. But his mind wasn't at ease.

Tobren wasn't a fool. He'd been Count Velloran's right hand once. He knew how Central worked.

A servant accused of theft wouldn't just be tossed out like that. Not from Central. Central was the King's seat. Every crime there went before the Supreme Court.

No Count could simply expel someone without the King's justice. Dukes had that freedom in their lands, but not in Central.

This story stank.

Tobren stood at the heart of the village as the sun dipped low, its last rays setting the rooftops aglow with red and gold.

The clang of hammer on iron, the rasp of saw on wood. Every sound seemed to move with his nod, his word, his silent approval.

The villagers looked to him for direction, and he gave it without hesitation.

He checked the ration lists with the supply warden. Oversaw the repairs to the north fence where a storm weeks ago had left a weak point.

Even helped the younger men haul a wagon axle back into place when it cracked under a heavy load. When disputes flared, over tools, over whose turn it was at the well. Tobren's voice cut through, steady and fair, and the tension eased.

From where he sat beneath the food tent's canvas, Alfred watched, silent as a shadow.

His eyes missed nothing. The way the villagers turned toward Tobren without question.

The way they listened when he spoke, and moved when he gestured. The way he carried himself, not as a man pretending at power, but as one used to command.

So this is the one, Alfred thought. This Tobren. The real leader here.

Count Velloran had warned him: Find out who leads them. The one they follow. Watch him. Learn his habits, his strengths, his flaws. I want everything.

And here it was, clearer than daylight. It had to be Tobren.

The villagers' loyalty was plain to see. When Tobren spoke, they didn't just hear. They believed.

Alfred jotted notes in his mind, each detail sharp and ready for the message he'd send when the chance came. Tobren would be easy to track. A man like that couldn't hide.

But Tobren had no idea what danger had walked into his village.

He only knew what his instincts whispered.

Something about this new arrival isn't right.

As the evening wore on and the food tent filled, the first grumblings began to stir. Soft at first. Then louder as the bowls emptied and the night deepened.

"Where is Ren?" someone muttered, low but bitter.

"He's been gone too long," said another. "Gone to the mountains, they say. Left us here."

"Left us to starve, more like," a woman snapped. "We're scraping to make the grain last. He just left. Didn't even say when he'd be back."

Alfred's ears perked at that. Ren. That was the name the Count's informants had mentioned. But from these voices, this Ren didn't sound like much of a leader at all. A fool, maybe. A deserter. A man who had abandoned his people when they needed him most.

Tobren heard the voices too, and his jaw tightened. He rose from his place at the edge of the tent and stepped forward, his voice calm but firm.

"Enough," Tobren said. The word cut through the murmurs like a blade. The villagers fell silent, eyes turning toward him. "You think Ren left us to starve? You think he walked away from this village? You think he'd abandon everything we've built together?"

No one answered.

"He went to find what we need. To secure this place. You think he enjoys being gone, knowing you speak like this behind him?"

A few heads lowered. Shame cooled some of the anger.

Tobren scanned the faces before him, and when he spoke again, his voice softened just enough to reach their hearts.

"We are not abandoned. We stand because we stand together. That's what Ren would say. That's what I say now."

Alfred watched, measuring, weighing. This Tobren didn't just look like a leader, he was one. The villagers clung to his words like a man to a rope over a chasm.

He made his decision. Tobren was the one Count Velloran sought. The man in charge. The true leader of this place. As for Ren, the name they muttered behind his backs. Even the villagers didn't seem to trust him..

And outside the circle of light, beyond the food tent's glow, the wind carried the first chill of night.

The kind of night where plots take root. And where even the truest hearts might begin to doubt.