Under Silent Roof

The village woke under a sky the color of cold clay, its clouds hanging low enough to almost brush the crooked rooftops. Smoke rose in thin ribbons from a handful of chimneys, carrying the sharp scent of peat and something less familiar—an herb Ivyra could not name but already distrusted.

She moved through the narrow lane at her mother's side, each step sinking slightly into mud that had not dried in years. The villagers didn't speak to them. They didn't need to. Their stares said enough—quick glances from doorways, hands tightening around half-shut shutters, whispers carried on wind.

Elynn's hand stayed light but firm on Ivyra's shoulder. "Keep walking," she murmured, her voice low but calm, the same tone she used when guiding her daughter through wolf-haunted woods. "No sudden looks. No words unless asked."

Ivyra obeyed. She always did in moments like this. Her gaze fixed on the ground, though she couldn't help noticing the way the villagers parted around them, not as they would for strangers, but as though they were skirting a shadow that might follow if they got too close.

A cart creaked past. Its driver—a man with a scar twisting across his jaw—clicked his tongue to hurry his oxen, yet his eyes never left Ivyra.

Elynn slowed. "We need to find the elder," she said, just loud enough for Ivyra to hear. "Before suspicion hardens."

Ivyra didn't answer, but her seal—hidden beneath her tunic—burned faintly, like an ember waking.

---

Got it. For Section 2, we keep the wary tension but let the village's unease deepen while nudging in small foreshadowing about Ivyra's nature (without naming it). Here's the continuation:

---

The elder's house sat at the far end of the lane, half-swallowed by a leaning willow whose roots had cracked the stones around its base. Unlike the other huts, its walls were etched with faint sigils—nothing powerful, but enough to suggest that this was a place where rules were older, and perhaps heavier.

Elynn paused before knocking. "Let me speak," she whispered, barely moving her lips. "Stay behind me. And don't touch anything."

Ivyra gave a slight nod, though her fingers had already tightened around the hem of her cloak. The villagers' stares pressed against her back like cold rain. She felt them even now, beyond the crooked fences—eyes following, measuring.

The door opened before Elynn's knuckles met the wood. A woman stood there, tall but thin, her hair white though her face wasn't yet old enough for it. One eye was clouded, the other sharp as a drawn blade.

"You brought trouble with you," she said, voice steady, not cruel. Her gaze slid briefly over Elynn before settling on Ivyra. "And it's small. But not harmless."

Elynn lowered her head. "We seek shelter, only that."

The elder's good eye lingered a moment longer on Ivyra. "Shelter has a cost."

Ivyra didn't flinch, but something inside her—something she didn't yet have words for—tightened, ready to strike if needed.

Elynn met the woman's gaze. "We can work. I can heal."

The elder's expression didn't soften, but her hand moved slightly, revealing a bundle of dried roots at her side. "Healing is worth more than coin here. Worth more than safety, sometimes."

A pause stretched, heavy and deliberate.

Finally, the woman stepped aside. "One night. Maybe two. After that, the village decides."

Elynn inclined her head in thanks, ushering Ivyra inside quickly. The air within was warmer but not welcoming. Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, their scents sharp enough to sting Ivyra's nose. Strange charms lined the shelves—made of bones, feathers, stones scratched with marks she didn't recognize.

"Sit," the elder instructed, nodding to a low stool. Ivyra obeyed, though she kept her eyes on the floorboards. The seal beneath her tunic pulsed again—once, like a warning.

The elder noticed. Ivyra could feel it. She didn't need to look up to know that single sharp eye was fixed on her, weighing, dissecting.

"You'll keep her quiet," the woman said to Elynn. "No wandering. No questions. There are things in these woods that follow the wrong kind of noise."

Elynn's hand tightened briefly on Ivyra's shoulder. "She understands."

"Good." The elder turned away, busying herself with her herbs. "Then maybe you'll leave with your skins intact."

Elynn stayed standing, her posture controlled but wary, while Ivyra sat as instructed. The stool creaked faintly under her small frame, its wood cold from years of use. She didn't move her hands from her lap, though her fingers itched to trace the faint glow beneath her tunic.

The elder worked methodically at a low counter, sorting herbs into small piles with long, practiced fingers. She didn't rush, but she didn't waste motion either. Every cut of her knife, every pinch of dried leaves seemed deliberate, almost ritualistic. The soft rasp of the blade against the wood filled the space, broken only by the occasional crackle from the hearth.

"You've come far," the elder said finally, without turning. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Elynn replied. Her voice was steady but clipped. "Through the northern passes."

"That land doesn't let strangers walk out alive." The woman's tone was neither impressed nor curious. "What kept you breathing?"

Elynn didn't answer. A pause, heavy enough to make Ivyra glance up despite herself.

The elder's one sharp eye caught the movement. "And the girl," she said softly, almost like she was speaking to herself. "She doesn't look like the rest."

Elynn shifted, stepping just slightly between Ivyra and the woman. "She's tired. We both are."

"I imagine." The elder set down her knife and turned. For the first time, Ivyra saw her fully—the pale scar that ran from her temple to her blind eye, the faint sigils tattooed along her wrist, faded but not forgotten. She crouched to Ivyra's level, moving slowly enough not to be threatening but intently enough to make Ivyra's breath catch.

"Look at me, child."

Elynn's hand pressed gently on Ivyra's shoulder, a subtle command. Ivyra lifted her eyes. Silver met gray, and the elder's gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"…Unusual," she murmured.

Ivyra said nothing. She didn't blink.

The elder's lips pressed into a thin line. Then she stood, her joints cracking. "There's stew in the pot. Eat it while it's warm. It's poor fare, but better than the woods. After, you'll sleep near the hearth. But hear me—" her voice sharpened slightly, "—you'll leave before the third dawn unless I say otherwise."

Elynn inclined her head. "We're grateful."

"Be grateful quietly." The woman moved back to her counter. "This village doesn't forget faces. Some faces it fears faster than others."

Ivyra lowered her gaze again, but she could feel it—the air had thickened, as though the hut itself was listening.

And beneath her ribs, the seal pulsed again, harder this time.

---

They were led to the elder's house, a squat structure pressed into the slope of the hill like it had grown there instead of being built. Its door was heavy, reinforced with iron bands, but it opened without a sound when Elynn knocked.

Inside, the air was warmer, layered with the scent of dried herbs, smoke, and something metallic beneath it—blood, maybe, or the memory of it.

The elder was already standing. A woman of indeterminate age, skin lined like folded parchment, her eyes pale but unclouded. She regarded them the way a knife might regard the hand that reached for it.

"You're not travelers," she said—not a question.

Elynn dipped her head slightly. "We came through Frostmourne. My daughter and I seek trade, and perhaps a roof, if work can pay for it."

The elder's gaze flicked to Ivyra. "And if it cannot?"

Ivyra stiffened. Elynn's fingers brushed her sleeve—a silent reminder.

"Then we move on," Elynn said evenly.

The woman studied them in silence, then gestured toward the hearth. "Sit. The villagers are uneasy. They've heard the woods muttering again. Creatures have been sighted. Not wolves. Not anything we name. And you arrive the same week."

Her words weren't accusation, but they weren't free of it either.

Elynn lowered herself onto the bench, Ivyra beside her. "We've seen those things," Elynn said quietly. "We know how to avoid them."

"Do you?" The elder's eyes sharpened. "Some dangers don't stalk—they wait. And some bring their own with them."

Ivyra looked up then, meeting the elder's gaze without meaning to. The room felt smaller, tighter, as if the walls were listening.

The seal under her skin pulsed once, faint but undeniable.

The elder's eyes narrowed—just slightly.

---

That night, the village slept uneasily.

The small room they'd been given smelled of smoke and damp straw. Ivyra lay on a thin pallet, staring at the ceiling beams. Every creak in the wood, every gust that pressed against the shutters made her tense.

Outside, the wind carried a sound that wasn't quite howling—lower, more deliberate, as though something large was pacing just beyond the tree line.

Elynn sat cross-legged near the door, a small knife in her lap, her back straight despite her exhaustion.

"Sleep," she said without looking at Ivyra.

"I'm not tired."

"You will be tomorrow. We can't afford mistakes."

Ivyra didn't answer. Her hand pressed briefly to her chest. The seal wasn't burning exactly, but it wasn't quiet either—it felt aware, like it had ears.

Somewhere far off, a dog barked, sharp and frantic, then stopped too suddenly.

Elynn's fingers tightened around the knife's hilt.

"Is it the same thing from the forest?" Ivyra asked, voice low.

"Maybe."

"Then it followed us."

Elynn didn't deny it.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of damp earth—and something faintly sweet, almost metallic. Ivyra recognized it without knowing how. Blood.

She sat up. "Mother—"

"Stay down," Elynn snapped, softer than a shout but edged enough to make Ivyra freeze.

Footsteps moved in the lane outside. Too many for this hour. Too heavy for farmers.

And then, a voice—muffled but urgent: "Elder. It's at the western fence again."

Elynn rose, knife steady. She met Ivyra's gaze. "Whatever happens, don't let anyone see you."

---

The footsteps outside faded but didn't vanish. Men spoke in low tones, their words sharp but indistinct, carried away by the wind before Ivyra could catch more than fragments—"west fence… too close… something's hunting."

Elynn slid the wooden latch into place and pressed her palm briefly against the door as though testing its strength.

"Is it people?" Ivyra whispered.

"No," Elynn said without turning. "People don't move like that."

Silence stretched. Somewhere across the village, a baby started crying, high and shrill, then was quickly hushed. Chickens rustled in their coops. A shutter banged once, twice, then went still.

Ivyra hugged her knees to her chest, listening harder. She could almost feel something circling the outer edge of the settlement—an awareness brushing the edge of her mind like cold fingers tracing glass.

It wasn't random. It was searching.

"Mother," she murmured, "it knows I'm here."

Elynn's head turned sharply, silver strands catching the dim light. "Stay quiet. Don't feed it."

The seal beneath Ivyra's tunic pulsed, slow but deliberate—like it agreed.

Outside, the voices of the villagers grew fainter, replaced by another sound: a long, dragging scrape. Not claws on wood. Not exactly. It was heavier, as though something massive was testing the ground, testing the walls.

The air in the room thickened. Ivyra's breath shortened.

Then—three knocks. Not at their door. Farther away. Hollow and measured, echoing through the narrow lanes.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Elynn mouthed one word without sound: Counting.

Ivyra's skin prickled.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound moved, slow but deliberate, along the far side of the village—always three strikes, always with the same pause between. Ivyra counted them under her breath without meaning to. Each sequence pulled the air tighter around her chest.

Elynn leaned closer to the window's shutter, but didn't open it. "They've set ward-lanterns," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Whatever's out there shouldn't cross. Unless…"

She didn't finish.

Outside, the scrape came again, heavier this time, followed by the panicked clatter of hooves. Somewhere a dog barked, then yelped into silence.

Ivyra pressed her back to the wall, every instinct screaming that the seal's faint heat wasn't just warning—it was recognition. Whatever moved out there didn't just know she was here. It was drawn to her.

Elynn crouched, gripping Ivyra's face gently but firmly. "No matter what happens tonight, you don't use it. Do you understand me? Not yet."

Ivyra swallowed. "But—"

"Promise me."

Outside, the knocking stopped.

The silence that followed was worse.