Chapter Two: The Storm and the Shadows

Dru awoke to a thunderclap that seemed to shake the very bones of the earth. Lightning forked across the sky in jagged purple tendrils, and rain lashed against the sod roof of their hillside home. She stood by the window, watching the storm pass with wide eyes, feeling the charge ripple along her skin. The tension in the air felt alive, almost like it knew her name.

By the time the sky began to lighten with the coming dawn, the storm had rolled past, leaving the land drenched and glistening under the pale light. Dru rubbed her arms, the static still prickling.

"This doesn't seem normal," Dru muttered aloud, frowning at the crackling sky.

Walking up beside her, Merath spat into the weeds. "A storm's a storm, kid. Don't put much thought into it when there's work to be done. Now go check on the goats."

Dru sighed and nodded, heading out to the makeshift pen where the goats huddled under a small lean-to. She checked their food and water, securing their shelter in the gusting winds. The storm had left its mark, but everything seemed in order.

Afterward, Dru began fixing the sod that had come loose in the storm. She worked quickly, the feel of the wet earth beneath her fingers grounding her. She glanced over at Merath, who was already starting to head down the path toward Elmere. He was a weathered figure, as much a part of the land as the hills themselves. With the goats tended to and the repairs started, Dru grabbed her coin purse from beneath her cot, hidden safely, and set off toward town.

Elmere waited in the distance, nestled between the hills like a patchwork of smoke, slate roofs, and muddy roads. Already she could see the slow stir of morning fires and figures moving through the fog. As she approached the town, Dru couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. She could feel eyes following her—always the eyes.

Dru's boots squelched in the soft earth as she passed the first of the stone-marked homesteads, their mossy roofs still dripping from the night’s deluge. Elmere was waking slowly, as it always did after a storm—cautious, quiet, and thick with the scent of wet wood smoke and damp soil.

She walked with purpose, yet couldn’t help but feel the familiar prickle of eyes. A glance confirmed it: an old elven woman at the baker’s stand watched her from beneath her hood, and two dwarf children paused mid-sprint to whisper and gawk. Dru wasn’t sure which she disliked more—the stares, or the silence that always followed her presence.

Elmere was a town of dwarves and elves, long settled in the crook of the valley as a modest trading hub. Human faces were a rarity, seen only when the nomads came down from the highlands before the frigid season or the wild chaos of Shadow’s Twilight. And even then, the locals kept their distance.

But Dru had lived here her entire life, raised among them like a misplaced coin in a purse of silver and gold. Familiar, yet never fully part of the weight.

She passed the weaver’s shop, where vibrant dyed fabrics fluttered in the wind, and gave a polite nod to the hunched elf spinning thread from a wheel. No smile was returned.

Finally, the sound of rhythmic hammering guided her toward the edge of town, where the forge hissed and sang with the heat of its ever-burning heart. Andre, the half-giant blacksmith, stood broad as a doorway and twice as warm. He looked up from the anvil, a smudge of soot across his bald head, and grinned as she approached.

"Dru," he boomed, setting his hammer down with a clang. "Still saving for that axe for Merath? You know what he'll say about it."

She laughed, the sound light against the heavy air. "Aye, I know. I want to repay him anyways, he's always been good to me."

Andre's big hands clapped together, the sound like thunder. "I’ll have it ready by the end of the day. You’ll owe me a mug of ale when he sees it."

"Deal," Dru said, with a grin. She handed him the coin for the axe and nodded her thanks, leaving the forge with a bit less in her purse but a gift she knew Merath would appreciate—whether he liked it or not.

Dru walked through the town, ignoring the looks of the villagers. She had almost made it to Merath’s favorite tavern when, out of the alley, she heard his gruff voice.

"Ain't going back. Things needed here. Besides, that place ain't safe."

She paused in her tracks, ducking behind some of the assorted crates that filled the alley, trying to hear more.

"Things ain't what they seem, Merath," a voice Dru didn’t recognize said, smooth and cold. "You know what’s coming. You know what you must do."

She held her breath, straining to hear.

"I don’t care what the others say. Ain't going back to that. Not after what happened last time," Merath growled. "Besides, I ain't got no apprentice."

Dru’s heart skipped. Apprentice?

She stayed crouched behind the crates, thoughts swirling in her head. What are they talking about? What had happened last time? Who were these others? And why was Merath keeping secrets from her?

A few minutes passed, her thoughts still spinning, and she gave Merath enough time to settle in. She glanced over toward the tavern. The flickering candlelight inside seemed like a beacon. It was time to confront him. Dru squared her shoulders, still gripping the axe in her hand, and pushed the door open.

The warmth of the tavern greeted her. She scanned the room briefly, locating Merath in his usual corner, hidden in the shadows. She approached his table and set the axe down in front of him with a soft clink. The familiar smell of mead and roasted meats filled her nose.

Merath didn’t look up right away, his thick fingers still wrapped around his mug. When he did, his brows furrowed slightly, but there was something unreadable in his eyes.

Dru sat down across from him, pulling out the chair with a soft scrape. She folded her arms across the table, the axe between them.

“Can we please talk? You've been acting strange since those elves showed up yesterday.”

The room felt quieter now, and Dru felt every pair of eyes turn toward them—though she couldn’t quite tell if it was her imagination, or if Merath had some strange pull over the tavern. But there was no going back now.

"First, I wanted to tell you, thank you. For everything you've done for me. I wasn't sure how to show you how much I appreciate it, so I've been saving for that axe."

She sighed and grabbed a mug of ale from a passing server and took a swig.

"But I'm not a kid anymore, Merath. You can't keep brushing me off. I heard you in the alley. What is going on? Please talk to me."

Merath ran his thumb along the blade of the axe, ignoring the question. “How much ya pay for this, kid?”

“I’m serious!” Dru snapped, her voice louder than she meant. “Stop pretending like nothing’s wrong!”

Merath grunted. “Tavern’s not the place for this.”

“I don’t care!” she said, rising to her feet. “You’ve been lying to me. You know something—you always have!”

He said nothing, only sipping his drink.

“You’re not my father, so you can stop acting like you care!” Dru shouted, anger boiling over as lightning flashed and thunder echoed around the room. She clutched her chest in sudden pain as a thunderous echo erupted from her, throwing the room into chaos.

A second pulse rippled out from Dru—this one visible, like the air itself cracked and warped around her. A concussive wall of force burst from her chest with a soundless shockwave.

Merath was thrown backward, crashing into a table that splintered beneath him. Mugs shattered mid-air. Patrons were hurled against walls, stools toppled, and the great iron chandelier overhead swung wildly on its chain.

Screams filled the tavern now—real, terrified screams. Not just fear of the storm, but of her.

The wave had knocked nearly everyone off their feet, and Dru stood alone in the eye of the chaos. Her hair floated as if caught in some unseen wind. Her hands glowed faintly, trembling with residual power. Her chest still burned, the echo of thunder reverberating in her bones.

She gasped, finally able to breathe—but the silence that followed was worse than the noise. Dozens of eyes stared at her. Shocked. Horrified.

A groan cut through the silence. Dru turned—and her breath caught in her throat.

Merath lay crumpled in the wreckage of the table, groaning in pain and surprise. The axe she had given him was buried deep in his chest, the polished steel now slick with blood.

Her blood ran col

d. “No…” she whispered, stepping forward, knees weak.

His eyes found hers, confused and pained.