The Festival of Threads was in full bloom.
Lureya wiped her flour-dusted hands on a reedcloth apron as she watched children streak past the central oven, painted with spirals of blue and ochre. The fire was hot and steady, the aroma of sweet rootcakes rich in the air. Music rose from flutes and rattles, and laughter tumbled from platform to platform like warm water.
But something was off.
She scanned the crowd again, slower this time. She hadn’t seen Harun for a while now. Nor Kaelen.
Her brow furrowed.
Imari was easy to spot—spinning in a circle, arms stretched wide with ribbons clutched in each hand, her laugh sharp and wild like wind through chimes.
Lureya stepped forward, brushing hair back from her face as she approached her daughter. “Imari!”
The girl stopped mid-spin and grinned, cheeks flushed. “You see me dance, Mother? I made Jari trip—he fell right on the old root! Like a frog—splack!”
Lureya tried to smile, but her voice was laced with worry. “Have you seen your father?”
Imari blinked, then pointed over her shoulder. “East path. He left with the hunters… and Kaelen too.”
Lureya stilled.
The east path.
She didn’t ask anything else. She just turned, and started walking.
The music faded behind her.
Near the edge of the village, under the hanging moss near the carved stone fire marker, Elder Nayla sat beneath the shade of her awning, sipping from a clay bowl of her own spiced brew, her eyes half-closed in the rhythm of the day.
Lureya approached in a straight line, lips drawn tight.
“Nayla.”
The old woman opened one eye slowly.
Lureya’s voice dropped. “Something’s wrong. Harun and the volunteers—Imari said they went east. Took Kaelen with them.”
Nayla blinked once.
Then she stood—slow, but steady.
“Get my staff,” she said.
At the east gate, the festival may as well have been a thousand miles away.
The laughter couldn’t reach this far—not over the hush of breath, the low mutter of uncertain men, the windless hush that now hung between trees.
Twelve soldiers knelt or stood in uneven stances before the village’s outer palisade. Their armor was scorched, crusted with blood, the sigil of Alkandor dim beneath soot and grime.
Harun stood before them, arms folded, his weathered face unreadable. Behind him, nearly two dozen volunteers waited in a tight, anxious ring—spears in hand, eyes flicking between the wounded and the trees.
The lead soldier—a greying man with one arm wrapped in a blood-soaked sling—dropped to his knees.
“Please,” he begged, his voice cracked from thirst and desperation. “We need shelter. We need time. They're not far behind.”
Harun stared down at him, jaw clenched.
“We are not a garrison,” he said. “We are not soldiers.”
The soldier looked up, confused. “You have men. Weapons. Walls—”
“We are not soldiers,” Harun said again, firmer this time. “We are farmers. Craftsmen. Parents. You bring war to a place that does not know it.”
The soldier bowed his head. “We would not ask, if we had anywhere else to go.”
“That doesn’t change what follows you,” Harun replied bitterly. “Krothmaar is not known for mercy. If they find you here—and they will—they’ll burn this village to the roots.”
A murmur rippled through the volunteers.
One of them stepped forward—Talen, young but loud. “We shouldn’t let them in. We’ll lose more than we save. They’ll mark us traitors. Or targets.”
Another nodded. “We’re not warriors. We can't stand against Krothmaar.”
Harun held up a hand. “Quiet.”
He looked back at the soldier, who had not lifted his head.
Kaelen stepped forward from the ring of volunteers, placing himself beside his father.
He stared at the soldiers with sharp, measuring eyes. “Where did you come from?” he asked, voice even.
The kneeling man looked up, surprised again to hear a boy’s voice cut through the crowd.
“A forward garrison,” the soldier answered. “East ridge. A warband found us—nearly a hundred strong. They swept through like fire. Burned everything. Only a few of us escaped.”
Kaelen’s brow furrowed. “Why here? Why this deep?”
The soldier shook his head. “We don’t know. They moved through territory they shouldn't have reached. No flags. No warning.”
Kaelen glanced sideways at Harun.
“They crossed through several borders unnoticed. That’s not a warband…” he said, voice low, thoughtful. “That’s a mission.”
Harun said nothing.
Kaelen turned back to the soldiers. “And they’re following?”
The soldier gave a slow nod. “Yes. We’ve delayed them with traps. But they’ll come.”
Kaelen’s voice was steady. “Then we need to prepare defenses.”
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Harun turned on him sharply. “We cannot fight Krothmaar soldiers head to head.”
“I know,” Kaelen said, quiet but insistent. “But we must prepare.”
Harun’s expression darkened.
He turned to one of the volunteers. “Go back to the square. Find Elder Nayla. Don’t raise alarm. Tell her we need her judgment. Now.”
The volunteer nodded and moved quickly into the trees, vanishing in silence.
Kaelen stood beside his father in the quiet that followed, Rehn at his back.
The festival still danced.
The drums still echoed.
But the war had come to their roots.
The drums still beat behind them, fading with every step.
Lureya's pace had quickened. She didn’t speak, but her hands fidgeted with the edge of her shawl, knuckles white.
Elder Nayla walked beside her, leaning heavily on her staff, eyes locked ahead—not sharp, but shadowed in thought.
They had barely reached the bend in the path when three volunteers emerged from the misted trail, breathless but controlled.
“Elder,” one of them said, bowing his head slightly. “Harun sent us. He said—”
“I already know something is wrong,” Nayla interrupted softly. “What is it?”
The volunteer hesitated only a moment. “Soldiers at the east gate. From Alkandor. Wounded. They say… Krothmaar is behind them.”
Lureya stopped in her tracks.
Nayla’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not good at all.”
She planted her staff, steadied herself, and said, “Take us to them.”
The eastern gate was quieter now, but no less tense.
The wounded soldiers remained in a loose cluster, some sitting, some laying, their bodies sagging under exhaustion. The volunteers kept a respectful but ready distance—spears grounded, eyes watchful.
When Nayla arrived, the silence deepened.
Harun stepped forward immediately.
“Elder,” he said, bowing his head. “We—”
“Report to me, Harun,” she said calmly, though her face was already heavy with understanding.
He explained again, respectfully, clearly, even though the volunteers had no doubt already told her everything.
When he finished, Nayla stepped closer to the soldiers. Her gaze swept over them—not cold, but measured. One man was missing a boot, toes wrapped in rags. Another had bandages that had long since soaked through. One woman’s arm was stiff with dried blood, her eyes half-lidded in pain.
The leader of the group—the same greying soldier from before—struggled to rise to his knees.
“Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I have children… in Varnhold. A wife. They don’t even know I’m alive.” His throat caught. “If you send us back out, we will die. They will slaughter us. You know they will.”
His head bowed fully, trembling.
“I don’t want to die in the dirt. Not this far from home. Please…”
Lureya swallowed, her hand drifting to her lips.
Even the volunteers seemed to soften. None lowered their weapons—but their feet shifted.
Nayla exhaled through her nose. Her lips parted, but for a moment, she didn’t speak.
Then: “I’m sorry,” she said, voice low and clear. “We cannot take you in.”
The soldier’s shoulders slumped as if her words had broken every bone in his body.
“We are not like the kingdoms,” she continued. “We do not have forts. Or walls. Or backup when the worst comes. We live by staying quiet. Staying small. We were never meant to be part of your war.”
The man said nothing. His head stayed bowed.
Nayla looked at Harun, her expression shifting. “Perhaps… perhaps we let them pass through. Exit the western path. No shelter. Just a route.”
Harun stepped forward, almost too quickly.
“No,” he said, voice tight. “That’s worse.”
Nayla blinked.
“If we help them—even a little,” Harun said, “Krothmaar will see it. They’ll accuse us of aiding the enemy. They won’t just threaten us. They’ll come in. Tear us apart to make a point. You’ve seen how they move. You know what they do.”
Nayla said nothing.
The soldiers said nothing.
The silence tightened like a snare.
Then—
Kaelen stepped forward.
Rehn followed behind him, silent but watchful.
“Father,” Kaelen said, voice calm.
Harun turned, surprised. “Kaelen—stay back.”
Kaelen didn’t.
“I have a suggestion.”
Harun frowned—but something in his son’s tone made him pause. “What is it, son?”
Kaelen looked at both Harun and Nayla.
“Even if we send them away,” he said, “what makes us believe the Krothmaar will listen? Do you think they’ll see an empty path and turn around? They’ll see the tracks. The blood. The scent. They’ll know.”
Harun clenched his jaw.
“And if they see we refused to help,” Kaelen continued, “they’ll still assume we did. And act the same. The only difference is—we’ll have guilt and no defense.”
A murmur moved through the volunteers.
Nayla studied him.
“So what do you suggest?” Harun asked, softly now.
Kaelen took a breath. “We don’t face them head-on. You’re right—we can’t. They’re trained. We aren’t. But we can prepare. We can outthink them. Lead them away. Trap them.”
Harun’s brow furrowed. “Ambush them?”
“Yes,” Kaelen said. “They’re trackers. That means they’re predictable. We know they’re coming. We choose where they’ll go.”
He looked toward the trees, narrowing his eyes.
“We make the jungle fight with us. Not against us.”
Harun looked at his son like he was seeing him differently—like he was seeing the weight in his words.
“You sound…” Harun trailed off, then chuckled once. “Older than you should.”
Kaelen smiled faintly.
Nayla tilted her head.
“And if we do this,” she asked. “If we plan this trap—what do we do with the wounded?”
Kaelen looked to the soldiers, then back to her.
“We hide them. Not in the village. Somewhere close—but not obvious. Enough to treat them. Long enough to survive the night.”
Nayla was silent for a long moment.
Then she turned to Harun.
“You asked for judgment,” she said.
Harun nodded.
“Then let him speak,” she continued. “Because I believe our future has already started.”
Harun stood before the gathered volunteers—nearly thirty now, all handpicked, all seasoned in their way. Men and women who had hunted panthers, fought off wild tuskbeasts, and built homes from nothing. None of them were soldiers.
But all of them listened.
The wounded soldiers of Alkandor had been moved to a hidden clearing south of the gate—under watch, under cover, under silence. They would live. Or not. But they would not die in view.
Harun raised a hand to quiet the murmurs.
“I’ve asked you here,” he said, “because a storm is coming. And as much as I’d rather it pass over us, I don’t believe we’ll be that lucky.”
He turned toward the boy beside him.
“My son has offered a plan. And I believe it deserves to be heard.”
Kaelen stepped forward.
He didn’t fidget. He didn’t stammer.
He looked them each in the eyes.
“Lend me your arms,” he said. “And your minds. Just for tonight.”
No one moved.
But no one spoke against him.
Kaelen drew a curved stick from his belt—a charcoal-soaked end freshly blackened. He knelt, and with swift precision, began to draw a map into the dirt.
“This,” he said, sketching a curve, “is the path those soldiers came through.”
A long line, broken with Xs.
“This,” he added, sketching a wide circle nearby, “is our village. Veleth.”
He pointed to a patch of dense brush to the north.
“And this… this is where we will make them look.”
One of the volunteers—Jarek, tall, scarred—crossed his arms. “Make them look? How?”
Kaelen didn’t blink.
“We erase the tracks that lead here. And we leave new ones—heavier ones, messier ones—leading there.”
He tapped the forest north of Veleth.
A pause. Jarek frowned.
“And you think that’ll fool them?”
Kaelen smiled.
“I know it will.”
Another volunteer—this one older, a woman named Senna—narrowed her eyes. “And how do you ‘make’ new tracks like that?”
Kaelen stood.
“By borrowing their gear.”
The crowd shifted slightly. Curious.
Kaelen turned toward the soldier’s discarded armor and weapons—left behind during treatment, stacked beside the firepit.
“We take their boots. Their cloaks. Their spare gear. We carry it as if we are them. We move as a unit—half of us walking injured. Half of us dragging.”
He looked around.
“We’ll pass through the mud flats at the river bend. The terrain will carry prints for days. We’ll spill fake blood on the leaves, tear tunics, break twigs like men desperate and fleeing.”
He pointed to the final point on his drawn map.
“And then we vanish.”
Silence followed.
Kaelen let it hang.
Finally, Rehn stepped forward, placing a hand on his own shoulder as if claiming his place.
“I trust your path,” he murmured. “Lead it.”
Harun nodded. “I will too.”
Senna sighed. “Spirits take me, I’m too old for this—but fine.”
One by one, they stepped forward.
Fifteen in total.
Kaelen included.
He looked to his father.
“This will take all night. But if we do it right, they’ll never see Veleth.”
Harun clapped a hand on Kaelen’s shoulder.
“We do it quiet,” he said. “Fast. Clean.”
“And far,” Kaelen added.
The volunteers began preparing.
Cloaks, boots, blood-smeared cloth. Bundles of torn armor. Spears with half-snapped shafts. They donned Alkandor colors. They became the fleeing ghosts they wanted Krothmaar to find.
As dusk thickened into shadow, Kaelen stood at the front of the small warband—if it could even be called that—and whispered:
“Let’s lead them away from home.”