Whispers of an Artifact

The midday sun beat down on Oakhaven, a village that, until recently, had known only the gentle rhythm of seasons and the murmur of contented lives. Now, a different kind of murmur filled the air – one laced with fear. Robby, mending a splintered fence post near the edge of the village, felt it prickle his skin like an unseen swarm of insects. He paused, his calloused hands still, his gaze sweeping over the usually bustling marketplace, now unnervingly subdued. A few villagers hurried along, heads bowed, their faces etched with a weariness that went beyond simple labor.

He’d been in Oakhaven for six months, a quiet carpenter, a man who kept to himself, content with the rhythmic thud of his hammer and the scent of freshly cut wood. It was a far cry from the infernos and screams that had once defined his existence, a life he’d fought tooth and nail to bury. But the unease that had settled over the land like a shroud of perpetual twilight was beginning to fray the edges of his hard-won peace.

A young girl, no older than ten, darted past him, her eyes wide with a terror that made his gut clench. She clutched a small, crudely made wooden bird, her knuckles white. She didn’t cry out, but the raw fear radiating from her was a palpable thing. Robby watched her disappear into the shadowed alleyway between the baker’s and the weaver’s, and a familiar ache settled in his chest.