Echoes of the Riders

Elder Maeve’s cottage was a place time seemed to forget. The air hung thick with the scent of dried herbs and something else, something ancient and earthy that tickled the back of my throat. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the gloom, illuminating shelves crammed with stoppered jars and scrolls tied with brittle twine. It was here, amidst the quiet hum of forgotten knowledge, that Maeve began to unravel the threads of my own bewildered existence.

“You feel it, don’t you, child?” Her voice was a low murmur, like stones shifting in a riverbed. Her eyes, the color of polished amber, held a depth that always unnerved me, as if she saw not just me, but the layers of time that had shaped me.

I nodded, my gaze fixed on a particularly gnarled piece of driftwood resting on her hearth. The wind had been a constant companion lately, not the playful breezes that rustled the leaves of the whispering pines, but something more forceful, more purposeful. It tugged at my skirts, whispered secrets I couldn’t quite grasp, and sometimes, when I was alone, it felt like a breath against my skin, a phantom touch. And the roars… they were distant, yes, but they vibrated in my bones, a primal thrum that resonated with a part of me I didn’t understand.