Ancient Lore

The air in Elder Maeve’s cottage was always thick with the scent of dried herbs and the weight of unspoken histories. Tonight, however, it felt heavier, tinged with a damp chill that had nothing to do with the fading autumn outside. Maeve sat by the hearth, her gnarled hands clasped over a smooth, dark stone that pulsed with a faint, inner light. I sat opposite her, the rough wool of my skirt scratching against my legs, my own hands restless in my lap. The unease that had settled over our village like a shroud had driven me here, seeking answers from the one person who might hold them.

“The stars, Elara,” Maeve began, her voice a low rasp, like dry leaves skittering across stone. “They are never truly still. They trace patterns, ancient and immutable, and sometimes, when their dance is just so, they stir what lies sleeping.”

She paused, her gaze fixed on the flames, as if reading a story within their flickering depths. I leaned forward, my breath catching. “Sleeping? What sleeps, Elder?”