Chapter 13:
The Gathering
Glory of Ash
The Great Hearth Hall had never felt this small.
Luke stood pressed against the back wall, his arms crossed, his hood up. The benches were full. The air was thick—too many bodies, too much breath, too little space. At the head of the room, the long table was crowded with people who usually never sat together.
Dorn took up an entire bench by himself. Big. Scarred. His axe leaned against the table beside him like a third leg. He wasn't looking at anyone. He was looking at the door.
Silla sat across from him, her feet propped on the table, a whetstone moving in slow circles against her blade. She didn't look up when people walked in. She didn't need to.
Varra stood near the window, her back to the room, her one good hand pressed against the glass. The fog was thick today. She watched it like it owed her something.
Bren was at the end of the table, his hands moving—tapping, twisting, folding a piece of parchment into shapes that didn't hold. He was young. Too young. His eyes kept jumping from face to face, like he was counting the exits.
Jorund came in last. He didn't sit. He stood near the door, his hammer in his hand, his eyes on Harkin.
Harkin was at the head of the table. The lantern sat in front of him—dark, cold, ordinary. His silver knife danced between his fingers. He was smiling. He was always smiling.
"Everyone's here," he said.
"Not everyone," Varra said without turning around. "Leon's not here."
"Leon's not coming."
"Then why are we here?"
Harkin's smile didn't waver. "Because the gate opens tomorrow. Because the lantern needs to charge. Because the village is starving, and the Medics are out of medicine, and the only thing that might help is on the other side of the treeline."
He stood up. The knife stopped moving.
"We go at dawn. We follow the markers. We find the stronghold. We bring back the herb." He looked around the room. "Any questions?"
Silla set down her whetstone. "Yeah. How many of us are coming back?"
Harkin didn't answer.
"That's what I thought."
---
Dorn spoke first.
"The lantern." His voice was low, rough, the voice of someone who didn't use it often. "How does it work?"
Harkin picked it up. Held it out. "There's energy in the air. Outside the gate. The village has almost none. The forest is full of it. The lantern collects it."
"Collects it how?"
"I don't know. It just does."
Dorn's eyes narrowed. "You don't know."
"I know it works. I know it pushes the fog back. I know it keeps the things in the forest from getting close." He set the lantern down. "I don't know why. I don't know how. I just know it does."
Varra turned from the window. Her face was hard. "And when it stops working?"
"It won't."
"It will. Everything stops working eventually."
Harkin's jaw tightened. Just a little. "Then we deal with that when it happens."
"That's not a plan."
"It's the only one we have."
---
Bren's hands stopped moving.
"The markers," he said. His voice was thin. "The old ones. The ones from before."
"What about them?"
"They're not just markers. They're warnings. My father used to say—"
"Your father's dead."
The room went quiet.
Bren's face went pale. His hands started moving again—faster, more frantic.
"That's not—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You don't get to say that."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not." Bren stood up. His chair scraped against the stone. "You're not sorry. You're never sorry. You just say things and move on and expect everyone else to do the same."
Harkin didn't respond.
Bren looked around the room. At Dorn. At Silla. At Varra. At Luke. At Jorund.
"My father died out there. In the fog. And no one brought him back. No one even looked." His voice cracked. "And now you want me to read the markers? To follow the same path? To—"
"Bren."
"Don't."
Harkin stood up. Walked around the table. Stopped in front of him.
"You're the only one who can read them. The only one. If you don't come, we don't find the stronghold. We don't find the herb. We don't find anything."
Bren's hands were shaking. "And if I die?"
"Then you die."
The words hung in the air.
Bren stared at him. His face was white. His eyes were wet.
"You're not a hero," he said. "You're just a man who's willing to let other people pay for his mistakes."
He walked out. The door slammed behind him.
No one moved.
Silla picked up her whetstone. "Nice job."
"I'll talk to him."
"Maybe don't."
---
The door opened again.
Leon walked in.
He looked different. Thinner. Paler. His eyes were red-rimmed, his clothes wrinkled, his hands empty. No ledger. No stylus. Just him. But there was something else—something in the way he carried himself. Not fear. Not exhaustion. Something harder.
"Architect," Harkin said. "I thought you weren't coming."
"I wasn't."
"And yet."
Leon walked to the table. He didn't sit. He stood across from Harkin, his hands flat on the wood, his eyes fixed on the lantern.
"You're going to get them killed."
"Probably."
"I'm not joking."
"Neither am I."
Leon's hands tightened. His knuckles went white. But his voice stayed low. Controlled. That was worse than shouting.
"The lantern isn't ready. You haven't tested it enough. You don't know how the nyolin behaves in the deep sectors. You don't know if the markers are still there. You don't know anything."
Harkin's smile faded. "I know more than you."
"You know what you've read. You know what you've been told. You don't know the forest."
"Neither do you."
"I know enough to be afraid of it."
"Fear doesn't save villages."
"No. But it keeps people alive."
Harkin leaned forward. His voice dropped. "The village is dying, Leon. The stores are empty. The Medics are out of medicine. People are starving. People are sick. People are dying in the Red Ward because there's nothing left to give them."
He picked up the lantern. Held it out.
"This is the only thing that might help. The only thing that might give us time. The only thing that might—"
"This is a gamble."
"Everything is a gamble."
"You're gambling with their lives."
"I'm gambling with my own."
Leon's hand shot out. He grabbed the lantern. Harkin didn't let go.
"Let it go."
"No."
"You're not in charge anymore, Harkin. The Chief took my ledger. The Council took my rank. But I'm still standing here. I'm still watching. And I'm still going to tell you when you're wrong."
"Say it."
"You're wrong."
Harkin's grip tightened. "About what?"
"About everything."
The lantern fell. It hit the table with a thud. The glass didn't break.
Harkin didn't flinch. "Pick it up."
"No."
"Pick. It. Up."
Leon didn't move. His face was calm. His hands were steady. That was the difference—Harkin was all edge, all tension, all barely contained violence. Leon was something else. Something colder.
"You've been in the Archives," Harkin said. "Reading old books. Looking for answers that aren't there."
"I found answers."
"Did you? Or did you find more questions?"
Leon didn't answer.
Harkin stepped closer. His knife was in his hand now—not dancing, just held. "You think you know what's out there. You think you understand the forest. The fog. The things that live in it."
"I know more than you."
"Then tell me."
Leon looked at him. His eyes were dark. Empty.
"There's no saving the village," he said. "There's only surviving it. And the only way to survive is to stop pretending that we're the ones in control."
The room went cold.
Harkin stared at him. His knife stopped moving.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
---
Luke stepped forward.
"I'm going."
Silla looked at him. "You're not a hunter."
"I'm not useless."
"You're sick. You can barely make it up the stairs without coughing. You think you can walk through the fog? Fight off whatever's out there?"
"I think I can do my job."
"Which is?"
Luke didn't answer.
Silla stood up. Walked over to him. She was taller than him. Broader. She looked down at him like she was trying to decide whether he was worth the effort.
"You're going to slow us down."
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know I won't."
She studied him for a moment. Then she looked at Harkin. "This is your call."
Harkin didn't look at Luke. He looked at the lantern.
"He comes."
"Why?"
"Because he's useful. Because he sees things other people miss. Because he's been in the Archives with Leon, and I want to know what they found."
Luke's stomach turned. "I didn't—"
"You did. You've been going down there for days. Leon too. The old Archives. The ones the Chief pretends don't exist."
Luke said nothing.
Harkin smiled. It wasn't warm.
"You're not as invisible as you think."
---
Jorund spoke.
"I'm going too."
Everyone turned.
"The Medics are out of medicine. People are dying. Children are losing their parents. I've watched it happen too many times." He looked at Harkin. "I don't care about the stronghold. I don't care about the relics. I care about the herb."
"You'll get it."
"I'll get it myself if I have to."
"You won't have to."
Jorund didn't answer. He just stood there, his hammer in his hand, his face hard.
Varra looked at him. "You're not a hunter anymore."
"I never stopped being one."
"You stopped caring."
Jorund's jaw tightened. "I started caring about the right things."
Varra didn't respond. She just turned back to the window.
---
The meeting broke up slowly.
Dorn left first. Then Varra. Then Silla, her blade sharp and her whetstone tucked in her belt.
Jorund lingered by the door. He looked at Luke.
"You don't have to do this."
"Neither do you."
Jorund nodded. He walked out.
Leon was still standing by the table. His face was calm. His hands were steady.
"You shouldn't go," he said.
"You shouldn't stay," Luke replied.
Leon didn't argue.
Luke walked to the door. Stopped. Turned.
"What did you find? In the Archives?"
Leon looked at him. His eyes were dark. Empty.
"Nothing good."
He walked out.
---
The tunnels were dark.
Luke walked them alone, his footsteps echoing off the stone. The pumps were running—he could hear them, deep in the mountain, the slow, steady rhythm of the village breathing.
He reached the supply closet. The door was locked. He picked it.
The shelves were full. Bandages. Vials. The pale yellow medicine that Liara had been stealing for him.
He stood there for a long time.
*If I take this, someone else doesn't get it.*
He thought about the woman in the Ward. The one whose children were crying. The one who didn't make it.
*If I don't take this, I might not make it either.*
He took three vials. Shoved them into his pocket. Walked out.
He didn't look back.
---
The house was dark.
Liara was sitting at the table, her head in her hands. She didn't look up when he walked in.
"You're going tomorrow."
"Yes."
"Don't."
"I have to."
She looked up. Her eyes were red. "No, you don't. You're choosing to."
Luke sat down across from her. "The village is dying."
"The village has always been dying."
"Not like this."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she reached across the table and took his hand.
"Come back."
"I'll try."
"That's not the same thing."
"I know."
She squeezed his hand. Let go.
Luke stood up. Walked to the door.
"The medicine," he said. "The vials. I took some."
Liara didn't react. "I know."
"You're not going to stop me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
She looked at him. Her face was tired. Older than it should have been.
"Because you've already decided. Because you're going to do it whether I tell you to or not. Because I'm tired of watching the people I love disappear, and I'd rather watch you walk into the forest with your eyes open than watch you cough yourself to death in this house."
Luke nodded.
He walked out.
---
The gate was closed.
Luke stood on the catwalk, his hands on the railing, and looked out at the fog. Tomorrow, he would walk through it. Tomorrow, he would follow Harkin into the white. Tomorrow, he would do something that mattered.
He coughed. His chest burned.
He pressed his hand to his pocket. The vials were warm.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat.
Luke turned.
Bren was standing at the edge of the catwalk, his hands in his pockets, his face pale.
"You're really going?" Bren asked.
"I'm really going."
Bren looked at the gate. At the fog. At the dark.
"My father used to say that the forest doesn't care why you came. It just cares that you're there."
Luke didn't respond.
Bren nodded. More to himself than to Luke.
"See you tomorrow."
He walked away.
Luke stood on the catwalk, alone, the fog pressing against the gate, the vials warm in his pocket.
He didn't sleep that night.
But he rested.
That was enough.
Please sign in to leave a comment.