Nethira woke long before anyone else in the inn even began to stir. She sat up slowly on her cot, letting her eyes adjust to the faint orange glow coming from the dying embers in the hearth. The room was quiet. The others slept behind closed doors or in curtained corners, and she could hear nothing but the soft breathing of strangers and the distant creak of wood settling in the cold.

  She had not slept deeply. Her dreams had been unsettled again. Shadows had moved through them, slipping between trees she recognized and some she did not. She thought she heard whispers she could not fully understand. The dreams were not frightening exactly, but they left her restless, as if someone had tried to speak to her and she had woken too soon to hear the last and most important part.

  She knew what the dreams meant. They had been growing stronger since they left the coast weeks ago. The closer they drew to the forests of the inland regions, the more the land itself seemed to call to her. She did not know if it was a warning, a request for help, or a simple reminder that she carried a responsibility no one else could carry for her.

  She rose quietly and fastened her cloak around her shoulders. The clasp clicked into place with a soft metallic sound that seemed too loud in the quiet room. She paused, listening. When no one stirred, she slipped out the door and down the stairs, careful not to disturb the steps that wanted to creak under foot.

  Outside, the early air felt cool on her skin. It was not sharp enough to sting, but it was the kind of cool that made her breathe more deeply without meaning to. The town itself was still asleep. A few lanterns burned low, left out by watchmen who would soon walk their last round before morning shift. Smoke drifted faintly from a few chimneys, showing that some families kept their fires burning through the night.

  Nethira walked in silence. Her boots brushed lightly over the dirt road, then over a short stretch of stone, and then over the softer ground once the houses and gates gave way to open fields. Small birds rustled in the tall grass, disturbed by her steps but not enough to flee. She stayed to the edge of the field until the orchard appeared in the distance. Rows of apple trees spread out in neat patterns, dark silhouettes against the slowly brightening eastern sky.

  She felt herself relax as she approached the grove. There was familiarity in the shape of the trees, the curve of the branches, and the way they seemed to lean toward one another. She placed her hand on the first trunk she reached. The bark was cool beneath her palm.

  She closed her eyes.

  At first, she heard nothing. She let her breath settle. She had done this since she was a child, when her elders in the forest taught her that listening required patience, not force. Only when her mind quieted did the first faint feeling reach her.

  It was like sensing another heartbeat, steady and slow. She felt the presence of the tree itself. Not thoughts exactly, but impressions of things it had known. Water in its roots. Sunlight caught in its leaves. The gentle scrape of wind moving past it.

  She opened her eyes and moved on to the next tree.

  With each new tree, the impressions deepened. The orchard was young compared to the forests she had grown up in, but young trees still remembered things. The threads connecting them ran through the roots and deeper still into the soil.

  At the third tree she paused longer. She pressed her palm flat against the trunk. A wave of unease passed through her chest, a tightening that did not belong to her. It belonged to the land.

  Something had stirred it.

  She leaned closer, letting her forehead rest lightly against the bark. There were flashes now. Not visions, but moments the trees had sensed. Smoke drifting through their branches. Shouts in the distance. The ground trembling beneath heavy steps. Nothing clear, but enough for her to piece together a direction. Trouble had passed through this land. And something in that trouble had not left.

  She whispered softly, “What happened here? Show me.”

  There was no answer in words. Instead, something like a wave of distress moved through her senses. This was stronger than the usual concerns of the land. This was not a failed harvest or a sickness among the animals. This was fear. The same kind she had felt growing in every place the warband traveled these past months.

  She withdrew her hand and took a slow breath, grounding herself again. She needed to keep calm. Letting the emotion wash too deeply into her would make it harder to listen clearly. She stepped deeper into the grove, moving between the rows until she reached the center where the oldest tree stood. Its trunk was thicker, its branches wider. She approached it with the respect she would show an elder in her own homeland.

  She touched it gently.

  This time the rush of sensation came immediately. The tree felt older than the orchard around it. It had seen storms, drought, and seasons of plenty. It had also felt things in the last few years that troubled it deeply. The sensation was muddled, but she could pick out shapes of events. Smoke rising from far off. The ground shaking under the steps of creatures that did not belong here. People moving through the night carrying fear in their hearts.

  Nethira opened her eyes slowly. She felt a heaviness in her chest.

  She whispered, “This is Nezzarod’s doing.”

  She said the name quietly, but the cold certainty behind it ran deep.

  The trees did not know names. They did not understand the politics of human kingdoms or the schemes of corrupted drake sorcerers. But they understood patterns. They understood imbalance. What they showed her matched too closely with the signs she had witnessed across other regions.

  Nezzarod was moving pieces in the dark. Turning clans against each other. Stirring beast tribes. Manipulating isolated villages until they distrusted their neighbors. It was all meant to distract the kingdoms, to slow down any unified effort to stop him. He wanted every region to be busy putting out its own fires while he prepared something larger.

  Nethira had suspected this long before the orchard confirmed it.

  Still, hearing the trees echo the same warning made her feel smaller, as though she were standing at the edge of a storm too large to see the end of.

  She leaned her weight against the tree and closed her eyes again. She did not want fear to color her thinking, but fear was difficult to shake when it came from the land itself. For a moment she wondered if she had the strength to face what lay ahead. The warband had grown stronger as a team, but would that be enough when the time came?

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  Before she could finish the thought, a voice slipped through her mind.

  It was not spoken aloud. It came through the deeper bond that only dryads shared.

  Ylla.

  Her voice was gentle but firm, like sunlight through leaves. She was offering a prayer, not just for Nethira, but for the entire warband. She prayed for courage, for unity, and for protection against the shadows that pressed in around them.

  Nethira let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. She stood straighter, allowing the warmth of that shared connection to settle in her chest.

  Hearing Ylla reminded her that the dryads were not scattered entirely. Some still held strong in their groves. Some still watched over the lands quietly. Some still cared enough to pray for those walking into danger.

  Nethira whispered into the bond, “I hear you. Thank you.”

  The grove around her seemed to listen too, as if the trees recognized the presence of another dryad’s voice in the distance. She felt less alone. She felt steadier.

  She looked down one of the orchard rows toward where the horizon was beginning to brighten. Morning was coming.

  She would stay in the grove a little longer. She would keep listening. She had more to understand before she returned to the warband.

  But for the first time since they arrived in this region, she did not feel overwhelmed. She felt ready to face whatever she would hear next.

  Nethira stayed with the old tree as the sky slowly lightened. She did not rush herself. The grove had more to say, and she had learned long ago that patience often revealed what force could not. She shifted her stance and placed both hands on the bark this time, grounding herself fully.

  The sensations returned, quieter now, more focused. The panic she had felt earlier softened into something closer to concern. The trees did not understand Nezzarod as a person, but they understood disruption. They understood that something unnatural was moving through the world, bending others to its will, and leaving scars that did not heal easily.

  Nethira let her thoughts drift deeper.

  She felt movement along old paths, ones that had not been used in generations. She felt beasts stirred from long rest, not driven by hunger but by agitation. The land itself was being nudged, pushed toward conflict. This was not random violence. It was planned.

  She pulled her hands away and exhaled slowly.

  “He is forcing the world to look everywhere except at him,” she said quietly to the tree. “You feel it too.”

  The tree offered no reply, but the steady presence beneath her feet felt like agreement.

  Footsteps crunched softly through the grass behind her.

  Nethira did not turn right away. She already knew who it was. She recognized the rhythm of the steps, the weight carried carefully so as not to disturb more than necessary.

  “You always disappear before dawn,” Maruzan said softly. “I thought I might find you here.”

  She turned and offered him a small smile. “You should still be sleeping.”

  He shrugged. “I tried. It did not work.”

  He stepped closer, his eyes moving over the orchard. He had learned not to speak loudly in places like this. Over the years, he had listened when Nethira explained that some places deserved quiet.

  “I did not mean to interrupt,” he added. “I can leave if you need more time.”

  “No,” she said. “You can stay.”

  He looked relieved and came to stand beside her, keeping a respectful distance from the old tree. For a while, they simply stood together, watching the grove as the first weak sunlight filtered through the leaves.

  Maruzan broke the silence. “I dreamed again.”

  She turned to him fully now. “What did you see?”

  He hesitated. That alone told her enough. When Maruzan hesitated, it meant the dream had carried weight.

  “I was watching the warband,” he said slowly. “But not from where I stood. It was like I was somewhere else. Somewhere higher. I could see paths moving, like threads being pulled tighter. Some were bright. Some were dark. And every time one tightened, someone got hurt.”

  Nethira nodded. “You are seeing the same pattern the land is feeling.”

  He frowned. “That does not make me feel better.”

  “It should not,” she replied gently. “But it means you are not imagining it.”

  He looked down at his hands. “Sometimes I wish I was wrong. That all of this was just worry.”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you were wrong, the land would be quiet. It is not.”

  They stood like that for a few more moments before another presence made itself known. This time the steps were heavier.

  Winnum approached from the edge of the grove, his monk’s staff resting across his shoulders. He stopped when he noticed them, then gave a small nod.

  “I thought I might find one of you out here,” he said. “The innkeeper said you left early.”

  Nethira inclined her head. “The grove was restless.”

  Winnum glanced at the trees. “So am I.”

  maruzan shifted his weight. “Did something happen?”

  “No,” Winnum said. “That is the problem. Nothing has happened yet. And I do not trust that.”

  He stepped closer, resting his staff against the old tree with care. “I prayed this morning. Not to ask for answers. Just for steadiness. It seems I was led here instead.”

  Nethira studied him for a moment. She had learned that Winnum’s faith was complicated, shaped by loss and doubt. Still, he came when it mattered.

  “The land is stirring,” she said. “Nezzarod is pressing outward, not directly, but through others. Chiefs. Bands. Leaders who feel cornered or promised power.”

  Winnum’s jaw tightened. “Then this is not just a battle waiting for us. It is many.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And that is why he is dangerous.”

  Maruzan swallowed. “Then what do we do?”

  Nethira looked at both of them. “We stay together. We do not chase every fire he lights. We watch for the one he truly cares about.”

  Winnum nodded slowly. “That will be hard for some.”

  “I know,” she said. “But it is necessary.”

  Another figure appeared at the edge of the orchard. Xonya, already awake, arms crossed as she leaned against a fence post. She did not interrupt. She simply waited until Nethira noticed her.

  “Am I late?” Xonya asked.

  “No,” Nethira said. “You are exactly on time.”

  Xonya pushed off the fence and joined them. “Good. I had a feeling something was being discussed without me.”

  Velthur almost smiled.

  Nethira looked at each of them in turn. This was not the full warband, but it was enough for now. They would all need to hear this soon.

  “The grove confirms what we feared,” she said. “The world is being pushed toward conflict. Not by accident. We will see more unrest before we see Nezzarod himself.”

  Xonya flexed her hands. “Then we stay sharp.”

  “Yes,” Nethira said. “And we stay patient.”

  The sun crested the horizon fully then, light spilling through the leaves and casting long shadows across the grass. The orchard looked peaceful, almost ordinary. Anyone passing by would see nothing more than a quiet place at dawn.

  Nethira felt the grove settle as the day began.

  She rested her palm against the old tree one last time. “We will be ready,” she whispered again.

  This time, the answer was clearer. Not a voice, not words, but a deep sense of agreement. The land would endure. It always had.

  She turned back to the others. “Let us go. The day will not wait for us.”

  Together, they left the grove behind, carrying its warning with them as the world moved closer to what it had been quietly preparing for all along.