The air in Oakhaven tasted of damp earth and regret. It always did. Elara didn't mind, not really. She preferred it to the saccharine sweetness of the village baker's bread or the forced pleasantries exchanged at market day. Preference was a luxury she'd learned to cultivate; a quiet rebellion against the weight of expectation that pressed down on her shoulders like the mist itself.
Oakhaven clung to the edge of Eldoria, swallowed by a perpetual twilight cast by the Mist – a swirling grey presence that blanketed the land and dictated their lives. It was beautiful in a melancholic way, the fog clinging to thatched roofs and blurring the edges of the ancient stone walls. But it also felt like a shroud, a constant reminder of something lost, something forgotten.
Elara knelt amongst her herbs, meticulously separating lavender sprigs from chamomile blossoms. The scent clung to her fingers, familiar and comforting. Her hands were stained green with chlorophyll, a mark her mother lamented as unbecoming for a young woman destined for marriage. "A lady's hands should be soft, Elara," her mother would say, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the girl's palms. "Not calloused like a field worker's."
Elara ignored her. Softness was fragile; these hands were strong, capable of coaxing life from the earth, of easing pain with carefully chosen leaves and roots. And they held secrets – glimpses into the swirling grey depths of the Mist itself. Visions, she called them, though "nightmares" would be more accurate. Flashes of towering trees draped in silver moss, faces etched with sorrow, a humming resonance that vibrated deep within her bones…and always, always, the feeling of being watched.
Today's vision was subtle: a fleeting image of twisted vines choking a stone carving, followed by the taste of bitter almonds on her tongue. She frowned, pushing the sensation away, focusing instead on the delicate dance of a bumblebee flitting between foxgloves.
"Elara!" Her father's voice, booming and impatient, cut through the quiet hum of the garden. He stood at the edge of the herb patch, his posture stiff in his best tunic, clearly displeased. "The Elder wishes to speak with you."
A knot tightened in Elara's stomach. Visits from the village Elder were rarely a cause for celebration. They usually meant another round of carefully worded suggestions about improving her manners, attracting suitable suitors, and conforming to the expectations of Oakhaven's traditions.
"Coming, Father," she replied, reluctantly abandoning her work.
The Elder's home was as expected: small, tidy, filled with the scent of dried herbs and old parchment. He sat behind a low table, his face etched with a weariness that seemed to mirror Eldoria's own. His eyes, usually kind, held a flicker of something Elara couldn't quite decipher – apprehension? Concern?
"Elara," he began, his voice raspy with age. "Your parents tell me you continue to spend your days amongst the herbs."
"I find solace there, Elder," she replied cautiously.
He nodded slowly. "Solace is a valuable thing, child. But it shouldn't be sought in isolation. You are a young woman, and Oakhaven needs…connection." He paused, then leaned forward slightly. "There have been disturbances. The Mist grows thicker, more erratic. Whispers of unrest spread through the villages."
Elara felt a chill crawl down her spine. She'd noticed it too – the heightened intensity of the visions, the unsettling stillness in the forest, the way even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.
"Lord Valerius is tightening his grip," the Elder continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "He seeks to harness the Mist's power... for purposes unknown." He looked at her intently. "You possess…an unusual sensitivity, Elara. A connection to the land that goes beyond most."
Elara bit back a retort. The 'unusual sensitivity' was another way of saying she was strange, different, an outsider.
"Your parents worry for you," he said gently. "They believe finding a suitable match would provide stability and happiness." He cleared his throat. "Lord Valerius's son, Kaelen, has expressed interest."
The name struck her like a blow. Kaelen Valerius was everything she wasn't: ambitious, charismatic, steeped in the world of power and politics that suffocated her. A polite smile stretched across his face during their brief encounters, but his eyes were cold and calculating.
"I… I haven't given it much thought, Elder," she mumbled, desperate to escape the uncomfortable conversation.
"Think on it, child," he urged, his gaze unwavering. "For Oakhaven's sake."
As Elara left the Elder's home, the mist seemed to press in closer, heavier than before. The scent of damp earth now carried a faint undertone of something else…something metallic and unsettling. She glanced back at her garden, at the vibrant green of her herbs, and felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding.
The Mist was gathering. And she knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within her bones, that her quiet life in Oakhaven was about to end.