“It must be hard,” he says, addressing Fen, “to hold on to any inner peace when the world rages so fiercely around us all. The war may be over but people are tired. And poor. Crops are failing, there’s new diseases…” His voice tails off, hoping for reassurance. A dragonfly hovers just above the water, its diaphanous wings catching the sun with a fleeting burst of colour. Fen picks out a smooth, oval stone that gleams dark and wet.

“Our minds are like this stream,” he begins. “Thoughts and worries flow through them constantly. Trying to dam them with fear or force is as futile as building a wall of twigs against the current. We only exhaust ourselves.” He flips the stone gently in his palm, feeling its cool heft. “True skill – to be at peace – isn’t forcing the water to stop. It’s knowing how to sit here on the bank and watch it pass by, without getting caught up in every swirling eddy.”

Elias follows Fen’s gaze into the swirling water and his face, lined by age and curiosity alike, breaks into a gentle smile.

“I’ve always been the rushing water,” he admits. “Perhaps it’s time I learned to sit on the bank instead. What say you, Thomas?”

His son doesn’t answer but rises and tests the footbridge carefully, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the resilient timber holds firm under him. He runs his hand along the smooth, honey-coloured surface of the newly joined oak, the edges sanded so finely they feel almost warm beneath his fingertips. He looks at Fen, seeing the thin lines of sawdust across the shoulders of his robes and the satisfaction in his eyes. And for the first time since the stranger had appeared, he feels something more than mere tolerance. He inclines his head in genuine respect.

Together, the three cross the renewed footbridge, which rises and falls in gentle rhythm beneath their steps above the gurgled brook where a brown trout leaps from the water, its scales catching the sun with a fleeting flash. Something strong has been created. The new bridge is more than oak and nails, it’s a testament to understanding and shared purpose, each plank a promise laid down, one strike of a hammer at a time.

But this peace will not last long.

“Seren,” she whispers urgently, “it’s those lads, the travellers. Came to the village a couple of days ago. Arthur threw them out of the tavern last night. They’re a long way… must have followed us.”

Seren walks quickly back to her side, throat tightening. She hadn’t told anyone what happened yesterday in the village, when her pendant had swung loose as she bent to pick dandelions. One lad’s eyes had locked onto it with raw greed and she’d felt the violence in him. Instinctively, one hand closes around the pendant and she feels her father’s spirit wrap around her, steadying the surge of adrenaline.

“We’ll just walk past them,” she says, her voice steadier than her pulse. “We’re not afraid anymore.”

As they approach, the boys’ laughter dies away and they step arrogantly onto the path, blocking the way. They’re maybe eighteen years-old, in rough clothes, clearly strong and agile. One is tall, lanky, with the face of a vulture, dotted with angry spots. Beside him, the other leans against a crooked hawthorn, picking his teeth with a twig, watching them with narrow, dark eyes.

“It’s the little witch and her shadow,” the tall one sneers, his gaze fixed on Seren’s tunic. “Out chasing the fairies, are we?”

“Let us pass, please,” Emily says coolly, though Seren can feel her trembling. The other lad now steps forward, his face close to Seren’s, his breath sour.

“Oh, we’ll let you pass. For a toll. That pretty stone round your neck will do for now. Hand it over, and no-one gets hurt.” Seren lifts her chin and stares right back into the dark eyes.

“No chance,” she whispers.

His smile vanishes into a thin, ugly line and he lunges, fingers clawing for Seren’s throat. But his hand never reaches her. The pendant erupts in white-hot shards that blast straight into his face with a divine fury. He screams, a raw, animal noise, and collapses to the ground with hands clamped over his face.

“My eyes!” he howls. “I can’t see! It’s burning me. I’m blind!” His mate staggers back with ashen face.

“You’ve cursed him! Witch! You’ll hang for this!” All boldness gone, he hovers, glancing around desperately for an escape route.

Seren’s heart thunders, yet there is no fear in her, wrapped in that greater protection her father promised. At her feet, broken sobs cut through the peace of the woods and, without thinking, she kneels.

“Seren, no!” Emily hisses, grabbing her arm. “Let’s go.” But Seren gently shakes her off and settles in the dirt next to the lad’s writhing body. He flinches as her shadow falls across him.

“Don’t touch me,” he sobs.

“Be still, William,” she says quietly in a voice not entirely her own. “Still.”

“Aaah, how do you know––”

One hand settles on his shoulder to steady him. The pendant is burning hot against her skin, yet the true power no longer comes only from the stone. It comes from her. She lets it flow, from the great emptiness that holds every human wound, a love that sees the lad not as a bully but as a frightened, lonely boy. Warmth pours from her other palm on his brow, a soft glow that sinks into him like rain into parched, cracked earth.

His sobs hitch, then quieten as his hands fall away from his face. His eyes are red and streaming, but they can see.

“I… I’m all right,” William mutters in a voice of fear, wonder and shame. Seren rises on shaky legs, power humming contentedly through her veins. She has done it.

It has begun.