Adventure of Alerie

The path remains empty behind Alerie, the sealed archway gone beneath wet roots. Laryen stayed in the hidden chamber, while cold mist drifts between the black pines ahead.

A frightened boy steps from the fog. Tovin is slight and pale, with a narrow, freckled face, perhaps ten years old, with dark wet hair, a patched brown coat, and trembling hands clutching an old bell clapper.

Forest water drips from Tovin's sleeves and muddied boots. A rusted house key hangs around his wrist on a frayed cord, stamped with the crest of Veyrfen's vanished founders.

Far within the mist, a bell gives one dull chime. Tovin flinches and looks past Alerie toward the forest road, tightening his grip on the clapper.

Alerie's stern features soften. She nods once, slips an arm around Tovin's shoulders, and guides him toward the mist-veiled road to Veyrfen.

Tovin stiffens beneath her arm, then leans into the warmth. The old clapper trembles against his coat as another faint echo dies among the pines.

He swallows and stares toward the distant roofs hidden beyond the fog. The founder's crest on his key catches a dull streak of gray light.

Alerie rubs Tovin’s arms carefully through his patched coat, steadying his trembling hands as they walk. Ahead, Veyrfen’s dark gates emerge from the mist.

The gates stand beneath a weathered founder’s crest, their iron bars beaded with rain. No sentry calls out as Alerie and Tovin reach the threshold.

The gate opens inward without a hand touching it. Beyond lies a narrow street of shuttered houses, and somewhere beneath the stones, the bell gives a quiet answering chime.

Alerie guides Tovin into the narrow street. An elderly woman waves from a stoop, bent and slight beneath a dark wool shawl, her silver hair braided tightly around a weathered face.

Tovin stops beneath Alerie's arm, recognizing the woman but not moving toward her. Mistress Elswyn lowers her waving hand and studies Alerie with guarded attention.

The old woman’s expression tightens. Tovin’s frayed key-cord catches on Alerie’s glove and snaps, dropping the founder’s key into the rainwater between their boots.

Alerie raises one hand between Mistress Elswyn and Tovin, halting the old woman before she can reach him. Tovin crouches and retrieves the founder’s key from the rainwater.

Tovin closes his fingers around the key and returns beneath Alerie’s arm. His shoulders remain tense, but his grip on the bell clapper loosens.

Mistress Elswyn’s gaze drops to the founder’s key, then lifts to Alerie’s golden eyes. The village remains silent around them, shutters sealed against the mist.

Alerie gives Mistress Elswyn one hard look, then leads Tovin down the rain-dark street. He stays tucked against her side as they enter a crowded tavern warmed by hearthfire.

A broad-shouldered middle-aged woman in a russet dress and white apron looks up from behind the counter. Her iron-gray hair is cropped short, and a burn scar marks her chin.

Tovin stares at the stew pots, then at Alerie, as she settles him at a table. The keeper brings bread, broth, and a room key without questioning the arrangement.

Near the hearth, a tall middle-aged man watches over a travel-stained black coat. A familiar witcher crest is engraved on his shoulder plate, its edges worn smooth by years of use.