NOVEL NEXT Chapter 113: Harvest of Hidden Hearths
The crossroads faded behind us as the path dipped into a shallow valley, where the wheat gave way to patchwork fields of barley and rye, dotted with thatched roofs that puffed lazy smoke into the twilight sky.
It was the kind of place that looked like it had been painted by someone who loved mornings—farmsteads clustered around a central green, lanterns flickering to life in windows like fireflies settling in, the air rich with the scent of baking bread and woodsmoke, undercut by the faint, fertile tang of turned earth.
After the cairn's cold grip, it felt like a balm, a pocket of normalcy in a world that had spent too long trying to unmake itself.
But normalcy was never that simple for us.
The relics settled into a contented hum as we approached the village green, the scepter's warmth spreading through my arm like a good stretch after a long sleep, but I caught the subtle tension in the air—the way lanterns burned a touch too bright, the shadows between houses stretching just a little too long.
Thorne slowed, staff tapping a cautious beat.
"This is Harrowgate.
Valthorne's boyhood home.
The rite that anchored the weave started here—a harvest festival to bind the land's wild magics.
If the corruption spread from the cairn, it'll show strongest in the heart of the village."
He glanced at me, eyes steady in the gathering dusk.
"People here keep old ways.
They'll sense the circle.
Might help.
Or hinder."
I nodded, feeling the weight of it—not just relics, but history pressing in like an uninvited guest at dinner.
Harrowgate wasn't on any map we'd followed, but it felt familiar, like stepping into one of those half-remembered dreams where everything fits just right until it doesn't.
The green bustled gently as we entered, villagers pausing in their evening rounds to eye us with that mix of curiosity and caution you get when strangers roll in smelling of adventure and other people's trouble.
A woman with flour-dusted apron and laugh lines deep as furrows waved from a doorway, calling out in a voice warm as fresh-baked rolls.
"Travelers!
Ye look like ye've walked the wilds.
Come, sit—supper's on, and the ale's honest."
Her name was Mara, she said, keeper of the old hearth, and before we could muster polite declines, she was herding us toward a long communal table under a massive oak, its branches strung with lanterns that swayed like captured stars.
The crew didn't resist much—Lilith with a grateful slump, Vorren sniffing the air appreciatively, Jex already charming a gaggle of wide-eyed kids with sleight-of-hand flower tricks.
Yvra accepted a seat with graceful thanks, journal discreet in her lap, while Fog settled ethereal at the table's edge, tea blending scents with the stew.
Thrain and Gorrim dove in with gusto, declaring the spread "a crownly cornucopia!" between mouthfuls that earned fond chuckles from the locals.
Thorne hung back a moment, exchanging quiet words with Mara, then joined us with a nod that said we'd been measured and not found wanting.
The meal unfolded like a well-rehearsed play—steaming bowls of root stew thick with herbs and mystery meat, loaves of bread still warm from the communal oven, wheels of cheese that crumbled soft and sharp on the tongue, all washed down with ale that fizzed with a subtle magic, warming from the inside out.
Conversation flowed easy at first, villagers sharing tales of bountiful yields and quirky weather, us trading sanitized snippets of our "travels"—peak climbs, fen fords, without the rifts and relics.
Mara leaned in as the platters emptied, her eyes sharp under the kindness.
"Ye carry old power, stranger-Cecil.
The fields whispered of yer coming.
Like they did for the Baker, long ago."
She nodded to the scepter at my belt, half-hidden under the coat.
"Valthorne's mark.
The weave's fraying again, ain't it?
We felt it in the roots—crops wilting at the edges, shadows lingering past dawn."
Thorne set his mug down, the wood thunking soft.
"The cairn's hold.
Corruption from below.
You know the rite?"
Mara's laugh was wry, lines deepening.
"Know it?
We dance it every harvest.
But the old steps are fading—young ones think it's just stories.
If ye mean to mend it, the hearth-heart's where it starts.
Midnight, under the oak.
But beware—the weave pulls truths, same as lies."
The warning hung light, but loaded, and as night deepened, the village quieted, lanterns dimming to a soft glow that painted the green in pools of amber.
We gathered at the oak as the clock tower chimed twelve, the crew forming a loose circle around the massive trunk, its roots sprawling like ancient fingers clutching secrets.
Mara led, her voice rising in a chant that wove through the still air—words in an old tongue that tugged at the relics, the scepter flaring in response.
Villagers joined, tentative at first, then stronger, hands linking in a ring that pulsed with shared intent.
The ground warmed beneath us, roots glowing faint, and the weave stirred—tendrils rising not as shadows, but as threads of light, seeking connection.
But truths pulled hard: flashes of old failures—my microwave end, Lilith's exile, Vorren's losses—flickering like hearth-flames testing resolve.
I gripped the scepter, circle igniting, shards linking with the rite's rhythm.
The crew held firm, voices joining the chant, our bonds the strongest thread.
Light bloomed, weaving tight, the roots sealing with a deep hum that vibrated through bone.
The oak sighed, leaves rustling approval, and the fields beyond seemed to exhale, shadows retreating to proper night.
Mara clasped my hands, eyes bright.
"Mended.
For another turning.
Stay the night—dawn brings the true harvest."
We did, crashing in the hayloft of Mara's barn, the scent of straw and earth lulling us to sleep under a roof that creaked like old bones settling.
Dawn broke with festival fervor—drums beating, fiddles scraping joyful, tables groaning under fresh-baked bounty: honey-drizzled loaves, fruit tarts bursting jewel-bright, cider foaming in tankards passed hand to hand.
Dances spun on the green, kids chasing illusions of fireflies conjured from relic-sparks, laughter rising like yeast in dough.
Lilith twirled with a villager, her steps fierce and free.
Vorren clapped rhythms on a barrel, a rare smile cracking his face.
Jex led a conga of giggling farmers, sleight-of-hand turning tankards to flowers mid-step.
Yvra shared stories with the elders, journal forgotten in the whirl.
Fog toasted with Mara, teas mingling magics.
Thrain and Gorrim attempted a jig that devolved into glorious chaos, pulling half the village into their tumble.
Thorne and I sat at the edge, mugs in hand, watching the revel.
"Feels right," he said.
"Like this was the point all along—not just binding, but belonging."
I clinked my mug to his.
"Yeah.
Roots and all."
The sun climbed high, the rite's glow lingering in the air.
We lingered too, just a bit longer.
Harvests like this didn't come often.
But when they did, they tasted like home.
Like the start of something that could grow forever.