Arvis leaned against the silver trunk, his knuckles whitening against rough bark. The data stream had faded, leaving behind an electric static behind his eyes. Ilze’s fingers dug into his forearm, warm and steady. He opened his mouth, but only air passed his parched lips.
Zenta’s grip, surprisingly firm for her age, guided his gaze to the ancient textile she held. Its threads, an antique weave of geometric symbols, hummed with faint vibration, each glyph stitched in silver flax. “You saw it, didn’t you?” Zenta’s voice was low, devoid of its usual tremor. “Now, the real work begins.”
Before Arvis could fully process her words, a guttural roar, followed by the crunch of heavy boots on the forest floor, ripped through the quiet grove. The air grew thick with the scent of unwashed hides and stale metal. Ilze’s hand flew to the hilt of her bone-carved knife. “Raiders,” she hissed, shifting her stance. “And they brought half their garrison.”
They emerged from the treeline, a phalanx of burly figures clad in mismatched scraps of scavenged armor, their weapons glinting dully in the filtered sunlight. At their head strode a man whose presence alone seemed to leach the warmth from the air. Gatis Vinter, leader of the rival guild, was broad-shouldered and thick-necked, his scarred jaw set in a perpetual sneer beneath a braided beard. His eyes, like chips of flint, swept over the Fountfruit tree, then locked onto Arvis, a predatory gleam in their depths.
“Well, well,” Gatis rumbled, his voice a low growl that carried easily across the clearing. “Look what the System dragged in. Ligo settlement. Still squatting in this glorified weed patch, I see.” He took another step, his gaze now fixed on the faint, shimmering aura that still clung to Arvis. “And you, Arvis Kalnins. The little tailor, isn’t it? Heard you’ve been… busy.” His lip curled, a sneer deepening the lines around his mouth. “Still stitching doll clothes, or have you finally graduated to mending actual armor? Don’t want your ‘people’ running around with frayed cuffs, now do we?”
A few of Gatis’s thugs chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. Arvis felt heat climb into his neck. His fingers twitched, an unconscious urge to pick up a needle and thread, to lose himself in the familiar comfort of fabric.
“We pay our tithes, Vinter,” Ilze interjected, her voice sharp, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. “Monthly, as agreed. We have nothing more for you.”
Gatis ignored her, his eyes still boring into Arvis. “A little bird told me you’ve acquired a… unique skill.” He took another step, closing the distance between them. “Something about weaving… concepts? Sounds like a load of rubbish to me. We need fighters, providers. Not some old woman’s seamstress.” He spat, a glob of phlegm landing inches from Arvis’s worn boots.
“It’s not useless,” Arvis mumbled under his breath. He knew how pathetic he sounded, but the words felt too heavy to push out with conviction.
“Not useless?” Gatis boomed, laughter rolling through his chest. “Look at you! You totter on your feet like a newborn calf. What are you going to do, knit me a new pair of socks while I fight off a Hive-Minded Grungle? This world needs teeth, Kalnins. Not thimbles.”
He gestured to a hulking lieutenant with a pockmarked face. The enforcer stepped forward, blank-faced, and shoved Arvis hard across the collarbone. Arvis stumbled back, catching his balance against a mossy root. Dirt kicked up around his boots.
Before the thug could follow up, Ilze moved. Ilze was there, a whirlwind of focused intent. Her new [Perfect Recall] skill flared, every nerve-ending in her body remembering the precise, minute flaw in the brute’s balance she’d spotted months earlier during an open skirmish. It was a fleeting, almost imperceptible shift of weight in his left leg, a fraction of a second too long to recover. Now, it was etched into her mind with crystalline clarity.
She didn’t hesitate. Her foot shot out, not in a kick, but a perfectly placed trip, targeting the remembered weakness. The brute stumbled forward, off balance. In the same fluid motion, Ilze’s hand darted out, snatching the heavy iron mace from his grasp before he could even register what was happening. It clattered to the ground, a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the stunned silence.
The enforcer roared, trying to plant his heels, but Ilze had already stepped inside his reach, the tip of her bone knife pressed firmly against his windpipe. The row of armed scouts froze in their tracks. Gatis, for the first time, looked genuinely surprised. His sneer softened, replaced by a calculating glint.
“Well, now,” Gatis said, breaking the silence, his voice almost intrigued. “That was… unexpected. Didn’t realize you had a little spitfire on your hands, Kalnins. My apologies for the rough treatment, boys. Sometimes the lumberjack forgets his manners.” He chuckled, a genuine sound this time. “Seems your little tailor isn’t as helpless as he looks, Arvis. He’s got good taste in company, at least.”
Ilze didn’t move, her knife edge steady against the man's throat. “Stay down,” she warned, her voice low and dangerous.
Gatis raised a hand, a gesture of peace. “Easy, easy, girl. No harm done. Clearly, we misjudged. And Arvis, my friend, I always appreciate a man who cultivates… interesting talents. Why don’t you join us? Our ranks could always use someone with a knack for the… arcane. You and your friend. Think of the resources. The protection. We’re not unreasonable, you know. But your settlement, out here on its own, is an easy mark for those less… understanding.” His words were a velvet-gloved fist, a promise of power intertwined with a chilling threat.
Arvis looked at Ilze, then at Zenta, who watched him with unreadable eyes. He thought of Liena, of the delicate sprout growing from her grave, of the impossible hope it represented. He thought of the villagers, their weary faces, their quiet trust in him.
He met Gatis’s flinty gaze. “No,” Arvis said, his voice clearer, steadier than he thought possible. “We will not join you.”
Gatis’s smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of irritation. “A pity. You’ll regret that, tailor. This world has no room for sentimentality.” He waved a dismissive hand at his lieutenant, who backed away rubbing his neck and glowering at Ilze. “Let’s go. This little visit has run its course.”
The warband turned in unison and tramped back toward the treeline. Just as Gatis reached the perimeter of the grove, he paused, his back to Arvis. Without turning, he reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a seed, dark and sickly, pulsing with a faint, malevolent energy. He tossed it casually to the ground, a contemptuous flick of his wrist. It landed with a soft thud near the faint boundary rune marking the perimeter.
Then, he was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the forest with his brutish retinue.
Arvis watched the spot where the seed landed. A faint, sickening hum began to emanate from the earth. The soil convulsed, cracked, and then, with a horrifying, organic *pop*, the seed erupted. A monstrous, shrieking 'Blightroot' tore its way from the ground, its thorny, black vines lashing outwards, coiling towards the village’s wooden palisade, hungrily seeking purchase.