Chapter 17: The Vale's Shadow

  Morning dawned over Oakhaven Vale, not with warmth, but with a grey, washed-out light that seemed filtered through the valley's unnatural stillness. The unsettling order resumed its rhythm: the scrape of brooms on immaculately swept dirt paths, the purposeful, quiet movements of villagers avoiding eye contact, the watchful gazes from shadowed windows. Near the common house door, Edmund adjusted the straps on his pack, his gaze sweeping the controlled environment.

  "Alright, Ms. Isa," he said quietly, turning to Isolde. "You head towards the mine workings? See if you can find any sign of the Duergar?"

  Isolde nodded, pulling her grey cloak tighter. "The carvings we saw entering the valley… some motifs felt familiar, reminiscent of illustrations I saw in the Order's archives regarding master runecrafters. If Borin Stonehand is here, or if his influence is felt, there may be more distinct signs near the source of the stone." And finding him feels more urgent than ever, she added silently, the memory of her recent flare-up a cold weight within her. This place… this controlled Essence… it feels wrong. I need answers only the Duergar might possess.

  "Be careful," Edmund added, his concern evident despite his steady tone. "This place feels like a coiled serpent. Don't draw attention."

  "You too, Edmund," she countered. "Asking about disappearances is a dangerous game when everyone fears saying the wrong word." How will he fare? she wondered briefly. His trusting nature is both his strength and his greatest weakness here.

  With a final, shared glance of understanding, they parted ways. Edmund headed towards the small cluster of stalls that served as Oakhaven's marketplace, while Isolde turned towards the valley's edge, where the dark, imposing entrances to old mine shafts scarred the hillsides.

  Edmund ambled through the small market, trying to appear as just another traveler looking for supplies or news. The few vendors displayed meager wares—tough-looking root vegetables, crudely tanned hides, some baskets woven from blighted reeds. He tried striking up casual conversations.

  "Morning! Rough journey getting here," he offered to a gaunt-faced woman selling dried herbs that smelled faintly of dust. "Heard Oakhaven was holding back the Blight?"

  The woman nodded jerkily, her eyes darting towards a nearby guard wearing the Shepherd's spiral-eye symbol. "The Shepherd keeps us safe," she recited, her voice flat.

  "Impressive," Edmund pressed gently. "Must take great power. We heard… unsettling rumors on the road, though. About people… leaving unexpectedly?"

  The woman flinched, snatching back a bundle of herbs she'd been arranging. "Best not listen to idle talk," she muttered, turning away abruptly. "The Shepherd provides. That's all that matters."

  It was the same everywhere he tried. Fear clung to the air like the valley's unnatural stillness. People spoke in coded phrases, praising the Shepherd's protection while avoiding any direct mention of problems. He saw a man silenced mid-sentence by a sharp glance from someone else browsing nearby. He noticed the Shepherd's symbol not just on banners, but subtly worked into fence posts, etched onto water barrels, a constant, silent reminder of who held sway.

  Then, near a section of the palisade undergoing repair, he saw it. A creature he recognized instantly as Blighted, yet unlike any he’d encountered before. Its flesh was less decayed, tighter on its frame, but its eyes held the same vacant emptiness. What was truly disturbing was its task. Under the watchful eye of two grim-faced guards, it was lifting heavy timbers into place with slow, deliberate, unnatural precision. Runes, pulsing faintly, were clearly visible etched onto a thick iron collar around its neck and branded onto its grey skin. Controlled. Utilized. The rumors were true, and the reality was deeply unsettling.

  Meanwhile, Isolde explored the area near the mine entrances. The air here felt older, heavier, tasting of deep earth and cold stone. She examined the rock faces, the discarded tools, the construction of the timber supports holding back the earth. Much of it was crude, human work, but occasionally, she found details that spoke of a different hand—a perfectly balanced stone archway leading into a sealed shaft, intricate knotwork carved subtly into a metal hinge, foundation stones fitted with a precision that defied simple tools. Yes, she thought, running a gloved hand over a weathered, barely visible geometric carving on a lintel stone. This is Duergar craft. Old, but unmistakable. The style… it matches the marginalia attributed to Stonehand in Master Elmsworth's treatise.

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  She found subtle signs, enough to confirm Duergar presence, past or present, but nothing overt. No bustling workshops, no sounds of hammers ringing on anvils from below. If they were here, they were hidden, deep and wary. As she scanned a dark mine entrance further up the slope, she felt it again—the prickling sensation of being watched. She turned slowly, but saw only the still trees and impassive rock faces. Yet the feeling lingered, a cold weight between her shoulder blades. This valley had eyes everywhere.

  Her search eventually led her down a narrow, almost hidden path behind a cluster of Duergar-marked foundation stones. Tucked away against the cliff face, almost invisible unless one knew where to look, was a heavy, iron-banded wooden door set deep into the rock. No symbols marked it, but the sheer solidity, the expert joinery, screamed Duergar. Taking a deep breath, she knocked.

  Silence. She knocked again, louder.

  After a long moment, a small grille slid open at eye level, revealing a pair of deep-set, intensely suspicious eyes surrounded by wrinkles like ancient riverbeds.

  "What d'you want?" a gruff voice rasped, thick with the Duergar accent.

  "I seek knowledge," Isolde stated clearly. "I believe a master runecrafter may dwell here. Borin Stonehand?"

  A harsh bark of laughter came from behind the grille. "Stonehand? He talks to no one. Especially not… surface folk." The eyes raked her up and down dismissively. "With your flimsy surface magic." He muttered something under his breath then, words she almost missed, sharp with bitterness. "...promises broken before... Shepherd twists our own craft against us..."

  Isolde stood firm. "My magic may differ, but my need for understanding is genuine. The Shepherd's influence, the strange Blight—perhaps our knowledge combined—"

  "Knowledge?" the Duergar scoffed. "Surface folk know nothing of the deep earth, of true runes. You want Stonehand's time? Prove you're worth it. See that fissure?" He nodded towards a jagged crack further up the cliff face, leaking a faint, noxious-smelling steam. "Heartstone grows deep within. Poisonous fumes, unstable rock. Fetch me a pure, fist-sized shard, unblemished by the Blight that seeps even through stone here. Then maybe Stonehand will listen. Now, be gone!" The grille slammed shut.

  Isolde stared at the impassive door, then up at the dangerous fissure. A test. Difficult, perilous, and laced with contempt. But it was a chance.

  Edmund, meanwhile, had found his attempts at direct questioning fruitless. He shifted tactics, wandering near the edge of town, observing the patrols. He struck up a conversation with a man mending fishing nets near a small stream, someone whose face seemed less strained than others. The man, introducing himself as Kael, seemed amiable enough, readily agreeing that Oakhaven offered welcome safety.

  "The Shepherd provides," Kael nodded, his hands deftly working the netting. "Order is necessary in these times."

  "Indeed," Edmund agreed cautiously. "Though I heard some unsettling talk on the road… people vanishing?"

  Kael sighed, pausing in his work. "Hard times breed fear, friend. People wander off, fall prey to beasts beyond the valley's protection… or sometimes," he lowered his voice slightly, "they forget the Shepherd's laws. Discontent… it's a sickness worse than the Blight, the Shepherd teaches us. Weakens the community from within." He met Edmund's eyes, his expression seemingly sincere. "Best not to dwell on such things. Keep your head down, follow the path laid out, and you'll be safe here."

  Edmund felt a flicker of his old trust respond to the man's apparent honesty and straightforward advice. "Thank you, Kael. Wise words." He made a note to avoid Kael in the future—the man was clearly a true believer, unlikely to offer any real insight. He didn't realize Kael watched him walk away, a subtle, calculating look replacing the friendly concern, making a mental note of the newcomer asking dangerous questions.

  Edmund and Isolde regrouped in their sparse room after dusk, the feeling of surveillance even stronger now.

  "The Duergar are here," Isolde reported quietly, "Or at least, one is. Borin Stonehand, I believe. He guards his door like a vault and speaks only in insults and impossible tasks." She explained the challenge involving the fissure and the Heartstone.

  Edmund whistled softly. "That sounds dangerous."

  "It is," Isolde agreed. "But potentially necessary." She relayed Borin's bitter mutterings about the Shepherd. "He confirms the cult's influence reaches even the Duergar."

  Edmund described his own day—the pervasive fear, the wall of silence regarding disappearances, the disturbing sight of the controlled Blighted laborer, and his conversation with Kael. "He warned me off asking questions, basically told me to accept the Shepherd's 'peace'. Seemed genuine enough, but..." He trailed off, a sliver of doubt lingering.

  "Genuine belief can be the most dangerous mask of all," Isolde murmured. "This valley… it's a cage, Edmund, polished to look like a sanctuary."

  As they spoke, the rhythmic tramp of heavy boots echoed from the track outside their window. A patrol, their armor creaking faintly, torches casting long, dancing shadows. They passed by without stopping, but the sound was a stark reminder of the ever-present control, the closing window for any discreet investigation. The silence after they passed felt heavier, more menacing than before.