Ren awoke at dawn, the lingering scent of woodsmoke and old parchment still thick in his nostrils. The elder's hut felt strangely comforting, as if its walls had absorbed centuries of stories and secrets. Outside, the village began to stir.
He could hear the distant chatter of women fetching water, the snuffling of a pig as it rooted in loose earth, and the hoarse cry of a lone rooster. A faint light filtered through the small window, falling across Ren's face. He blinked, gathering his thoughts as he prepared to take his leave.
The elder was already awake, seated on a low stool and paging through a worn leather-bound tome by the hearth. In the flickering firelight, his weathered features looked timeless, like a tree that had stood through storms and summers uncounted. He didn't glance up as Ren rose to his feet and collected his few belongings, but it was clear that the old man was aware of his guest's movements.
Ren cleared his throat softly. "I want to thank you," he said. His voice was low, still rough from sleep. "You've given me direction, and… well, that's more than I've had since I arrived here."
The elder finally lifted his gaze. His dark eyes, though framed by wrinkles, held a quiet intensity. "You're departing early," he observed. "So be it. The road east waits for no man." He closed the tome gently and set it aside. "We seldom have strangers here. Rarer still are those who carry themselves with such… otherworldly weight."
Ren didn't know how to respond to that. He shifted his weight, feeling the floor's rough boards beneath his boots. "I'm not sure what I carry," he admitted. "I only know I must keep moving."
The old man nodded as if this was what he expected. "Arendale lies ahead, a crossroads of sorts. Many destinies converge there, some shining, some blighted. Yours, I think, will not be straightforward." He rose slowly and approached Ren. "There's a saying in these parts: fate is both a shield and a blade. It can ensnare and it can cut. I suspect you will find your own place within it, but remember: the choices you make will shape the pattern."
For a moment, Ren considered asking more—about fate, about the tapestry he'd first encountered in the ruins—but the weight of the elder's gaze and the press of the unknown road stilled his tongue. Instead, he extended a hand. "Thank you. For your hospitality, your guidance… and your honesty."
The elder placed a gnarled hand against Ren's, his grip surprisingly firm. "Go well," he said quietly. "And be wary." Without further ceremony, he turned back to his hearth.
Ren stepped outside, blinking in the pale morning light. The villagers, beginning their morning tasks, spared him a few curious glances. But none approached him or spoke. He took in the state of the settlement one last time—the ramshackle huts, the tired eyes of the people—and then he headed along the dirt path that led him out of the valley. The mountains loomed in the distance, and beyond them, Arendale awaited.
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Inside the hut, after Ren had departed, the elder closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The visitor had been unlike most who passed through this forgotten place—a man not merely from another land, but bearing the scent of another world entirely. The elder had witnessed many strange things in his long life. He had seen omens in the entrails of beasts, read prophecies in the swirl of smoke. He had spoken with spirits drifting on moonlit nights. But Ren's arrival was something new and disquieting.
"Fate," the old man murmured to himself. He tried the word on his tongue, a taste both bitter and sweet. Fate: the unseen loom that wove together choices and consequences. He had spent much of his life cataloging lost knowledge, squinting over ancient scrolls by dim candlelight, and yet fate remained a slippery thing. Even those who prided themselves on foresight—shamans, seers, oracles—often misunderstood it. Fate was no simple line drawn from birth to death. It was a shifting web of possibility.
In Ren's eyes, the elder had glimpsed a quiet determination. He had also seen fear, curiosity, and something else—something like yearning. If Ren truly could cause change in the continent, what kind of tapestry would he weave here?
What threads would he add or sever? The elder would not live to see all those answers. That too was fate: to guide a traveler yet never see the end of his journey. With a sigh, the old man rose and returned to his books, determined to leave what wisdom he could behind for those who sought it.