Torren did not tell anyone he was leaving.
The camp had settled into that quiet that comes after too much has happened in a single day, where even the fires seemed to burn lower out of exhaustion rather than design. Voices had dropped to murmurs, bodies wrapped themselves in furs, and the weight of the raid lingered in the air like something that had not yet decided whether it would become memory or warning.
He moved through it without drawing notice.
Not because he was hiding.
Because no one stopped him anymore.
That, more than anything, felt new.
The path to the weirwood grove revealed itself beneath his feet as if he had walked it a hundred times, though he had not. The higher he climbed, the more the sounds of the camp thinned behind him until even the wind seemed to hesitate.
By the time he reached the grove, the air had changed.
It was colder there.
Not sharp like the ridges.
Still.
Heavy.
The kind of cold that did not move.
The weirwood stood at the center like something that did not belong to the mountain and yet had always been part of it. Its pale bark caught what little light there was, not reflecting it, but holding it faintly, as if it remembered brighter days and refused to let them go entirely. The carved face stared outward, eyes deep and hollow, mouth drawn into something that could have been sorrow or warning or something older than either.
Dark streaks ran from its eyes.
Old sap.
Hardened.
Too much like blood.
The ground beneath it was bare, pressed flat by years of footsteps, ritual, or something else Torren could not name. No grass grew there. No loose stones shifted underfoot. Even the air smelled different—damp, faintly sweet, and wrong in a way that didn't have a clear shape.
Torren stopped at the edge of it.
Not out of fear.
Out of awareness.
Environmental anomaly detected, the voice said. Localized acoustic suppression present.
Torren exhaled slowly.
"I can feel that."
He stepped forward anyway.
The Tree Speaker stood beneath the branches.
Torren hadn't heard him arrive.
Hadn't seen him approach.
He was simply there.
Older than before.
Not in years alone, but in the way something wears down over time. His shoulders seemed narrower, his frame lighter beneath the layers of fur and rough cloth. His beard had grown longer and more uneven, streaked heavily with grey. His skin bore deeper lines, especially around the eyes, where something like strain had settled.
But the eyes themselves—
were sharp.
Watching.
"You came," the Tree Speaker said.
Torren nodded.
"You sent for me."
The older man studied him in silence for a moment, then said:
"You walk like someone who has seen more than he should."
Torren tilted his head slightly.
"Everyone saw more than they should down there."
The Tree Speaker's gaze didn't shift.
"Not like you."
Torren didn't answer that.
Instead, he asked:
"Why did you call me?"
The Tree Speaker didn't respond immediately. He stepped slightly closer, not invading the space between them, but narrowing it enough that the conversation felt heavier.
"I have heard things," he said. "From others. From those who watch more than they speak."
Torren's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What things?"
The Tree Speaker tilted his head.
"That you were where you needed to be before anyone else knew where that was," he said. "That you moved before danger reached you. That you struck where there were openings no one else saw."
Torren didn't look away.
"That's just paying attention."
The Tree Speaker shook his head slowly.
"No," he said. "That is knowing before seeing."
Torren's jaw tightened slightly.
"And you know that how?"
The Tree Speaker's mouth curved faintly.
"I don't," he said. "Not completely."
That caught Torren off guard.
The older man continued:
"I hear things. I see patterns. I remember stories. And sometimes… I put them together."
He tapped lightly against his own temple.
"Like pieces of a broken thing."
Torren held his gaze.
"And what do your pieces say?"
The Tree Speaker watched him carefully.
"That you have seen through another's eyes."
This time, it was closer.
Torren didn't deny it.
"Yes."
The Tree Speaker nodded once.
"That confirms it."
Torren frowned slightly.
"You weren't sure?"
"No," the Tree Speaker said. "I suspected."
A brief pause.
Then he added:
"There is a difference."
Torren crossed his arms slightly.
"What difference?"
"Between guessing," the Tree Speaker said, "and knowing what stands in front of you."
Torren let that settle.
Then said:
"I didn't come here to be guessed at."
The Tree Speaker's expression didn't change.
"Good," he said. "Because you're past that now."
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
Then Torren spoke again.
"If I can do it," he said, "what does that mean?"
The Tree Speaker exhaled slowly.
"It means you stand on a line most men never see."
Torren's voice stayed steady.
"Then show it to me."
The older man studied him for a long moment.
Then said:
"There was another, once. Like you."
Torren didn't interrupt.
"He could see through beasts at first," the Tree Speaker continued. "Birds. Wolves. Things that do not question what they are."
Torren listened.
"But no one guided him," the older man said. "No one told him where to stop. And he didn't."
Torren's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What happened?"
The Tree Speaker's gaze hardened just enough.
"He went further," he said. "Into men."
Torren didn't speak.
"A beast does not fight you," the Tree Speaker continued. "It does not know what you are. It does not remember itself the way a man does."
"And a man?" Torren asked.
"A man resists," the Tree Speaker said. "Even when he doesn't understand what is happening. And when you push against that long enough—something breaks."
Torren held his gaze.
"In him?"
"In both," the Tree Speaker said.
A pause.
Then:
"He lost himself."
Torren's voice lowered slightly.
"How?"
"He stopped knowing which thoughts were his," the Tree Speaker said. "Which eyes belonged to him. And once that happens… there is no clean way back."
The wind moved faintly through the branches above them.
Torren stood still.
"I haven't done that," he said.
"Not yet," the Tree Speaker replied.
That word lingered.
Torren exhaled slowly.
"Then tell me where the line is."
The Tree Speaker shook his head slightly.
"You don't learn that from being told," he said. "You learn it from not crossing too far."
Torren didn't like that answer.
But he didn't argue.
Instead, he asked:
"You said I know things I shouldn't."
The Tree Speaker nodded.
"I've heard it," he said. "From more than one mouth."
Torren frowned.
"What things?"
"That you move before danger arrives," the Tree Speaker said. "That you react to things no one else has seen yet."
Torren thought about that.
Then said:
"I don't always see them."
The Tree Speaker's eyes sharpened.
"What do you mean?"
Torren hesitated.
Then:
"It's like… I already know where something will happen," he said slowly. "Not because I saw it. Because I felt it."
The Tree Speaker watched him carefully.
"And you trust that?"
Torren shook his head.
"Not always."
"Good," the Tree Speaker said.
A brief silence followed.
Then the older man's gaze shifted slightly.
"Your father stands where another stood this morning," he said.
Torren followed his glance, even though the camp was far below and out of sight.
"Yes."
"That changes more than his place," the Tree Speaker said.
Torren looked back at him.
"It changes yours too."
Torren frowned slightly.
"I didn't ask for that."
The Tree Speaker gave a faint, almost tired smile.
"No one ever does."
Torren let out a quiet breath.
"People are already looking at me differently."
"They will," the Tree Speaker said. "Some will want something from you. Others will expect something."
Torren's voice hardened slightly.
"They'll be disappointed."
"Some will," the Tree Speaker said. "Others won't."
Silence again.
Then—
Torren stepped closer to the tree.
He hesitated only a moment before placing his hand against the bark.
Cold.
Deeper than before.
Something shifted.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
But enough.
He saw—
Faces.
Red.
Flushed.
Eyes unfocused.
Men shaking.
Breath ragged.
Hands clawing at nothing.
A voice screaming without words.
Then silence.
Too sudden.
Too complete.
Torren pulled his hand back sharply.
The vision snapped.
He inhaled hard.
"That wasn't—" he started, then stopped.
He looked at the Tree Speaker.
"What was that?"
The older man didn't answer immediately.
"What did you see?" he asked instead.
Torren hesitated.
Then said:
"People. Sick. Burning from the inside."
The Tree Speaker's expression darkened slightly.
"Not winter," he said.
Torren's voice lowered.
"Then what?"
The Tree Speaker shook his head.
"I don't know yet."
That answer felt worse.
Torren steadied himself.
"Then why show me?"
The Tree Speaker stepped back slightly.
"Because you need to start seeing," he said.
Torren didn't like that either.
"What do you want me to do?"
The older man studied him.
Then said:
"Tomorrow, before the sun reaches the ridge, you go to the lower springs."
Torren frowned.
"And do what?"
"Look," the Tree Speaker said.
"That's not enough."
"It is for now," the Tree Speaker replied.
Torren crossed his arms slightly.
"Why the springs?"
"Because things pass through water before they pass through men," the Tree Speaker said.
Torren held his gaze.
"And if I don't see anything?"
The Tree Speaker's expression didn't change.
"You will."
That certainty sat heavy.
Torren exhaled slowly.
"This is how it starts, isn't it?"
The Tree Speaker nodded once.
"Yes."
Torren looked back at the tree.
Then at the man.
"I'm not ready for this."
The Tree Speaker's voice softened slightly.
"No," he said. "But you're not meant to be."
The wind moved again.
This time colder.
Torren felt it settle under his skin.
And for the first time—
he understood that what was coming had nothing to do with raids.
And everything to do with what he had just seen.