Another woman, however, was not so easily deterred.
Her emotions flared as she tried to push through the druids, only for the one in the center to snap toward her, releasing a snarl before his body morphed into that of a bear.
He swiped at the air in warning, causing her to recoil as her husband wrapped his arms around her in an effort to restrain her.
William sighed and stepped forward between the druids and the visibly distraught mother, fixing his glare on the druid concealed behind the form of a bear, a faint purple glow shimmering in his otherwise silver-grey eyes.
As the glow intensified, the bear-form druid abruptly ceased growling and froze, his eyes shifting between dilated and narrow slits as he was seized by an overwhelming wave of fear and panic within his mind.
Nearly stumbling over his own paws, the druid spun in place and bolted deeper into the grove, whining audibly, whatever vision plagued him remaining a mystery as he vanished.
"Dissonant Whispers, huh. Good to know it's so useful, even outside of combat," William thought as he advanced past the distracted druids, their attention still fixed on their fleeing companion.
The moment he crossed into the central grove, the atmosphere shifted drastically; where the ambient magic had once been warm and inviting, it now raged like a hurricane centered on a glowing statue of Sylvanus, God of the wilds.
Around it, the druids chanted ritualistically in an effort to complete the Ritual of Thorns, a rite that severs the druids' connection to the outside world, a practice wholly unbefitting a grove meant to maintain balance.
William exhaled slowly, the lingering aftertaste of the spell thrumming behind his eyes, a faint pressure like static trapped beneath his skull.
He measured the sensation out of habit, not in numbers, but in boundaries, threads and wells that would not replenish simply because he willed them to.
Level two, he reminded himself wryly; heroics always came with a cost.
His sorcerer points were being drawn thin, stretched taut like a bowstring pulled one arrow too far.
He could continue, of course, he always could, but that was the path to waking in a ditch or becoming host to something with too many teeth and far too many opinions.
Rest would be necessary soon, but not yet.
He tore his gaze from the frightened Tiefling parents, the mother gripping her husband's arm as if it were the last solid anchor in the world and turned toward the grove's heart.
The central chamber lay ahead. Each step felt like wading into a rising tide of magic; the air grew heavier, charged, buzzing faintly across his skin.
Roots as thick as pillars twisted along the stone floor, their bark veined with mana that pulsed in deliberate, unnatural rhythms.
Wyll fell in beside him in silence.
At first, William assumed the warlock's focus was on the ritual to come, until he noticed the faint furrow in Wyll's brow, his gaze sliding sideways, unfocused, and his hand twitching near his blade.
"You see something?" William asked quietly.
Wyll did not answer immediately.
His eyes were locked on a shadow between the trees, where the light bent ever so slightly wrong.
For the span of a single heartbeat, something stood there, tall, poised, smiling with a familiarity devoid of warmth.
Her horns gleamed like polished obsidian, her eyes burning with the intensity of forged contracts.
She met Wyll's gaze with a slow tilt of her head, amusement curling in the motion, as though he were a misplaced possession only just recovered.
In an instant, she vanished.
Shadows folded inward, leaving behind the acrid, unmistakable trace of sulfur before the grove seemed to absorb it entirely.
Wyll drew in a sharp breath, his fingers clenching into a fist. "…Thought so," he murmured under his breath, more to himself than to William.
William's pace remained steady. "Let me guess," he said quietly. "Uninvited. Smug. And certain you'll meet her again."
Wyll released a humorless exhale. "You get used to it."
"That's troubling," William replied dryly as they stepped over the threshold into the chamber.
The druids' chanting rose around them, layer upon layer of voices forming a living wall of sound.
At the center loomed the statue of Silvanus, radiant, wrathful, its base sprouting creeping thorns of solidified magic.
William's fingers twitched at his side. One last task, and then, finally, rest.
The stone door groaned open, its sound rasping through the chamber like a dire warning. William and Wyll entered, and the rhythmic chanting within ceased abruptly.
At the center stood Kagha, tense and unyielding, her staff driven into the floor as though defying the grove itself to oppose her.
Before her knelt a young Tiefling girl, small and trembling, horns scarcely grown, tail curled tightly around her like a useless shield.
The statue of Silvanus was conspicuously absent, its missing presence louder than any spoken charge.
At Kagha's feet, her viper swayed, half-raised, hissing with its tongue, flickering mere inches from the child's face, delivering a lesson meant to terrify without yet concluding it.
"You were caught at the idol," Kagha declared sharply. "Hands on sacred stone.
You thought to steal from Silvanus himself." The girl's voice broke as she protested, "I didn't take it! I swear! I was just... I was just looking..."
The snake lunged forward, and the child cried out, recoiling violently against the floor.
"That's enough," William interjected, his voice cutting through the tension with calm authority.
Kagha turned on him, anger immediate. "This is druid business. Stay out of it."
Wyll stepped to William's side, hands open and posture deceptively relaxed. "Threatening a child with a venomous snake tends to invite commentary."
Kagha's eyes narrowed. "She attempted to steal a sacred relic."
William's gaze shifted briefly to the girl before returning to Kagha. "She failed."
A tense silence followed.
"She is guilty by intent," Kagha declared sharply.
William stepped forward with measured care, as one might approach a dangerous creature without provoking it.
"Silvanus teaches balance," he said evenly. "Not cruelty."
Kagha scoffed. "Balance demands punishment."
William inclined his head slightly. "Yes, punishment that is proportionate."
The serpent at her side hissed more loudly, reflecting its mistress's mounting anger.
"She is only a frightened child," William continued. "Hungry, surrounded by magic she cannot comprehend. She did not desecrate your god, she acted out of fear."
Kagha's fingers tightened around her staff. "If we show weakness, the grove will fall to ruin."
Wyll spoke then, calm but edged with warning. "Killing a child will not safeguard this place. It will only confirm the fears the refugees already harbor."
Kagha paused, just barely.
William pressed on, his words chosen with precision, like stepping across a swift current.
"If Silvanus himself stood here," he said, "would he truly demand her life for touching a statue?"
The viper fell silent.
Kagha's gaze flickered to the roots winding along the walls and the living stone beneath her feet.
"She has broken sacred law," Kagha declared, though her conviction wavered, stretched thin.
William's tone softened, if only slightly, as he replied, "Then let the lesson be mercy. Let her depart knowing the grove chose restraint."
Wyll's quiet voice followed, carrying weight: "Fear breeds enemies. Mercy creates witnesses."
The chamber seemed to hold its breath. At last, Kagha released a sharp exhale through her nose and raised her staff.
"Enough," she commanded.
The snake withdrew at once, gliding back to her side, its hostility dissolving as if drawn away by an unseen pull.
The Tiefling girl collapsed forward in sobs, palms pressed to the cold stone.
Kagha's jaw tightened as she looked down at her. "Go," she ordered. "Leave this place and never return."
The girl scrambled up, tears tracing her cheeks, and fled through the doorway until she was gone from sight.
Silence lingered in her absence.
Kagha turned to William, her gaze still hard, though no longer aflame. "Do not mistake this for leniency," she warned.
William met her stare without flinching. "I won't." The grove shifted subtly, roots whispering beneath the stone, as if acknowledging a decision born not of fear, but of restraint.
And Kagha, though she would never confess it aloud, stood with just a fraction less certainty than before.
The silence that followed was so taut it could have been used to hang laundry.
William didn't blink.
Neither did Kagha. For one heartbeat, then two, the air between them squeezed itself into something dense and awkward, like two storm fronts trapped in an elevator.
Her knuckles blanched around the staff, and the roots at her feet groaned as if they, too, were stressed about having to witness this.
William's silver-grey eyes stayed locked, the faintest violet glimmer hanging there like a stubborn smudge on glass, noticeable, but not making a scene.
A spark leapt between them, though it wasn't magic so much as the raw collision of two people absolutely refusing to lose a staring contest.
Kagha's jaw went rigid, nostrils flaring in a way that suggested she was either furious or smelling imaginary cookies.
William could feel her certainty pushing back, brittle and bristly, like a porcupine trying to win an argument.
The Rite hummed behind her, a prickly choir lending her moral support.
And then, without a word, a warning, or a dramatic hair flip, William turned.
Just pivoted and strolled past her, boots whispering on stone, close enough to ruffle her cloak.
The tension snapped like an overworked elastic band.
Kagha's eye twitched once, a micro-expression betraying the tiniest crack in her composure.
Her lips parted as if she had a zinger locked and loaded, but instead she exhaled slowly through her nose, the practiced kind of breath people take to keep from flipping a table.
She turned away toward the shadows.
In the dim recess of the chamber, three rats emerged, their movements unnervingly deliberate and their eyes glinting with uncanny intelligence.
One scaled the hem of her robe, another circled her bare foot, and the third stood upright, whiskers quivering as it leaned close to her ear.
They whispered, not aloud, nor in any tongue meant for others to comprehend.
Kagha's shoulders tightened briefly before loosening, her fingers curling once in restrained reaction.
Whatever message the rats conveyed sank deep, threading through both her doubts and her ambition.
She offered no reply, but her gaze darkened, her focus turning inward, away from the confrontation she had already lost without conceding defeat.
William did not glance back.
He traced the grove's natural curve, shedding the ritual space's oppressive weight with each step.
The air grew lighter, the magic lessened, and the scents of blood and fear gave way to crushed herbs, fresh water, and the faint bitterness of poultices.
Nettie's alcove appeared as though a long-held breath had been released.
Shelves carved from living wood held bundles of dried leaves, jars of tinctures, and neatly folded linens.
A narrow opening above allowed sunlight to filter in, catching drifting dust motes and turning them to gold.
At the center, Nettie knelt, cradling a stunned bluejay in her hands, its feathers dulled and one wing bent at an unnatural angle.
Her brow was set in concentration, lips moving in a quiet murmur as her fingers glowed with warm green druidic magic, a gentle force utterly unlike the harsh power of the Rite above.
The bird gave a pitiful little chirp, like it was auditioning for the role of "most tragic woodland creature."
Then, as the magic seeped in, it tried again, this time with a bit more confidence, as if to say, "Actually, I'm fine. Totally fine."
William halted at the doorway, not bothering with introductions; he preferred the mysterious stranger routine.
The bluejay cocked its head, one bright eye locked on him, as though trying to determine whether he was friend, foe, or just someone who'd forgotten to comb his hair.
For a brief moment, William wondered if the bird could sense the leftover psionic static fizzing around him, like an aura of "don't ask."
But instead of launching into avian panic, the bird chirped again, sharper, inquisitive, maybe even a little judgy.
It gave its wing a test flutter, then settled back down, apparently deciding that whatever had entered the room wasn't worth diving for cover.
William's lips twitched upward in a rare, unguarded smile.
"Well," Nettie said without glancing up, grinning at the bird's sudden sass, "that's a good sign." When she finally looked at him, recognition lit her eyes. "You must be the one everyone's whispering about. One of the survivors from the crash?"
"Unfortunate," William murmured, deadpan.
She chuckled, shifting her hold as the bluejay delivered a small but decisive peck to her thumb. "He agrees with you."
The bird hopped from her hands to the table's edge, feathers puffed up like it had just recalled a deeply personal insult from three winters past.
Fixing William with the unblinking scrutiny of a tax auditor, it chirped, took two deliberate hops closer, and, with the solemnity of a royal inspector, pecked his finger.
Not hard, just enough to convey, "I'm onto you."
William froze, embodying a man desperately trying not to offend the tiny, feathered crime boss assessing his worth.
"Easy," he murmured, as though brokering a delicate hostage exchange.
The bluejay held his gaze in a long, suspicious silence, fluffed once more for punctuation, and began preening like a tycoon fresh from sealing a profitable deal.
Nettie raised a brow. "You've got a way with animals."
"Not intentionally," William replied. "I'm just handsome."
She examined him as if weighing the odds that he was joking, then shrugged and returned to her work.
"Eh, not stout and bearded enough for my taste, hehehe!"
Outside, somewhere deep in roots and stone, the Rite of Thorns carried on, likely with far less theatrics than the avian interrogation that had just unfolded on the table.