Author's Note: This piece follows on from one posted by Tivlyn, which you can read here.
Both are part of a series called 'Where Webs Whisper'.
The stars burned clear above the high places, cold and remote, as they had burned long before the first road was ever lain through the Trollshaws. Many had looked upon them and taken comfort during the night believing that such distant lights must watch with care.
They did not. They could not.
And yet the hopes of mortals and immortals alike rose toward them all the same, carried on breath and quiet words, shaped by a wish to endure, to return, to be spared what lay ahead.
Such hopes were familiar. They had been weighed and set aside countless times before by the stars above.
What had been set in motion did not wait upon the will of the heavens. It did not ask leave of fate or fortune.
The work had already begun, slow and careful, this time, pressed into root and stone, into old paths and older grudges, into hearts and hands. The land itself would be taught to fail those who trusted it.
The Trollshaws were not to be taken in fire or sudden ruin. They would be unsettled, poisoned, turned against those who walked them. Ancient protections would falter. Allegiances would fracture. What had stood since elder days would come crashing down.
The stars looked on in silence. Helpless to intervene even if they might desire.
Below them, while sleep still came to some, the shape of what was coming continued to form, patient and deliberate, needing no blessing, only time and a steady hand to see it through.
That suited him well. What was to be ruined would be ruined by his own design, and by no will but his own.
