Chapter 243: The Flower March

The sun cleared the eastern ridge, catching the frost on the canvas tents. A dozen families gathered in the muddy yard of the Oaken Hearth.

Torra stood on the porch with the morning ledgers, holding the commercial traffic in check. From the kitchen, the heavy smell of roasting oats and pork fat drifted out as Bruna prepared the return meal. Varg leaned against the main gate, her thumbs hooked in her heavy leather belt, securing the perimeter. High above the tree line, Skade broke from the canopy to run a wide overwatch perimeter.

Elian walked with the festival group. He carried no willow boughs or winter-heather. A heavy canvas pack of trail rations hung over his right shoulder.

Heda fell into step beside him. "Utilitarian cargo on a spiritual march. Thematically on brand."

Tavi darted between the walking families. He stopped in front of Elian and held up a bruised yellow mountain-blossom missing two of its petals. Elian took the battered flower and slid the green stem through the top buttonhole of his heavy riding coat. Tavi nodded in satisfaction and ran back to Bram and Serra.

Sif walked the first mile without her iron-shod crutch. Her stride remained uneven, her right boot dragging slightly over the exposed roots, but she kept pace with Rylia. Nobody commented on her gait.

At the base of the final, steep incline, the mud grew slick. Sif grabbed the tarred hemp handline Dorvik had rigged between the pines. Her boots slipped in the muck.

Vaelia walked two steps behind her. The Pack Mother’s hand shot forward toward her daughter’s belt.

Vaelia stopped herself. Her fingers curled into a tight fist, and she dropped her arm back to her side.

Sif glanced over her shoulder. She saw the aborted motion. Sif turned her focus back to the mud, gripped the wet rope tighter, and pulled herself to the top of the ridge alone.

The Split-Stone Oak stood massive and silent against the granite rise. A clear spring bubbled from a deep cleft in the rock beneath the roots. Faded, weather-beaten cloth ribbons from prior seasons hung tangled in the lower branches.

Travelers stepped forward, laying their fresh flowers and green boughs across the flat mossy stones near the water.

Tavi stepped up to the roots. He pulled his one-eared wooden bear from his willow basket and set the carving gently onto the moss next to the water.

Heda froze. "Tavi."

The boy looked back. "The bear stays for the spring."

Heda stared at the carving, distress creeping into her ears. Bram rested a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"He carved a new one out of pine yesterday," the logger said quietly. Heda let out a long breath.

Elian stood near the back of the clearing. He knew no Conclave prayers and no Wilds invocations.

"You do not need to fake the words," Talyra said, watching the families step away from the water.

Elian walked toward the stone. He pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket, opened the drawstring, and laid a half-dozen clean, rust-free iron nails on a dry ledge beneath the overhang. They were practical and weather-resistant, waiting for whoever came to repair the marker stones next winter.

When the families finished their offerings, Sif sat on a dry root near the spring. The muscle in her repaired calf trembled visibly against her trouser leg. When they finally returned to the Hearth, Merren pressed his fingers deep into the scarred tissue. He found no structural setback, only the brutal reality of her current physical limits.

On the walk back down the trail, Tavi jogged alongside Elian.

"Will the Hearth serve Greenfire stew tonight?" the boy asked.

Elian looked at him. "I have no idea what that is."

Heda grinned, showing her teeth. "It does now."

Elian stared down the muddy trail. "I hate festivals."

Through the tree line, the thick, gray chimney smoke of the Oaken Hearth rose steadily into the winter sky, promising hot food and dry floors.