Rowan of the Valley

It had been raining for six days and six nights without a moment’s rest before we discovered the ruins. On the seventh day, the sky finally cleared, and the swollen earth drank in the water.

On day eight, when we stepped out of our homes to tend the fields and scrape the mud from our doorsteps, there it was. Half-sunken in the valley where the Blue River curved like a sleeping serpent, in the heart of the village, a great stone circle jutted from the softened ground.

The circle was spread by small stones, each containing a different hue of the earth: reddish, greenish, bluish, and orange. The surrounding area had caved in, either due to the rain or whatever force had raised the circle.

“It’s the work of the devil!” screamed the old miser Hale, the blacksmith on Third Street.

“It’s not the devil, it’s the Maiden’s Curse, surely!” shot back Madame Edda, clutching her gold-trimmed travel case stuffed with her possessions.

“’Tis likely a historical remnant of the people who lived here before us,” reasoned Professor Dean Kinsleye, adjusting the spectacles perched at the end of his nose.

“’Tis the devil!” bellowed Crazy Lu from the back of the crowded barn. Several others echoed him, fear rippling through whispers and half-formed prayers.

As the shouting swelled, Mr. Fenne stepped onto the creaking wooden crate serving as a podium.

He was a soft, rounded man, the sort whose body always looked surprised to be under so much pressure. Speckles dusted his cheeks and nose, a trimmed beard outlining his jaw, ginger-brown like the hair that clung to the sides of his head.

“Now—now, everyone, please!” he stammered, raising pudgy hands to calm the crowd. “Let us keep our decorum, yes? No devils, no curses, no unfounded accusations.”

“Surely,” he continued, dabbing his forehead with a damp handkerchief, “there is a sensible explanation. One that does not require panic or, saints forbid, evacuation.” His eyes flicked toward Madame Edda’s suitcase with irritation. “Let us not make hasty decisions.”

The crowd quieted, waiting for a plan, anything to ease their anxiety.

As the Mayor’s gaze swept the barn, his eyes settled on a lone figure in the dim edge of the room. The figure watched, calm and unreadable. A hush spread as the crowd saw whom he had fixed upon.

Oscar was tall—towering, some would say—broad-shouldered but not hulking, his presence carrying effortless authority. Dark hair framed his face, a few strands brushing a forehead often creased with thought. He wore no armor, no noble cloak; just a worn tunic beneath a dark leather coat, practical trousers, and boots that had crossed more land than most villagers imagined.

“Sir Hardinge!” Mayor Fenne’s voice cracked. Half the barn turned toward Oscar. The knight closed his eyes briefly before pushing himself off the beam.

“Please,” the Mayor continued, wringing his handkerchief, “perhaps you, with your experience, could assess the situation? Put these wild theories to rest? The people trust you.”

Oscar stepped forward, boots thudding on packed earth. He looked toward the stone circle, then at the anxious faces, then back at the Mayor.

“What exactly,” he said, voice steady, “would you have me do?”

Mayor Fenne swallowed hard, trying to stand a bit straighter on the crate.

“Well,” he began, voice wobbling, “I have already contacted the capital. The royal decree responded with unprecedented haste.” He dabbed his forehead again, though the handkerchief had surrendered long ago. “A convoy is on its way. Soldiers, officials, and most importantly, a mage from the Royal Guild.”

A ripple of mixed relief and unease ran through the villagers. A royal mage was rare in these parts, and rarely a sign of anything simple.

“But,” the Mayor pressed on, raising a hand before the crowd erupted, “they will not arrive for two days at least. The roads are half-flooded, and the mountains will slow their horses.” His voice dropped, earnest. “Until then, we cannot leave the circle unattended. Whatever it is, we must ensure the village is protected from it… or it from us.”

His gaze clung to Oscar.

“That is why we need someone capable, someone the people trust—to stand guard. To watch the circle. To keep order, should anything unusual occur.”

A hundred eyes swung toward Oscar. The barn fell silent.

“Sir Hardinge… we need you to guard the circle. Or rather… to guard the village from the circle.”

I didn’t know much about Oscar, just whispers around town. He tended a small sheep farm up the valley and, in the evenings, walked to the ‘Rose & Crown’ to drink alone. He never seemed to concern himself with village matters.

I also knew he had received countless requests from the Mayor to help the schoolboys learn swordsmanship and other and anything else befitting what a young man needs to know to walk honorably in the world. He always refused with a red envelope he handed me in the small, makeshift postal office behind sacks of flour and barley.

Which is why I couldn’t fathom why he accepted this request.

“I will need an aid,” he said in his low, gravelly voice, “preferably a volunteer, anyone willing to join me.”

The crowd shifted uneasily, glancing at one another, hoping someone braver would step forward. No one did.

Oscar’s eyes swept the room once, deliberate but not unkind. He searched for willingness. Commitment. Someone foolish or stubborn enough to stand beside him.

That was when I made the mistake of moving. Just a small shift of weight, straightening my back for a better view.

Oscar’s gaze landed on me. I froze.

“You,” he said, not harsh, not loud, just certain. “You work the post, don’t you?”

A few heads turned, whispering.

The post boy?

Him?

But he’s so….weak?

“Yes,” I managed, my voice thin. “I do.”

Oscar nodded once, as if it were settled.

“You’ll do.”

Mayor Fenne looked relieved. He clapped his damp hands in a show of enthusiasm that fooled no one.

“Excellent! A knight and his assistant. Yes. Very good.”

Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear.

“Bring a small rucksack with what you need. We won’t leave our post until the convoy arrives.”

I swallowed hard.

“Are… are we going to be okay?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, then quickly said, “Tell me… what is your name?”

“Er… I’m called Rowan.”

“Rowan,” he repeated, testing it. “Very well. We’ll face this together until the convoy arrives.”

I nodded, fear twisting in my stomach, but beneath it, a strange determination took root.

***

Oscar paused at the ridge above the valley, the wind tugging at his coat. He stood like a statue carved of something ancient, as if the rain and world could not touch him. I nearly slipped twice on the descent.

Oscar walked the perimeter, eyes tracing every line and groove. I followed, feet squelching in the mud.

“What do you think it is?” I asked quietly.

“I think,” he said slowly, “we’re better off waiting for the experts.”

We made camp in the early evening near the circle, erecting a canvas shelter between two oaks that had survived the floods. Oscar set a boundary of lanterns in a wide arc. I brewed weak tea over a small flame.

“Rowan.”

I nearly spilled the kettle. “Yes?”

“You are afraid.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Good. Fear keeps the mind alive. It keeps you from foolish decisions and helps you survive.”

“It feels as if all I’ve done is survive,” I said softly. “I’ve never known what it was to truly live.”

Oscar remained quiet, settling on a stone and sharpening a knife that didn’t need sharpening.

“Life happens regardless of what you think,” he said. “If you get caught in the current, you’ll be old and gray before you realize those days you waited for life—it was happening. Some of us are meant to live quiet lives without bother or grand adventures, but most importantly, without harming anyone. We take that for granted.”

I met Oscar’s eyes for a moment. Nothing was said, but something passed between us.

“Why did you move?” he asked finally.

I flushed. “I… wanted a better view.”

He huffed something that was almost a laugh. “Curiosity,” he murmured, “is more dangerous than bravery.”

“Is that why you came?” I blurted.

Oscar’s hands paused. He watched the circle. Then quietly, “I came because some burdens choose us. Whether we accept them or not.”

We settled near the circle with makeshift beds. Oscar remained close, walking slowly around the stones, while I huddled by the fire. Eventually, the lull of the night pulled me in its arms, and I fell deep asleep.

A voice.

Not from the stones. Not from the trees. Not from Oscar.

From nowhere.

“Rowan.”

Soft, melodic. I spun around. “Hello?”

Nothing. Just the stones pulsing faster, casting colored halos through the mist.

“I’m imagining this,” I muttered. “Too little sleep. Too much tea.”

I was standing inside the stone circle, but not the one in the valley. This one was whole, tall, carvings burning like constellations. Wind swirled around me in warm spirals.

Oscar was there too. This Oscar wore armor woven of light and shadow, his gaze fixed on me with surprise and recognition.

“Rowan?” he asked.

I stared. “Wait—are you actually here? Did I fall asleep standing up?”

“I think it’s a dream,” he said. “But you’re not acting like a figment.”

“You’re not acting like you either!”

“Meaning?”

“You look very… shiny.”

He glanced down, confused. “Shiny?”

A gust of wind surged through the circle, lifting dust and light into a spiral. A figure began to form, a silhouette, then a voice:

“Ceosan.”

Oscar reached for his sword.

The voice spoke again, overlapping itself in many echoes.

“Ceosan—fairich—”

The wind snapped. The vision shattered.

I woke gasping. Oscar jolted awake too, sitting upright so fast his coat fell open.

We looked at each other.

“You dreamed it too,” I said.

He nodded once.

Then we noticed the faint ring of colored markings encircling our left forearms, mirroring the stone circle’s configuration. Tiny symbols glowed beneath the skin, pulsing slowly.

My breath caught. “Oscar…?”

“We hide this,” he said immediately, tugging his sleeve down.

“Show no one. Not until we understand it.”

Before I could respond, a horn sounded from the ridge, a deep, triumphant blast.

The royal convoy had arrived, but they were much too early. We scrambled to get up and clear out the space, and soon, above the crater, we were surrounded by the villagers and our guests.

Horses thundered down the muddy road, banners snapping. Four knights of the Royal Guard, an official, and at the helm, a tall woman in white robes embroidered with silver and ochre.

The mage.

She dismounted with fluid grace, eyes scanning the stones. She said nothing, approaching the circle while tracing the air with quick, practiced fingers. We all stepped back.

Oscar and I exchanged a glance, sleeves pulled firmly down.

After a long moment, the mage stepped back toward the soldiers and villagers.

“The circle,” she announced, calm and clear, “is harmless.”

A collective exhale rippled through the villagers.

“It is a remnant of ancient practice,” she continued, clasping her hands, “from a time when royal clans sought those with latent magical affinity. A beacon, nothing more.”

My skin prickled. Oscar’s jaw tightened.

“It poses no danger. You may return to your homes.”

Then, almost too soft for anyone except us, she added:

“Though… I am curious how it called upon you.”

Oscar stiffened. I swallowed.

Her eyes flicked between us briefly before she turned away, raising her staff to deactivate the circle. Quietly, the stones began to disappear into the air.

She approached us. “I am Maeve,” she said with a slight bow. “I have trained with the Royal Guild for a decade, and I’m glad to see others of the same affinity still spread across the land.”

We stayed still, unsure what to say.

“The Guild would gladly receive you both. You would receive training, an opportunity to grow and serve the kingdom honorably.”

Jaw clenched, Oscar replied, “I have already served this kingdom,” tracing the scar on his forearm.

She followed the trace, smiling gently.

“I understand. We shan’t burden you. But if you wish to join us, we’re here until tomorrow. We leave at dawn.”

She turned to me.

“You are welcome as well.”

“Er… are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure,” she said, amused. “I’ll be waiting until dawn, and I hope our journey is blessed with your presence.”

One of the knights called her, and she bowed again before leaving.

I looked at Oscar, but he stared ahead, slightly angry.

“Oscar? Are you going?”

“Of course not, lad. I’ve paid my dues. All I gained from it is the desire to live the rest of my days in this peaceful village, not chase notions of heroism.”

“Oh,” I replied quietly, hiding my excitement.

“I’m sorry, Rowan,” Oscar said. “I didn’t mean to burden you. I’m done with the Guard, but you’re young and eager for adventure. If you wish to go, no one will fault you.”

“Take the night. Sit with it. Let your head and heart argue it out.”

I swallowed. “What if I choose wrong?”

“There is no wrong,” Oscar said. “Only the path you walk and the person you become.” His voice dropped. “Whatever you choose—go or stay—you owe no one an explanation. Least of all me.”

***

My house felt smaller than ever when I stepped inside. The air was cool, still. A tiny window let in a sliver of fading light. It crossed my empty table, my worn boots by the door, and the thin blanket on my bed.

Nothing stirred, not even the dust.

I sat on the mattress edge, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight. The silence pressed around me.

My eyes drifted to the shelf.

To the little wooden doll, Irena’s doll, paint chipped from years of love and grief. The last piece of her I had left.

“I think I want to live,” I whispered. “Irena… I want to try and be free.”

***

Dawn crept pale and gold over the fields when I reached the village edge. The knights and the mage were already mounted.

“Let us move on,” the mage said. “They are not coming.”

“Wait!”

My voice cracked through the morning. I was running, mud flying behind me, breath burning, but I didn’t care. I skidded to a stop before them, nearly colliding with Maeve’s horse.

“I’m coming,” I gasped. “If the offer still stands.”

Maeve’s expression softened. “It does.”

I straightened, forcing myself to breathe, to stand tall, even if my legs shook.

“I want to learn,” I said. “I want to understand what happened.”

She nodded once. “Then walk with us, Rowan of the Valley.”

As we started down the path, hooves thudding in the damp earth, I turned for one last look at the village.

The farmers, the children, the old women, the blacksmith, Anna, Madame Edda, even the Mayor, were waving, calling my name, some still tying aprons or wiping sleep from their eyes. The whole village had gathered to send me off.

And at the center stood Oscar.

Arms crossed, chin lifted, pretending to look unimpressed. But a faint smile tugged at his mouth. When our eyes met, he raised his hand in a slow wave.

I swallowed the lump of emotions and straightened in the saddle, wanting to appear nothing but afraid.

The storms were gone, the sky freshly washed, and the world smelled of wet earth and beginnings. As the convoy moved forward and the village grew smaller, I felt so exalted that even if death struck me then, I would have gone peacefully.