(we head back home to the dark isle, where unbeknownst to Jonn he has a cousin who is about to come of age)
The forest fell silent, as it always did when she approached.
The two boys stood panting, the fog of their breath filling the early spring air, like puffs of smoke from a smith's chimney when the bellows are put to work. Each bent, hands on their knees, sweating through their linen tunics despite the morning chill, colder still for the closeness of her presence.
The song of the birds had gone silent first, then the clacking of their heavy wooden swords as realization dawned, for they knew the signs. She was sharp-tongued at the best of times, worse when displeased. It was wise to cease all activity and greet her with one's fullest attention.
The ravens would be next, and sure enough they came, silent at first, filling the treetops with the quiet fluttering of great black wings. They surveyed the two boys from above, their blank black eyes inscrutable, impassive. The weight of the murder's collective gaze was heavy as lead upon them, made worse still by the dread.
They locked eyes a moment, still panting, for they were boys of the First People, soon to be men, and swordplay was no game to them. A dozen scars apiece and fresh bruises and cuts from the morning's practice decorated their young bodies, for they sparred full contact, unafraid of pain. Yet fear now filled their eyes; Kellan Dodger, last of the line of House Dodger of the Mistwood, and his companion Merec, son of Meritt, a commoner, though uncommon for his father's position as Steward of the House, held since the death of Kellan's father in the days of their youth.
This was about to change, as were a great many things, though they could not have known. For this day was a day shy of Kellan's seventeenth year, the eve of his ascending the seat of the Mistwood by the tradition of the First People. And so it was only appropriate that she should visit on this day of all days, though her visits were few.
Who can say the reason for the fear the Lady of the Mistwood inspires in the hearts of the bravest; perhaps the ghostly silence of the forest as she comes, or the ravens. Or perhaps they have seen the things that stalk the woods at night, and heard her sing to them in the strange tongues of the ones who walked the Isle in the days before the forests rang with the speech of Men. Perhaps her steely gaze, those eyes that seem to leave the soul bare, naked and shivering, bereft of all secrets.
