The figure stepped into the common room with movements that were both graceful and predatory, each footfall deliberate and measured.
Behind them came another form—tall, broad-shouldered, and armoured in blackened steel that bore no device or heraldry.
This second figure moved with the agility of a trained warrior, one hand resting casually on the pommel of a sword that had seen considerable use.
Few of the older people had already guessed who they were, just by their appearances. It wasn't difficult, as they were mostly strong people in the realm.
The hooded figure reached up with pale, long-fingered hands and drew back the concealing fabric.
A collective intake of breath rippled through the room as the face beneath was revealed—a woman's face, beautiful in the way that winter storms were beautiful, possessed of a terrible and alien perfection that spoke of power beyond mortal ken.
Morgana.
Even those who had never seen her before knew that name, whispered in equal measures of fear and reverence throughout the mountain settlements.
The Witch of the Moonflares, she who walked between worlds and commanded forces that wise women did not speak of in daylight hours. Her hair fell in waves of black and white that seemed to move with currents not entirely of this world, and her eyes held depths that suggested she had looked upon vistas that would drive lesser minds to madness.
Willem recovered first, his veteran's instincts overriding the supernatural dread that had settled over the room like a shroud.
He approached the newcomers with the careful respect accorded to dangerous predators, his wooden leg tapping a nervous rhythm against the floorboards.
"My lady," he said, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "You honour our humble establishment. How may we serve you?"
Morgana's gaze swept the room, touching each face in turn, and Jaenor felt the weight of her attention like a physical thing when those ancient eyes found his.
For a moment that stretched like eternity, he found himself drowning in depths that held knowledge of things beyond counting, secrets that mortal minds were not meant to contain.
"A room," she said, her voice carrying harmonics that seemed to resonate in the very stones of the building.
"Private. Secure. And food for myself and my companion."
Willem nodded quickly, perhaps too quickly.
"Of course, my lady. The best chamber in the house is yours. And Sir Darian—" He addressed the armoured figure with careful formality. "—will find the accommodations suitable for a knight of your... evident prowess."
The Black Knight, Darian, inclined his head slightly but said nothing.
His face was hidden behind a helm that bore no device save for two eye slits that glowed with their own inner fire. Even standing still, he radiated the kind of controlled violence that made men step carefully and keep their hands visible.
As Willem bustled about preparing their chambers, the common room gradually began to stir back to life.
Conversations resumed in hushed tones, nervous glances cast toward the two figures who had brought winter into their midst. Some of the older villagers made subtle gestures against evil, while others nodded with the wary respect accorded to dangerous allies.
Morgana's reputation preceded her like the scent of ozone before a lightning strike. She was known throughout the northern reaches as a wielder of the Origin Power whose abilities touched on disciplines that the Witch Coven viewed with suspicion.
Where the witches sought to impose order and control upon the forces they wielded, Morgana walked paths that led into shadows and dealt with powers that had names in languages not spoken by mortal tongues.
Yet for all the fear she inspired, she was also known as one who stood against the Shadow when it moved in the world. Her interventions had saved more than one settlement from fates worse than death, and those who had witnessed her power knew that whatever darkness she might traffic with, she had not given her soul to the High Father of Lies.
"Well," Baren said quietly, his voice barely audible above the renewed murmur of conversation, "it seems our quiet mountain village has become a destination for interesting company."
Taeryn's hands trembled slightly as he raised his mug, the ale sloshing against the rim. "First the chieftess takes interest in our Jaenor, and now a witch arrives with a knight of the Shadow Guard. Our village life grows stranger by the day."
Jaenor felt the truth of those words in his bones. The comfortable certainties of his youth were crumbling like ancient parchment, replaced by possibilities that were both terrifying and exhilarating. Whatever forces had taken notice of his small mountain village, their attention would not be easily dismissed.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he could not shake the feeling that Morgana's arrival was not mere coincidence.