Chief Roran sat at his desk in his office, the room bathed in the soft, warm glow of a lantern whose light cast gentle shadows across the wooden walls, while the scent of parchment and ink mingled with the earthy aroma of the surrounding forest. Outside, the wind whistled through the trees, its breath carrying the soft rustling of leaves.


    A man of middle age, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a calm demeanor, Chief Roran had spent many years serving his people. An old map of the region was pinned to the wall, along with a carved wooden statue of a deer that sat on the shelf, and a collection of hand-bound books that chronicled the village''s history.


    Roran leaned back in his chair, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his mug. The warmth of the tea inside was comforting, but his mind was far from the present moment. He thought of the northern village and its leaders and the promise they had made regarding the Virethra tree. It was a rare and valuable resource, one that had taken years of negotiation to secure. He had no doubt that the agreement would bring prosperity to his people, but it still confused him as to how they could let go of such a valuable tree like that.


    Although the cost was only three of their cattle and 20 pieces of Zorvith, the price for acquiring the tree was still surprisingly low, especially considering its true value. He''d almost thought it was a scam, but a quick check of the tree revealed that it was legitimate.


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    His gaze drifted to the map pinned on the wall. The region was vast, and while the agreement was a step forward, there was no telling if the northern village would betray him if things took a turn for the worse. He had lived long enough to know that peace was never a thing that was guaranteed.


    It would have been manageable if it were just the northern village, but the other surrounding settlements brought their own set of migraines. To make matters worse, the King was an arrogant fool and didn''t care at all about the fighting between the villages. As long as he received the resources from both sides, he cared little for the bloodshed that fueled his wealth.


    Roran set down his mug and stood, walking over to the closet he had in his office before pulling open the heavy wooden door, revealing the neatly arranged contents inside. His hand brushed past the old tomes and dusty scrolls he had in the closet before settling on a weathered leather satchel that felt oddly warm to the touch, grabbing its handles before pulling it out of the closet.


    As he walked over to his desk and placed the satchel down, he was about to open it when a sudden knock at the door stopped him from doing so.


    “Come in,”


    The door groaned on its hinges as a young messenger slipped inside, her breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. A strained smile tugged at her lips as she straightened, her eyes bright with excitement. “Chief Roran,” she panted, “the caravan from the northern village has arrived. They’ve brought the tree, just as they promised.”


    “Good. Prepare the hall for their arrival. I’ll be there shortly.”


    The messenger bowed once more before leaving, and the room was left filled with the soft rustling of parchment and the distant sounds of the wind. Roran took a deep breath to collect himself, then placed the satchel beneath his desk. He grabbed his scarf, draped it around his neck, and turned to leave.


    But something strange happened.


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    “What?” was all he managed to say before his vision went dark.


    End