The first breath of the Fourth Age in the fields surrounding Oakhaven carried the mingled scents of damp earth and burgeoning life, a fragile promise of peace painted in the soft gold and hopeful green of early spring. Yet, beneath the tranquil surface, the land itself seemed to hold a subtle tension, an unspoken memory of the Shadow’s long night. Elian Al'Soran, a young man barely into his stride, his lean frame honed by the daily demands of farm work, knelt by the low fieldstone wall. His worn, homespun shirt, the color of faded wheat, billowed slightly at his back with the gentle morning breeze, the loose fabric clinging to the angles of his shoulders and arms as he carefully placed another rough-hewn stone. His sturdy brown breeches, patched at the knees from previous seasons of labor, rustled softly against his legs with each movement. A stray lock of his sun-streaked brown hair, escaping the confines of a simple leather thong at his nape, danced across his forehead in the same unseen current. A distant bellow from the Ayellin’s old bull, Barnaby, echoed across the still fields, a sound as familiar as the rhythmic chirp of unseen larks in the budding trees. But this morning held a disquieting note, a subtle disharmony in the otherwise comforting symphony of rural life, centered on a patch of winter wheat that surged towards the sun with an unnatural, almost eager vitality.
The cool, rough stones felt familiar beneath his hands, a comforting contrast to the subtle unease that had settled within him. Old Man Haral, his gait slow but steady, shuffled along the path bordering their field, leaning on his gnarled hawthorn staff. "Morning to you, lad," he called out, his voice raspy but carrying a hint of amusement. "How's that wall coming along? That old bull of theirs should know better than to have a temper tantrum against good Andoran stone. "Elian straightened, a wry smile touching his lips. "Morning, Haral. Stubborn as ever, that one. Seems he took exception to a stray branch. It'll hold now, though." His gaze flickered to the patch of winter wheat nearby, its unnatural height and vibrant color a stark contrast to the surrounding crops. He'd mentioned it to his mother, Mara, who had simply cautioned patience
Haral's gaze followed Elian's, his milky eyes lingering on the unusually verdant stalks. A slow shake of his head accompanied a soft chuckle. "The land has its secrets, lad. Always has. Remember that storm three summers back? Took half the roof off the miller's shed, but left Widow Theren's prize roses untouched. The Wheel weaves in strange ways." He paused, his gaze returning to Elian, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "Just keep an eye on things, Elian."
Elian watched Old Man Haral continue his slow walk, the elder's figure gradually receding into the dappled sunlight filtering through the budding leaves of the roadside trees. Haral had seen more turnings of the Wheel than anyone Elian knew, his words often carrying the weight of forgotten seasons and the echoes of tales long past. His mention of the storm and Widow Theren's roses resonated with Elian's own deep-seated understanding of the land. Here, near Whitebridge, the soil was usually predictable, generous in its bounty when treated with respect and diligence. This sudden, inexplicable surge of life in their winter wheat felt different. Almost eager. Spring had finally Sprung.
He returned to the task of mending the wall, the rhythmic clink of stone against stone a familiar comfort. His thoughts, however, kept returning to the vibrant green patch. He’d felt it before, this subtle hum of something unusual in the air around their farm. A few weeks prior, a late frost had threatened the early blossoms on their apple trees, a worry shared by every orchard owner in the region. Yet, the frost had inexplicably skirted their land, leaving their delicate pink and white buds untouched while neighboring orchards bore the tell-tale signs of damage. His mother, Mara, had attributed it to luck, a fickle favor of the Pattern. But Elian had felt a strange certainty then, a fleeting sense of influence, as if the frost had been diverted.
He tested the repaired section of the wall, ensuring its stability against Barnaby’s future temperaments. The bull was a creature of habit and stubborn will, much like the farmers of Andor themselves, clinging to the familiar rhythms of life even as the world around them shifted. The talk in Whitebridge these past months had been of the Fourth Age, of rebuilding and the promise of lasting peace under the Dragon Reborn’s memory. Yet, beneath the hopeful pronouncements, Elian sensed a lingering unease, a quiet acknowledgment that the world had been irrevocably changed. The stories of the Last Battle, though fading from everyday conversation, still lingered in the hushed tones around the hearth fires at night, tales of unimaginable power and terrifying darkness. And sometimes, when the wind whispered through the fields just so, Elian could almost feel the echoes of that great conflict in the very soil beneath his feet.
Satisfied with his work, he gathered his tools and latched the gate of the Ayellin farm behind him. His task completed, Elian turned onto the dusty path that led through the heart of Oakhaven, the morning sun now warming his back.
As he approached the center of Oakhaven, he could hear the rhythmic clang of Isara's hammer from the smithy. The strong, capable woman was likely already hard at work, shaping iron for ploughshares or perhaps shoeing a farmer's horse. The steady beat was a comforting sound, a symbol of the village's resilience and the constant effort to rebuild and maintain their way of life. A small group of children were beginning to gather on the common green, their laughter echoing softly in the still air as they chased a stray chicken. The ancient oak at the heart of the green stood silent and watchful, its gnarled branches reaching towards the sky like the arms of a benevolent giant, a silent witness to countless seasons of Oakhaven's existence.
Even here, though, a subtle reminder of the recent troubles lingered. A few houses still showed the scars of Trolloc raids from the war – hastily repaired walls, darker patches of newer thatch on older roofs. The men and women he passed carried a quiet determination in their eyes, a sense of having endured and a resolve to build a more peaceful future for their children. Yet, beneath the surface, Elian sensed a shared awareness of the fragility of that peace, a knowledge that the world beyond their quiet hollow remained uncertain.
He glanced back towards the field, his gaze drawn once more to the unnaturally vibrant patch of wheat. It stood out against the familiar landscape of Oakhaven like a sudden, sharp note in a comforting melody. A prickle of unease ran down his spine. It didn't belong. It felt different. As he reached the gate to the Ayellin farm and unlatched it, he gave his head a small, almost imperceptible shake. Can't keep letting every odd thing make my hair stand on end, he thought, a familiar practicality reasserting itself. The land has its moods. Mother's right. The Wheel weaves as it will. Yet, the image of the unnaturally green wheat lingered in his mind as he stepped onto the familiar road.
It was near the ancient oak that stood sentinel at the edge of the green that he encountered her. Leana Trestle, Tanner Galt's youngest daughter, a girl just blossoming into womanhood with eyes the color of a summer sky after a rain and hair like spun flax, stood near the base of the tree, seemingly lost in thought as she traced the patterns in the bark with a slender finger.
As Elian approached, she looked up, her lips curving into a shy but undeniably knowing smile. A faint blush touched her cheeks, as delicate as the petals of the early apple blossoms. "Elian," she said, her voice soft as the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze. "A long walk for you this morning?"
He nodded, a faint warmth rising in his own face at her unexpected address. Leana rarely spoke to him directly, her interactions usually limited to quick greetings in passing. "Just stretching my legs, after fixing that wall" he replied, perhaps a bit too abruptly.
Her smile widened, a playful glint in her blue eyes. She reached into a small cloth pouch at her waist and withdrew a simple, golden-brown biscuit. "My mother baked these this morning," she said, extending it towards him. "Still warm. You looked like you could use something to break your fast on your way back home." Her fingers brushed his as he took the biscuit, a fleeting touch that sent a surprising warmth through him.
"Thank you, Leana," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary before he turned to continue his walk towards the southern edge of the village and the path that led to the Braen Woods. The warmth of the biscuit in his hand was matched by a curious stirring within him, a feeling as unexpected and subtly sweet as the taste of the biscuit itself. The image of the unnaturally green wheat seemed to recede slightly in the face of this unexpected encounter, replaced by the lingering warmth of a girl's smile on a cool morning.
Elian nodded to a few neighbors as he passed, the warmth of their simple greetings a familiar comfort. He continued along the path that led past Thomas's mill, the creaking of the water wheel a constant presence. Soon, the last of the village homes began to thin out, replaced by the untamed edges of the Braen Woods, their ancient trees looming dark and silent on the horizon. His own small farmstead lay nestled near the edge of those woods, a place of quiet solitude he called home.\
The path narrowed as it began to skirt the first line of trees, their ancient branches reaching out like gnarled fingers, their leaves a deep, verdant canopy overhead. Tucked beside the path, almost swallowed by the encroaching moss and the tangled roots of the woods, stood the Old Stone. Elian had passed it countless times on his way to and from Oakhaven. Its dark, uneven surface and the strange, faded carvings that no one could decipher were simply a part of the landscape, like the twisted shape of the ancient oak further down the path or the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves at a certain time of day. He barely gave it a second glance, his mind still occupied by the warmth of Leana's smile and the lingering question of the unnaturally vibrant wheat. He noted, as he always did, the small tokens left at its base – a smooth white stone, a child's lost hair ribbon – remnants of old habits and forgotten meanings.
Elian’s own small farmstead, nestled in the embrace of the Braen Woods’ edge, was a testament to generations of quiet toil and a deep connection to the land. The main house was built of sturdy, hand-hewn timbers, chinked with daub and moss to ward off the chill of winter and the heat of summer. Its steeply pitched roof, thatched with thick layers of tightly bound reeds harvested from the marshy areas further south, bore the mossy green of many seasons, a testament to its enduring protection against the elements. A single, stout stone chimney rose from one end, a thin plume of grey smoke lazily ascending into the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, carrying the comforting scent of woodsmoke and the promise of a warm hearth within.
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The windows were small and few, their panes likely made of painstakingly flattened horn or perhaps salvaged glass from a traveling peddler, their surfaces reflecting the surrounding greenery in distorted, shimmering patterns. Heavy wooden shutters, secured by stout wooden bars, stood ready to ward off both the elements and any unwelcome intrusions from the wilder parts of the Braen Woods. A narrow, planked porch, worn smooth by countless footsteps, ran along the front of the house, offering a sheltered spot to sit and watch the changing seasons. Worn wooden barrels, catching rainwater from the eaves, stood at either end.
A small, fenced garden lay to the south of the house, enclosed by a rough barrier of woven branches and sharpened stakes to keep out foraging deer and rabbits. Rows of newly turned earth showed the promise of spring planting, with the first delicate green shoots of vegetables already beginning to emerge. A few gnarled apple trees, their branches still bearing the remnants of delicate white blossoms, stood scattered around the clearing, offering shade in the warmer months.
To the north, a small, sturdy barn, its timbers smelling of hay and livestock, leaned slightly with age but stood firm against the forest's edge. A rough-hewn wooden fence enclosed a small pasture where a few chickens scratched and pecked, and a single, sturdy milking cow grazed peacefully. The entire farmstead had a practical, unadorned feel, every building and enclosure serving a clear purpose, reflecting the self-sufficient life of those who lived within its boundaries, drawing their sustenance and shelter directly from the land and the nearby woods. It was a place where the rhythms of the seasons dictated the pace of life, a quiet sanctuary carved out of the vastness of Andor. .
As he drew closer, he noticed two figures on the porch. One was unmistakably his mother, Mara, her familiar form seated in the old rocking chair, mending a tear in a worn woolen shawl. The other figure, however, was a surprise. Seated beside her, her posture more upright and her attire a touch more refined than the usual homespun of Oakhaven, was his Aunt Myra. Aunt Myra rarely left her comfortable home in Whitebridge, the journey considered arduous for her. Her presence here, unannounced, caused a flicker of surprise to ripple through Elian.
He quickened his pace, a warmth spreading through him at the unexpected sight of his aunt. Mara looked up as he approached, a smile lighting her weathered face. "Elian! You're back. Look who decided to grace our humble abode with a visit."
Aunt Myra turned, her expression a mixture of affection and a hint of her usual Whitebridge formality. "Elian, dear boy! You've grown taller, it seems, since my last visit. And you've been working hard, I can see." Her gaze took in his dusty boots and the tools slung over his shoulder.
Aunt Myra’s eyes, a sharp and intelligent grey, crinkled at the corners as a genuine smile touched her lips. Despite the formality of her initial greeting, a warmth radiated from her that Elian had always cherished. She rose from the porch chair with a surprising quickness for someone who rarely ventured beyond the familiar streets of Whitebridge, her movements precise and economical.
"Elian," she said again, her voice softening slightly as she reached out, her hands, though smaller than his, firm as they clasped his arms. She drew him into a hug, a brief but heartfelt embrace that spoke of years of affection. Elian, now a head taller than his aunt – a fact that was always remarked upon whenever they met, a tangible measure of the years that had passed since her last visit to their secluded farm – bent slightly to return the gesture. He could still recall, vividly, a time when he had barely reached her shoulder.
As they parted, Aunt Myra stepped back, her gaze traveling up his frame, a thoughtful expression on her face. "My goodness, boy," she remarked, a hint of wonder in her voice. "You've truly shot up. Mara has been feeding you well, I see. You’re practically a man grown." Her eyes held a flicker of something else, though – a curiosity, perhaps, or even a touch of concern that quickly vanished beneath her more composed demeanor.
Elian offered a wry smile. "Someone has to tend the fields, Aunt Myra. It builds a man." He shifted his tools, a faint flush rising on his cheeks at her direct appraisal. The surprise of her unexpected presence still lingered in his mind, mingling with the lingering warmth of Leana's biscuit and the persistent, subtle unease about the wheat. Why now? he wondered briefly, a question he kept to himself for the moment, not wanting to break the pleasant surprise of her arrival.
Mara, who had been watching the exchange with a fond smile, finally spoke, her voice warm and grounded like the earth Elian had been working. "Myra's journey wasn't just for a pleasant visit, though we are certainly glad to have you, sister. Things are… shifting in the world beyond our quiet woods. News travels slowly these days, not like before the… troubles. Even the peddlers who still brave the roads carry tales tinged with uncertainty." She glanced at Myra, a silent prompting in her eyes.
Aunt Myra nodded, her composed demeanor settling back into place, though a hint of something serious lingered beneath the surface. She smoothed the folds of her dress – a finer weave than Mara's homespun – with a deliberate gesture. "Indeed. Whitebridge is abuzz with whispers. The caravans are fewer, and those that do arrive speak of unrest in places we once considered stable. The White Tower sends pronouncements, of course, but even their pronouncements seem to carry a different weight now." She paused, her gaze sweeping over Elian, as if assessing his readiness for such tidings. "I felt it was important for you both to hear these things firsthand, rather than relying on rumor and the fragmented tales that might reach even this far."
Aunt Myra’s gaze, which had been sweeping over the familiar surroundings of the farmstead, snapped back to Elian, her previous air of polite formality replaced by a sudden, stark seriousness that caused him to straighten instinctively. The usual light in her grey eyes seemed to sharpen, and a faint tremor touched her voice.
"Elian," she said, her tone low and urgent, the casual pleasantries of their reunion abruptly cast aside. "The news I bring is not simply of trade routes and whispers. There is something else. Something unsettling." She paused, her gaze locking onto his, as if needing to gauge his reaction before continuing.
Mara’s knitting needles stilled in her hands, her brow furrowing with a sudden apprehension that mirrored Elian’s own growing unease. "What is it, Myra? What has you so troubled?"
Aunt Myra took a deep breath, her gaze flicking briefly to Mara before returning to Elian. "Word has reached Whitebridge… reliable word, carried by a rider bearing the standard of the Black Tower itself. They are sending an envoy. To Whitebridge. And their purpose: to test all the men and boys in the surrounding area. For the ability."
A cold knot tightened in Elian’s stomach. The ability. The word hung in the air, unspoken yet heavy with implication. He had heard the hushed whispers, the fearful tales of men who could touch saidin, the male half of the True Source, Once tainted by the Dark One. Madness, destruction, the breaking of the world… the stories were enough to curdle blood.
Aunt Myra continued, her voice grim. "They are not just testing those suspected of wild talents, Elian. The decree from the Black Tower is clear. They are testing all men and boys. Every farmer, every apprentice, every lad barely old enough to shave. They are to be examined. And those who show even the slightest spark are to be taken back to the Black Tower."
Aunt Myra shook her head slowly, her gaze troubled. "The reasons are not entirely clear. Some say it is at the urging of the Aes Sedai in Tar Valon, a desperate measure to control any potential outbreaks. Though," she added, her brow furrowing thoughtfully, "I did hear, from a source I believe to be credible – a merchant who travels frequently between Whitebridge and Caemlyn – that saidin was cleansed months ago. By the Dragon Reborn himself, they say."
Mara’s eyes widened slightly. "Cleansed? Truly? If that's so" A flicker of hope touched her pale face, quickly followed by a return of worry. "Then why this testing? Why would the Black Tower still be rounding up every man and boy?"
Aunt Myra’s expression remained grim. "That, Mara, is the question that hangs heavy in the air in Whitebridge. If the taint is truly gone, then this sudden interest from the Black Tower feels predatory. Some fear they seek to build their own power, to control all who can channel, now that the danger of madness is lessened. Others believe the Black Tower doesn't trust the Aes Sedai's claims, or perhaps they have their own reasons for such a sweeping decree."
Elian listened, his mind reeling. The cleansing of saidin had been a whispered hope, a distant possibility. If it were true, then this envoy from the Black Tower took on an even more sinister aspect. It wasn't about preventing madness; it was about control. And he, along with every other man and boy in the region, was now a potential target.
But, if saidin is clean," Elian said slowly, a dawning fear mixing with a flicker of something else, something akin to defiance. "Then they have no right to just take people."
Aunt Myra’s lips tightened. "Right and power are often different things, Elian. The Black Tower holds authority now, sanctioned by, well, by the chaos after the last battle, and the need for order. Many fear to defy them directly. And if they claim it is for the good of all, to prevent another Breaking, who in a small village like Oakhaven would dare to stand against them?"
Mara added, her voice laced with a deep weariness, "They took young Tomas from Farmer Grile's stead years ago. He was a quiet lad, good with animals. They said he had a spark. We never heard from him again. The Black Tower operates by its own laws, far from the Light of Tar Valon these days."
Elian’s jaw tightened, a stubborn set to his young features that Mara recognized with a familiar pang. It was the same look he’d worn as a boy when he’d insisted on tending a lamb caught in a briar patch, despite her warnings. A flicker of that same protectiveness, that inherent sense of fairness, now hardened his gaze.
"But to test everyone?" he repeated, his voice gaining a sharper edge. "Just to find those who have the spark?"
Aunt Myra sighed, a sound that spoke of the weariness of the world beyond their quiet farm. "That is their decree, Elian. To test all, to ensure no potential channeler goes unnoticed." Her gaze flickered to him again, a silent question in their depths.
Mara reached out, her calloused hand covering Elian’s arm, her touch grounding. "We will face it as we always have, son. With quiet strength. We will not invite trouble, but neither will we cower needlessly. The Pattern weaves us all, and we must play the threads given to us." Yet, the worry in her eyes belied the stoic words.
Elian looked from his mother’s hand to the darkening shadows lengthening across the farmyard as the afternoon began its slow descent. The peace of the morning, the warmth of Leana’s biscuit, even the familiar comfort of his home, now felt fragile, overshadowed by the ominous news from Whitebridge. The Black Tower. An envoy coming to test and potentially to take those with the spark. He didn't know if he possessed it. He had never felt anything. But the thought of strangers descending upon Oakhaven, scrutinizing him for something he didn't understand, stirred a cold dread deep within his heart.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of woodsmoke and the approaching dusk filling his lungs. The quiet sanctuary of his home suddenly felt vulnerable. The Wheel turned, and a new thread, dark and uncertain, had been woven into the tapestry of his life. He did not know what the morrow would bring, but a sense of inevitability settled upon him, a feeling that the strange occurrences of this spring morning were not random, but perhaps a sign of the currents of the Pattern beginning to tug at the quiet life he had always known.
