Chapter 247: Chapter 247: THE VALLEY VILLAGE & VOICES FROM THE HILL

​The third day of their journey drew them deeper into the heart of Eastmarch. The vast, monotonous grasslands began to roll, transforming into a series of low hills whose ridges were blanketed by dense, dark pine forests. The air here felt warmer than the frigid atmosphere of Northreach, yet it still held enough of a bite to turn their breath into white puffs of mist with every word spoken.

​Roland sat inside the swaying carriage, his legs crossed in a relaxed posture. A small, leather-bound notebook rested on his lap, its pages already half-filled. His fingers moved rhythmically, scratching ink onto the yellowish parchment. Occasionally, he would pause, drawing in the cold air that drifted through the window, and stare at the horizon before returning to his writing.

​"Writing a letter?" Rianor’s voice cut through the silence. He didn’t look up from the crystal tablet in his hands.

​"Just travel notes. They might come in handy later," Roland replied without turning.

​"For whom?"

​Roland hesitated. He closed the book with a soft thud and tucked it into his coat pocket. Rianor didn’t press him; he simply returned to the glowing light diagrams on his tablet.

​Outside the window, life thrummed in its own quiet way. Herds of thick-furred cattle with sturdy, curved horns grazed on the hillsides. A mounted herdsman in a coarse cloak gave a brief wave as their carriage passed—a silent greeting in the middle of nowhere. A few gray-furred mountain goats stood motionless on jagged rocks, their jaws moving lazily as they chewed on grass. Deep at the forest’s edge, a herd of wild horses galloped, their manes fluttering in the wind like tattered banners.

​Roland watched the scenery, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the late afternoon sun. "Strange," he murmured.

​"Hmm? What is?"

​"All of this... it feels too peaceful. It’s as if they don’t care about the war looming over them, or the political rot in the capital. They just live, breathe, and wait for tomorrow."

​Rianor finally looked up. "That’s because they don’t know. Or perhaps they choose not to care. Just like we once did, before everything fell apart."

​Roland didn’t argue. The corner of his lip twitched upward—a bitter acknowledgment that his brother was right.

​The orange glow of sunset was fading by the time they reached the village.

​Nestled in a small valley embraced by low hills, the village looked like an unfinished old sketch. Stone houses with thick thatched roofs lined a damp dirt road. Chimneys exhaled thin trails of smoke that drifted lazily, mingling with the twilight mist. A small stream flowed along the village’s edge, its water so clear the stony bed was visible. It was the perfect place for children to play.

​Yet, not a single child was in sight.

​"Something’s wrong," Dom reported from the driver’s seat. His voice was low, laced with caution.

​Roland leaned forward, peering through the window slit. "Why is it so quiet?"

​Only a handful of villagers were visible—an elderly woman hurrying to shutter her wooden windows, a middle-aged man walking briskly with his head down, and a farmer herding his goats into the pen long before true darkness fell. There were no greetings. No curious stares. They all seemed to be avoiding something unseen.

​"They look terrified," muttered Naya, her hand resting casually but ready on her weapon’s hilt.

​Roland opened the carriage door and stepped down. "Then let’s find out what’s making them tremble."

​The village head was an old man with a back hunched by the weight of years. His name was Harald. His gnarled, vein-streaked hands shook as he welcomed them into his home—a stone building slightly larger than the others, with a fireplace burning low, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls.

​"Forgive our cold welcome," Harald’s voice was raspy, like sandpaper on wood. "We rarely receive guests these days. Especially... after the sun goes down."

​Roland took a seat on a hard wooden chair, politely declining the offer of tea with a subtle gesture. "It seems there’s a serious problem here, Master Harald?"

​Harald fell silent for a long time. His eyes were fixed on the tongues of fire in the hearth, then he glanced at the windows, which had been tightly barred. "You must have felt it. This village dies when night falls. It’s because of... that sound."

​"Sound?" Roland frowned.

​"The weeping. From the northern hill." Harald’s trembling finger pointed toward the darkness outside. "Every night, when the moon rises, the sound comes. Like the wail of a tormented woman. Sometimes it’s faint; other times, it’s loud enough to pierce the heart. Anyone brave enough to go up there to investigate... they return with empty souls. Some never return at all."

​Roland looked at Rianor, who had been leaning against the doorframe, listening in silence. "What do you think?"

​"I need to hear it for myself before drawing any conclusions," Rianor cut in flatly.

​Roland turned back to Harald and gave a thin, reassuring smile. "We’re just traveling merchants. But my brother here has an insatiable curiosity for such mysteries. If you don’t mind, we’ll be staying the night."

​Harald stared at them in disbelief. "You... you aren’t afraid?"

​"We’ve faced things far more terrifying than a midnight cry, Master Harald."

​Night fell with an absolute, suffocating darkness. The sky above the valley was dusted with stars far brighter than those in Iron Hearth, free from the shroud of factory smoke. The cold began to bite, yet strangely, there wasn’t a breath of wind. Everything was still, as if the world were holding its breath.

​Roland instructed the Ghost Squad to blend in. "Drop the formalities. Act like a regular group of adventurers. You’re my friends, not my bodyguards."

​Dom gave a curt nod. Naya offered a slight smile and began to adjust. Orva was already sitting by the inn’s hearth, swapping stories about horses with an old farmer who looked incredibly tense. Meanwhile, Adul, with his characteristic nervousness, tried to help a young woman clear the dinner tables.

​Rianor stood outside the inn, leaning against the cold stone wall. His eyes were fixed on the dark silhouette of the northern hill. He wasn’t just listening with his ears. In his hand, a small device for measuring Mana fluctuations hummed softly, emitting a faint blue glow.

​Dom appeared beside him like a shadow. "Any indications?"

​"Not yet. But the frequency is beginning to shift."

​Inside the inn, Roland sat with a few village men. He ordered several glasses of bitter local ale to loosen their tongues. It worked; they began to talk.

​"The sound started about three months ago," whispered a man with a thick, unkempt beard. "At first, we thought it was just wolves. But wolves don’t wail names."

​"Sometimes the sound turns into a whisper," added a young woman clutching her infant tightly. "So faint, like someone calling for someone they’ve lost."

​"We sent our best," Harald chimed in from the end of the table. "They came back with hollow stares. They wouldn’t speak, only tremble. One of them can’t even sleep anymore because he keeps babbling about something he saw inside that cave."

​"A cave?" Roland set his glass down.

​"There’s a small cave on the slope of that hill. That’s where this curse breathes from."

​Roland glanced out the window. Rianor was still there, standing tall against the darkness.

​Toward midnight, the sound finally arrived.

​Huuu... huuu...

​At first, it was faint, like wind whistling through rock crevices. But slowly, it crystallized into a distinct sob. The weeping of a woman. The pitch rose and fell, laden with a sorrow so profound it made the skin crawl. The villagers inside the inn froze. The young woman held her baby so tight the little one let out a startled whimper.

​Roland hurried outside. Rianor had moved a few meters from the inn, closer to the hill. The device in his hand was now humming loudly, its needle twitching erratically. Dom stood beside him, his right hand already resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowed in vigilance.

​"You hear that?" Roland asked softly.

​"Highly unstable Mana fluctuations. It’s patternless, yet it possesses a powerful emotional resonance. This isn’t a normal living creature," Rianor explained without looking away.

​"Then what is it?"

​"I don’t know. I need data from up close." Rianor switched off his device, leaving the silence to grow heavy once more.

​Roland looked at his brother—the boy who used to spend his time correcting Elara’s books, now standing calmly before a mystery in a foreign land. "You’re going up there?"

​"Tomorrow morning." Rianor pocketed the device. "Tonight, I just wanted to record the frequency patterns."

​They stood there, two brothers beneath the vast dome of stars. In the distance, the weeping continued to echo, like a ghost from another world trying to pierce through reality. Yet, there was no fear in their eyes. Only cold determination and a hunger for the truth.

​Roland finally patted his brother’s shoulder. "Don’t miss out on your sleep."

​"I’m thinking, Roland."

​Roland chuckled softly. "Of course. When are you not thinking?"

​Roland walked back into the warmth of the hearth, leaving Rianor still staring at the hill. Dom remained there, frozen like a statue, guarding his master from a threat that had yet to manifest.

​On that hill, the weeping continued to call out, growing fainter, as if pleading to be found.