The following morning, Elara found a dead raven on her doorstep, its obsidian feathers stark against the dew-kissed stone. A single, crimson feather lay beside it, a colour unnatural to the bird. A shiver traced its way down her spine. Ravens were not uncommon in the Whisperwood, but this felt… deliberate. An omen, perhaps, echoing the unease the stranger had brought.
Later that day, the village elder, Maeve, was found dead in her cottage, a single crimson feather clutched in her hand. Panic rippled through Oakhaven. Maeve, the keeper of their local lore and remedies, gone so suddenly, so violently. The villagers whispered of dark magic, of ill omens, their eyes darting nervously towards the silent stranger at the inn.
Sheriff Alaric, a stout man with a perpetually worried frown, began a clumsy investigation. He questioned everyone, his gaze lingering on Elara, as if her silence made her inherently suspicious. Frustration bubbled within her. She had seen nothing, knew nothing, but her inability to speak made her feel like a perpetual outsider, forever under scrutiny.
Driven by a disquiet she couldn't articulate, Elara found herself drawn to Maeve's ransacked cottage. Amidst the overturned furniture and scattered herbs, something glinted beneath a loose floorboard. It was a small, intricately carved wooden box.