Chapter 4: The Steward’s Gaze

Roots of Desire

Chapter 4: The Steward’s Gaze

The morning was crisp, the sun barely touching the horizon as Iveyna and her father set off to deliver the axe to the Steward. The familiar scent of coal and forge smoke still lingered on her skin, but the walk brought her a different kind of discomfort. She felt the weight of the unspoken words between her and her parents, and the sense that something was shifting within her; a discomfort she couldn’t name.

As they walked along the worn path that led out of town, Iveyna's eyes drifted to the trees lining the trail, their bark weathered and familiar. But as they rounded a bend, something unusual caught her attention. A towering oak tree stood off to the side of the path, its massive trunk gnarled and twisted in a way that made it stand apart from the others. The bark was darker, more deeply ridged, as though it had grown from the earth unwillingly. And as she gazed at it, the leaves shimmered in the sunlight; like a soft, pulsing glow that was not natural, something alive and watching.

She stopped in her tracks, her gaze fixed on the oak. The uneasy feeling gnawed at her again, that strange sensation she had carried ever since her encounter in the forest, like the world around her was subtly shifting.

“Father,” she asked, her voice low, “Have you ever seen this oak before?”

Her father, already a few paces ahead, didn’t even glance toward the tree. His eyes were fixed on the path ahead, too focused on their destination. “What oak?” he muttered absently. “It’s always been here, I reckon. You know how they are.”

His words were dismissive, as though it was nothing more than a detail he’d overlooked countless times before. He didn’t share her curiosity; he never did.

“We have work to do. Let’s keep moving,” he added, his voice firm with finality, urging her forward.

But Iveyna couldn’t move. She was still locked in place, her eyes unwilling to leave the oak. Despite her father’s indifference, the oak seemed to pulse with something unknown; something powerful. It was as if the tree itself was watching her, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

The uneasy feeling that had followed her since the day in the forest flared again. It was the same feeling she’d had when she first encountered Woodward. But this time, it was sharper, more present. Something wasn’t right with that oak. It shouldn’t be there; at least, not like that.

Reluctantly, she turned away and caught up to her father. But the tree remained in her mind, like a shadow that refused to leave. Her footsteps quickened, though she couldn’t quite outrun the uneasy knot twisting in her chest.

As they approached the center of town, the Steward’s manor came into view. The stone house was as imposing as its owner, standing out from the smaller, humbler homes of the villagers. It loomed over the narrow dirt paths, its dark windows staring out like cold, calculating eyes.

Her father knocked on the wooden door with a sharp, echoing sound, his expression neutral. It wasn’t the first time they’d come here, but there was always something unsettling about the Steward's house. Something about the way the man always looked at her; like a calculation, something being measured and appraised; and she hated the way it made her skin crawl.

The door opened with a creak, and the Steward stood there, smiling that thin, polished smile of his. He was tall and impeccably dressed, his dark eyes sharp as a hawk’s. As always, he gave a quick glance toward her father, then, without missing a beat, his gaze flicked to Iveyna, moving down her figure slowly, almost lazily, as if making a careful study of her body.

"Ah, the young Duskvale," he purred, his voice smooth and unsettling. "Thirty summers, I hear." He looked her up and down once more, lingering on the curves of her body before turning his gaze back to her father with a casual nod. "Quite a grown woman now."

Iveyna held her breath, her cheeks flushing under the weight of his stare. She forced herself to keep her composure, looking at the floor for a moment to steady herself. She hated the way he spoke of her age, as though her life had been reduced to a mere number; a measurement of worth to be evaluated.

Her father, oblivious to the tension in the air, gave a grunt and set the axe down on the nearby counter. "Aye, she’s no child anymore."

The Steward stepped aside to let them in, his movements deliberate and calculated. His eyes, however, never left Iveyna. There was something predatory about the way he watched her as she stepped inside, his gaze trailing over her with an unnerving intensity, as if he were evaluating her, dissecting her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She felt as though she were some sort of object in his hands, something to be appraised and then discarded.

"Please, come in," the Steward said, his voice syrupy as he gestured toward the table. "I’m sure the town appreciates the skill of a Duskvale in her prime." The words were said with a subtle, almost mocking tone, the weight of his gaze heavy on her frame.

Iveyna tried not to flinch, but it was hard. It always felt as though he saw something more in her than just a blacksmith’s daughter; something she had no control over, something he expected her to fulfill. She couldn’t help but feel disgust at the way he measured her with his eyes, as though she were a piece of livestock.

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Her father, of course, didn’t notice. He didn’t see the way the Steward lingered on her body, as if savoring the sight. Instead, he picked up the conversation as though it were perfectly normal.

"I see you’ve had the runes added," the Steward said, gesturing toward the intricate carvings on the blade of the axe. Her father nodded, his attention finally breaking from the room.

Iveyna glanced down at the blade, but her mind wasn’t on the axe. She noticed the glint of the runes, how they shimmered in the low light of the room. It wasn’t just the axe that made her uneasy; it was the entire atmosphere in this room, the way the Steward stood so close to her father while never once acknowledging the discomfort he caused in her.

"Well, that’s lovely work, Duskvale," the Steward said, his attention now fully back on her father, though his gaze kept flickering toward Iveyna, appraising her as though she were part of the conversation. "We’ll make sure the town gets its fair share of such craftsmanship. And as for your daughter… I’m sure the town appreciates her skills as well."

Iveyna held her tongue, refusing to let the anger build up too much, but her heart pounded in her chest. His words felt like thinly veiled mockery, as though she were no more than a tool for their use. A thought, a whispered suspicion, passed through her mind: Did he ever really see her as more than that? Or did he see her as something to be bargained with, something to use for his own needs?

Before she could dwell too long on that, her father stood, clapping the Steward on the back with a laugh. "Glad we could help, as always. You’ll be getting more work from us soon enough." The Steward smiled again, but this time it felt even colder. "I look forward to it," he said, his eyes finally leaving Iveyna and turning to her father. "I’ll make sure to send a few of the town’s men your way soon. Good work, Duskvale."

As they left the Steward’s house, Iveyna couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just been measured, appraised, and dismissed. And though her father never seemed to notice, the Steward’s words and the way he’d looked at her stayed with her like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She felt small in a way she hadn’t before, and it made her uneasy. Her father, walking a few steps ahead, chatted about the next orders for the forge, but all Iveyna could think about was how that feeling lingered; how her skin still burned from the way the Steward had looked at her.

It was a feeling that stuck with her, gnawing at the back of her mind. It wasn’t just the Steward’s words; it was the way he treated her, the way he treated women in general. He made her feel like she was nothing more than a tool for his amusement, someone to be used and then put aside. The cold air should have washed it away, but it clung to her skin like oil.

They rounded the familiar bend in the trail, and something pulled her attention; sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze in her mind.

The oak tree.

It stood there again, looming on the edge of the path as though it had grown larger in the time they had been gone. The gnarled trunk twisted skyward, thick roots tangled over the earth. Its bark was dark; too dark; and the edges of its leaves seemed to shimmer faintly, like they pulsed with a life of their own. Iveyna slowed her steps, her heart quickening in her chest. The feeling from earlier crept back; an awareness prickling along her skin. Something about the tree felt wrong.

It wasn’t there before. It couldn’t have been. Yet, there it stood. Watching. Waiting. Her father didn’t stop. He pressed ahead, his focus still on whatever task filled his mind. The tension coiled tighter in her stomach as she swallowed the question rising in her throat.

But the words slipped out anyway. “Father… the oak tree. Are you certain it’s always been here?” Her voice was softer this time, more uncertain. She expected him to stop; to look at it the way she did and see what was wrong.

But he only laughed under his breath, waving a hand as though she’d asked him if the sky had changed. "You worry too much, girl," he said. "A tree’s a tree. It’s not going anywhere."

His answer did nothing to ease the cold knot twisting in her chest.

Iveyna slowed, allowing herself a lingering glance at the oak. The longer she looked, the stronger the feeling grew; the sense that something within the tree was aware of her in return. For a breath, she swore she could feel a heartbeat beneath the bark.

Her father’s footsteps faded ahead, but she hesitated, biting her lip against the instinct to step closer. She wanted to touch it. To feel whether it was real. Without another word, she turned and hurried after her father, leaving the tree behind.

As dusk settled over the town, Iveyna sat by the hearth, her fingers curled around a mug of bitterroot tea. The warmth seeped through her palms, but it did little to ease the tension coiled in her chest. Her father had gone to the forge, the rhythmic clang of his hammer echoing faintly through the walls. Alone, with only the flickering fire for company, her thoughts drifted back; again; to the oak tree.

Its image clung to her mind like a burr. The gnarled bark, the unnatural pulse beneath the surface. She had touched hundreds of trees in her life; cut them down, stripped them for the wood her family relied on; but nothing had ever felt like that. There had been something beneath the surface, something alive in a way she couldn’t explain. And the way her father brushed it aside… very unusual.

Iveyna shook her head and rose from her chair, setting the empty mug on the table. Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe the forest; he; had left a mark on her mind deeper than she wanted to admit. Still, when she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the faint hum beneath her fingertips.

Outside, a low wind stirred the air. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and moved toward the window, peering into the fading twilight. Her gaze drifted toward the edge of the forest.

The oak tree was there.

A shadow stretched beneath its boughs, deeper than the dusk should allow. For a breath, she thought she saw movement; a flicker of something within the trunk itself; but when she blinked, it was gone. Only the wind remained, rustling through the leaves. Yet, as she turned from the window, the uneasy feeling remained.

She didn’t see the figure lingering beneath the oak’s shadow. A man, half-hidden in the deepening night, his wooden skin rough as bark where moonlight touched him. Woodward Oakenheart stood still as stone, watching the faint light glow from her window.

He had followed her return. Not out of curiosity; no, it was something else. Something deeper. She had felt him, even if she did not know it. And though he should leave, should turn back toward the heart of the forest, he remained.

A gust of wind stirred the leaves, brushing against his skin. With a final glance toward the window where she had stood, he melted back into the shadows.

But the roots of something had already taken hold.

And they would not be so easily forgotten.