Chapter 1
400 Years Later
As the sun set, the shadows softened Wyrnhollow’s edges, merging the buildings’ shapes into one outline against the darkening sky.
Theron methodically walked to the top of the low rise that overlooked his home.
The village had been carved out of hard clay and ancient rock, built far enough from the front lines of the War that even the Dominion had all but forgotten it existed.
It sat on the border of the civilized world.
On one side, there were hills where few animals lived and the land itself felt forsaken.
And on the other side was a dense forest that easily swallowed anything that entered.
Living here wasn’t quite a miserable existence, but it often came near the edge.
The land gave only just enough to live, and the winters came hard and stayed long.
Happiness was an infrequent visitor that never overstayed its welcome.
The War was a distant and endless thing far to the north, but had long ago leeched all hope from this land.
Wyrnhollow’s obscurity was both its shield and its shackle.
Nothing to do with the War had touched it in generations, yet its people paid for that peace with a life of scarcity and a name the world forgot.
The deer carcass rested heavily on his shoulders, its empty eyes staring sightlessly.
Blood dripped in a steady rhythm from its neck, darkening the dead grass where it mingled with melting snow.
Carrying his wooden bow in one hand and a quiver full of arrows strapped to his hip, he sighed as he viewed his home.
Despite the weight of the deer and his exhaustion, he moved slowly, savoring the last of the light on what was otherwise a peaceful day of being alone in the surrounding forest.
As he approached the village, the children who sat on the boundary wall watched him with inquisitive eyes.
Older boys squabbled loudly in the mud but fell silent and squared their shoulders as he walked by.
The little ones just stared.
Theron winked at them all and continued.
He smelled of wet leaves, iron, and the musk of the deer.
The streets of Wyrnhollow were essentially just mud this time of year.
Clay and manure clung to his boots, and with each step he felt they were going to get yanked off.
The houses were all crowded together, roofs nearly touching, like old women gossiping in the town square.
Warm yellow light spilled from every window.
Theron soon passed Talla’s bakery, previously owned by her late husband, and the surgeon’s neat home that was marked by a bonecolored sign.
Most other shops had closed, but villagers lingered, swapped stories, and laughed away the day.
They glanced at the deer, then at Theron, and glanced away.
He kept moving, blonde hair falling past his ears and catching what little light remained.
Scruff shadowed his jaw where a few days had passed since he’d last bothered with a blade.
Thirty years showed in the weathered lines at the corners of his eyes and the lean build of someone who’d spent more time on the road than in any bed.
He looked like he belonged in the wilderness, not here among the gossip and warm windows.
Though he’d lived here for years, he remained a stranger.
Solitude had become his only companion, and the villagers’ indifference no longer surprised him.
The old temple stood at the heart of the village, surrounded by the square.
Its steeple pierced the rising mist, lights spilling from narrow windows as the cracked bell tolled the hour.
Theron didn’t pause.
He hurried into a narrow alley beside the stables, going east, toward the village outskirts where the houses thinned and the laughter stopped.
They had named it the Forgotten Quarter, but no one had ever bothered to make it official.
People patched together the buildings with rusted tin, tar, and any other scraps they could find, and the buildings slumped over drunkenly.
Some barely even deserved to be called shacks.
They held themselves together with fraying rope, obstinate will, and a glimmer of hope.
The people who dwelled there wore their poverty as a second skin, faded and worn.
There had once been better days, at least for some of them.
Theron passed a man curled up under a blanket at the door of a crumbling woodshed, bottle clutched to his chest.
Further on, two young girls scrounged among a trash heap, their hair brittle and tangled.
The older one met his gaze with defiance, but he did not stop.
He looked to the last shack in the row, where a warped awning sheltered a table and chopping stump.
He dropped the deer onto the table in a heap, its legs thudding against the wood.
Then he drew his belt knife, wiped it on his sleeve, and began.
He started with the hide, cutting in swift, precise strokes.
The blade was sharp enough to glide through it all with minimal effort, and he made quick work of it.
He peeled it off in one smooth motion, folded it fur-side in and set it aside.
He slit the belly from neck to groin, and steam rose as the guts spilled onto the ground.
The coppery tang filled his nose, but his hands did not stop.
He worked methodically, like someone who had done this a hundred times.
He took out the organs with care, setting some aside.
Liver and heart.
The rest he left to the dogs.
People gathered before he finished skinning.
The old woman from two doors down came first, bent nearly double, a dented tin bowl in her hands.
“Bless you, Theron,” she rasped, her eyes fixed on the meat.
“You’ve fed us again.”
He didn’t look up. “It’ll be tough,” he said, his voice rough from disuse.
“Better tough than nothing,” she said, and laughed, though it sounded more like a cough.
A young boy of maybe eight came after her, all bones and shadows. He said nothing, just cowered in the doorway, twisting his hands together. Theron nodded toward the liver. The boy took it and quickly vanished.
Theron worked long after his fingers went numb. Blood trickled to the ground, thickening in the cold. More villagers arrived, including orphans, widows, and a one-armed man who had had an accident at the sawmill and had fallen on hard times. Each took their share in reverence, murmuring thanks. Theron grunted in response, not out of rudeness, but because to stop was to waste time.
By the time the deer was down to cuts and scraps, the moon had risen above the clouds and the wind had turned sharp. The Forgotten Quarter’s streets emptied quickly, people hurrying to their hovels with their portions. Only the old woman remained, poking through the remains. She held up a knuckle bone and inspected it, then she looked up at Theron.
“You ever think of keeping some for yourself, hunter?”
He shrugged. “I ate earlier.” Still though, he wrapped a shoulder cut in waxed paper and tucked it under his arm.
She squinted at him. “You’re too thin!”
Theron smiled as he wiped his hands on a rag. “I don’t need much.”
She chuckled again. “You’re not from here. That’s why you do what you do.” It wasn’t a question. Theron only grunted in reply.
A girl of twelve or thirteen stepped out from around a nearby shack, freckles mottling her cheeks. She watched him as one might watch a stray dog, curious but cautious.
“Where’d you learn to hunt so good?” she asked.
Theron froze. The question sparked a train of memories. He swallowed and locked eyes with the girl.
“Practice,” he said. The word came out flat, final. She shrugged and left.
He cleaned his knife on his pant leg and sheathed it, then straightened. His back twinged from the weight of the deer and the time spent hunched over the carcass, but he made no sound of complaint. Bundling the remains, he nodded to the old woman and turned back the way he came. He crossed the main square just as the temple bell rang curfew, its chime hollow and empty.
Beyond the temple steps, he ducked into the small stone outbuilding that served as his living quarters. It was only one room, which had a cot, fireplace, a rough plank table and chair, a barrel for water, a single trunk with a bent lid, and a few other necessities. He dropped the meat onto the table, set the knife beside it and sighed. The air inside was colder than the air outside, but it was quiet. Private.
Rolling his shoulders to ease the tension and discomfort, he removed his heavy coat and boots and set them near the door, along with his bow. Once he’d lit some tinder and thrown some logs on the fire, he cleaned his hands in the water barrel, scrubbing until the blood was gone. He wiped his hands on his thick woolen shirt, not worried about any stains.
From the deer’s shoulder, he cut strips, and most of them went into his pot with water, herbs, and spices. He let it bubble down into a quick stew, an easy meal to fill the belly, setting the rest aside to eat later.
Sitting and watching the pot simmer over the fire, he rested with his back against his chair. The flames caught old memories, long dead and turned to ash. Different faces, voices, and places flickered and faded in and out of his mind.
When the stew was done, he ate it in silence, chewing and swallowing and coming back to the world around him. He finished, then lay back on the cot, his eyes on the wall, watching the flicker of light from the flames.
He stayed there for some time, the wind pounding against the stones outside.
Something felt off. Not wrong, exactly. Just not right. He had felt it for days now, a disturbance he could not name. There was a dull sense of dread in his chest, clawing. It wasn’t recognizable, and he definitely didn’t like it. Shifting around, he was probably just tired, it had been a long day. Nothing more than that.
It was late when at last he rose. He unlatched his trunk and removed his thick blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Checking the latch on the door and then the window and then once more the door. Only then did he lie down again, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for sleep that would not come for a long time.
Early morning light clawed at the small window and stained the inside of Theron’s room a murky orange and yellow. He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and rolled his shoulders until he had a satisfying crack. It was so cold inside the stone outbuilding that he could clearly see his breath. Winter was shaping up to be a harsh one, especially once it hit in full force. He pulled his heavy blanket closer to his chest, still feeling uneasy from the night before, then forced himself up and padded to the water barrel.
He forgot to add a new log to the fire before sleep overcame him last night, which caused the water at the top to freeze. He broke the thick sheet of ice with a few heavy raps of his knuckles, scooped some into his palms, and splashed it over his face. The cold shock brought him fully awake, but also made his teeth chatter. He put the leftover strips of last night’s venison into a small blackened skillet over a thumb-sized flame, then ate them while they were still hot enough to burn his tongue. He enjoyed the taste of pain in the morning; it reminded him he was still alive.
The meal done, Theron reached for the knife he’d used last night on the deer. He drew the blade over a whetstone and oil in slow, practiced strokes, thumb testing for the telltale snag of a dull edge. Satisfied, he wiped the knife on a rag and sheathed it. The routine was as sacred as any prayer.
The room itself was little more than a cell, but Theron kept it tidy. He had scavenged the cot, table, and chair from other people’s misfortune. In the corner was a stubby iron stove he never lit except in the worst cold, thus doubling up on the heat from the fireplace. He had a feeling he would use it often this winter. Shelves lined one wall, mostly empty save for a chipped mug, a bundle of tinder, and a battered tin box that held the sum of his worldly wealth: flint, a bag of coins, and a curl of old parchment. Even though his coat had once been an expensive piece of clothing, he had patched it so many times that he couldn’t remember its original color.
Putting that coat on now, Theron knelt at the foot of his bed. He pried up the loose floorboard and extracted a battered leather satchel from its hiding spot. He untied the cord with hands that didn’t quite want to obey.
Inside, were three items: a stone bowl, hand-smoothed and the color of old bone; a bundle of dried herbs wrapped in wax paper, and a medallion, silver tarnished to a dull grey, stamped with a symbol even most priests wouldn’t recognize. It was worthless to everyone else, but priceless to him. He set the bowl and herbs on the table, then hesitated, letting the medallion’s chain run through his fingers, the coolness of the metal a jolt against his skin.
He glanced at the door. In the short years he’d lived in Wyrnhollow, no one had ever entered his quarters uninvited, but his stubborn paranoia was hard to break. Satisfied he was alone, Theron slipped the medallion over his head. It settled against his chest, tucked away underneath his shirt, and impossibly heavy for its size. He bundled up, stowed the ritual items in his coat, and stepped outside.
The temple resided in the village’s heart, a relic from a time when people constructed such things to last centuries. However, the roof was largely patched with tin and had birds nesting in the cracks. Most of its former glory was no more. However, it remained defiant in the square. A staircase on the side of the building wound down into the crypt, and it was there that Theron descended, taking each step in silence.
The crypt’s air was damp and full of rot, so thick with old incense and smoke it clung to the tongue. Theron’s eyes adjusted slowly. The place wasn’t large, but it was labyrinthine, laid out in a spiral that led to the central shrine. Along the way, alcoves held stone effigies and decaying tapestries, scenes of gods and monsters locked in eternal struggle. He came down here once a week so most of these symbols were familiar, but now and then he spotted a new one. He was alone and had been every time he came. The villagers rarely visited the shrine these days. The gods had forsaken the world, so very few still deigned to worship them. Most of the village was still asleep right now, anyway.
After a few minutes, he reached the shrine in the center. It was a narrow, closet-like structure, barely wider than his arms outstretched, its walls lined with soot. The altar was just a slab of rock, cracked down the middle and stained black by generations of burnt offerings. It wasn’t a Grand Shrine, by any means, but a lesser shrine devoted to the Concord as a whole. One of hundreds he’d prayed at in the past.
Theron knelt before the altar, set the stone bowl atop it, and emptied the dried herbs into the basin. He pinched the medallion, whispered something in a language that belonged to no one in Wyrnhollow, and struck the flint. The herbs caught with a reluctant spark, a faint trickle of smoke winding up to the low ceiling. The smell was sharp and bitter, catching in his throat.
He bowed his head rather than lifting it in the way the worshippers here did. His was a different faith that was far older, quieter, and mostly forgotten. The religion most widely practiced throughout the continent, The Path of Eternal Balance, had icons, grand cathedrals, and written words. His was a religion that lived in the bones of those who’d survived the wars, passed down not in legend but in the silent habits of people who knew what it was to lose everything. Theron breathed in the smoke, let it scald his lungs, and began the ritual.
The words came out as a low chant, nearly inaudible. Each line was a memory, a plea for forgiveness, a demand for judgment. As he spoke, his hands trembled, not from cold, but from the effort of holding something back. Once, he nearly choked on the smoke and had to stifle a cough. His eyes watered with emotion, and a single tear carved a line down his cheek. He swiped it away, angry at himself, but also worried. His pain was getting worse, which made him feel even more uneasy.
The ritual didn’t last long. When he finished, he stayed kneeling, staring at the faint spiral of smoke, and his breath quickened. The medallion was unusually uncomfortable against his chest.
He tried to recall the face of his mother, tried to imagine her gentle hands and the way she’d looked at him with pride as he grew up. He tried to remember the sound of his father’s voice, the way it used to ring across their valley, calling him home. But memory is often a liar, and the images slipped away before he could grasp them.
Theron sat back on his heels, hands resting on the cold altar. He let the silence fill him, tried to find comfort in it, but there was none. He thought about the village above, the people asleep in their beds, the bell that would soon call them to another day of scraping by.
Grabbing and holding the medallion close, he used his thumb to trace the symbol etched on it. It meant nothing to anyone here. But it meant something to him. It meant obligation. It meant guilt.
He pressed it to his lips, then slipped it back inside his shirt. He exited the crypt silently, just as he’d entered, shoulders squared.
When he emerged into the morning light, the square was stirring with activity. Morning showed a brittle crust of ice over the mud and made the air in the square feel like it might snap if you breathed too hard. Theron took his usual shortcut across the back lot, hands thrust deep in his pockets, and ducked into the bustle of Wyrnhollow’s weekly market. People were just barely breaking their fast, but already stalls mushroomed out from the sides of the main road, patched together with tarp, canvas, and optimism. Villagers moved among the tables in quick, efficient huddles, bartering for root vegetables, cheese wheels, or firewood, exchanging the hard currency of hunger and rumor.
Theron navigated the market with the same practiced caution he brought to every new day. He kept to the perimeter, eyes hooded, attention split evenly between the goods for sale and the faces that sold them. He needed to restock on various hunting items. Most people offered him a nod, careful not to make it more than that, but a few of the more timid villagers gave him a wider berth.He was used to this, not so much scorn as wary respect, the kind you gave to a dog that might bite.
He stopped at the brewer’s stand first and bought a cup of warm and watery beer, ignoring the way the seller’s eyes refused to meet his own as he took the coin Theron offered. The taste was sour, but it killed the taste of his own morning breath. He sipped in silence, studying the square.
At the center of it all, Matron Talla stood beside her barrel-shaped bread cart, directing a small army of volunteers with the calm authority of someone used to leading. As usual, the bread was free for those who truly needed it but had no way to afford any. The flour dusted her same woolen skirt from yesterday, and she had knotted her silver hair back so tightly that it pulled the corners of her face into hard lines. Her eyes, bright as river stones, scanned the market, tracking every deal, every argument, every hand that reached for an extra loaf.
When she saw Theron, she finished her sentence with the boy helping her, wiped her hands on her skirt, and crossed the square at a brisk walk. He braced himself for her approach.
She didn’t bother with greetings. “Walk with me, Theron,” Talla said, tucking a loaf of seed bread under one arm and steering him with her elbow. “Word came in this morning. Rusk got into a fight with some recruiters last week in Crosshaven. They tried harassing him and his cart of wares, and he… well, let’s just say he and his fists had an emotional reaction. Didn’t end well for him.”
Theron didn’t answer right away, just adjusted his pace to keep up. The matron usually delighted in small talk, so getting to the point of this conversation told him she felt this was urgent. She seemed very upset about something.
They passed two boys loading a wheelbarrow with turnips, one of whom risked a glance at Theron before resuming his work, eyes moving in silent speculation. Talla led them around her bakery and out past the animal pens, where the stench of manure competed with the sharp odor of wood smoke and cooking lard.
“I thought you’d want to know. Dammit, man, you’ve warned us about drawing the recruiters’ attention over and over again. You never shut up about it!” she said. Then, to the point: “I’m worried they’ll be coming here soon.”
Theron grunted. They were always going to come here in the end.
She laughed, a sharp, barked sound. “Nothing gets an emotional reaction out of you, does it?”
He looked past her, watched a trio of kids playing chase around the tannery cart, their laughter bright and reckless. “Not really. Not anymore.”
Talla’s eyes narrowed, and she folded her arms, watching him like she might watch a suspicious fire.
“Anyway, the cold’s clearly coming back early this year. Some of us think we’ll be lucky to see the first thaw.”
“We’ve seen worse,” Theron said, feeling sick.
“Maybe,” Talla replied. “But not all of us are made of tree roots and shoe leather.” Her gaze flickered to his hands, the knuckles swollen and scarred, and then back up to his face. “If you ever need—”
“I’m fine,” he cut her off. “You should get back. Your cart’s got a line.”
She held the stare a beat longer, then shook her head and let out a breath. “Stubborn bastard.” There was affection in the words.
The conversation broke as a commotion rose near the village gate. A rumble of wheels, the bray of an exhausted horse, and then a shout: “Merchant’s come! With news!” The words pierced through the crowd like a thrown knife. The market turned as one. Talla and Theron turned with it, walking back closer to the square.
The merchant’s wagon was an ugly, mud-caked thing, drawn by a sickly looking horse and plastered with faded pennants from half a dozen southern cities. The merchant himself was a round man with a beard like dirty wool and a scar that split his right eyebrow in two. He had a voice made for crowds, booming and theatrical, and he wasted no time climbing onto his cart to command attention.
“Hear me, good people of Wyrnhollow!” he called, arms wide as he rode into the square. “Brought you salt, sugar, and news worth your ear. Times are lean, but I’ll not cheat you, for today’s word is free!”
That got a laugh. Even in famine, villagers liked to be lied to, so long as it was done with style.
“Crosshaven’s got a new gambling den!” he yelled, laughing. “Wives, better to keep your husbands close, or you’ll be lucky to keep the roof over your heads!”
There was a roar of laughter and cheers from the crowd, but for some the fun was cut short. Slaps and elbows went out all around, as more than a few wives made it clear they did not approve.
“The fighting in the north grows bloody,” the merchant continued, voice turning grave. “Two weeks ago, Sylphar overran the fort at Redan Pass. The Dominion’s garrison stationed there lost half its number before the retreat. If you had kin assigned to that unfortunate place, light a candle tonight.”
A villager said quietly, “That place is as defensible as it gets.”
Another added, “It’s fine. That fortress is three hundred leagues away, maybe more. We’ll be okay.”
A third voice, barely more than a whisper, asked, “They’ve never pushed that far south of the Mountain Temple before… what’s going on?”
Meanwhile, Theron had stopped breathing. He stared at the merchant, disbelief frozen across his features. His chest tightened and his hands curled at his sides, but the merchant pressed on.
“Refugees are heading south, a lot of them. Senkan, the Lord of Greenhill, has sent the recruiters for every man, tall or short, twelve to fifty, in his region. The Luminarch Council has done the same. Meaning much higher quotas now.” The merchant let the news sink in. “Whole villages are now emptied, they say. A couple of days ago, one not sixty leagues from here was all abandoned in a night.”
The crowd rippled with fear. They knew why. They were hiding from the recruiters. Being enlisted meant almost certain death. If you found yourself fighting in the War, sooner or later death likely found you. Better to try their luck camping out in the wilderness for a while, even with winter fast approaching. Talla’s eyes never left the merchant’s face.
“I wish you all the best of luck,” he said. “I truly do. I fear life is about to get rather unpleasant for most of us in the next few months. The War is coming here.” The merchant paused, scanning the square. “But for now, let’s enjoy what we have!”
He finished with a flourish, hopped down, and began haggling at his own cart before anyone could ask questions.
The crowd melted away with hushed grumblings of distress. Talla eyed Theron, but he was already gone. His eyes were dull and unfocused, his whole body sagging as if in grief. It wasn’t as if he’d only heard the news, but that he was reliving it.
She touched him on the arm. “You all right?”
He flinched at her, his voice a thin whisper, almost a plea. “Redan Pass is a stronghold. It has never fallen.”
She nodded, slow and deliberate. “He said there were survivors. You know someone there?”
Theron shook his head, silent. He turned away from the square, and off the main road, into the gloom between two buildings.
Talla followed, but kept her distance as she watched him, wringing her hands together and frowning.
He walked until the noise of the market was only a distant murmur, then halted in a small, empty yard surrounded by houses. Frost still glazed the ground and his breath hissed out in white puffs as he pressed a palm against his chest, the medallion again pressed to his skin under his shirt, and he stood there for a few moments with his jaw clenched so hard his muscles twitched.
He heard her coming before she even rounded the corner. Her footsteps were not quite heavy, not quite light, but betrayed both a slight limp and the patient irritation of someone who’d outlived their own patience for being ignored. “What is it, Talla?” Theron murmured, eyes to the ground, voice flat as the frost. He did not turn to look.
The matron said nothing for a moment. She stepped into his shadow, pressed her shoulder against the rotting clay wall, and crossed her arms over her stomach, as if the act of staying upright were a battle that never quite ended. “Redan Pass is important to you,” she said, not a question. Talla never wasted breath on questions when she already knew the answers.
Theron’s jaw trembled. The distant hum of the market barely reached them here, and Talla’s words rang louder than any crowd.
Theron said nothing, and Talla took a deep breath. “Have you been there before?” She asked, her voice now softer, but no less tinged with that shade of motherly knowing. She and Theron had been friends for years. Ever since he’d shown up in their town square on that dark night, long ago, she’d considered him something of a guardian of this little remote village. She was their unofficial leader, and he their unofficial silent guardian. They had a deep and abiding trust in one another. She had never pushed him for details of his past. She had her suspicions, of course. But in this raw emotion he was now expressing, there was something very wrong.
He remained wordless, eyes still trained on the hard dirt of the path.
His hands were now buried deep in his pockets as if he feared their trembling would give him away. Silence stretched between them for a few more moments before Talla exhaled again. This time there was no edge to it, no frustration, only bone-deep exhaustion.
She shifted her weight and righted herself, dusting a smudge of flour from her skirt with five quick pats as ritualistic as any prayer. “I’ve lived for a long time, Theron,” she said, her eyes now level with his turned shoulder. “Long enough to bury two husbands and three sons.” She rubbed her knuckles, swollen and pale-blue from the cold. “You learn the signs of trauma.”
For a moment, Talla thought he might just walk away. His whole body tensed as if readying himself for flight or violence, anything but this conversation really, but then he simply relaxed and stayed still, allowing her words to drift over him like falling snow.
She lowered her voice even further, the expected answer somehow unsettled her. Barely above a whisper, she asked, “Are you afraid?”
Theron only shrugged at first. A microscopic elevation of one shoulder under his heavy coat. But then something in him cracked or shifted or perhaps merely gave up in the face of her blunt force of kindness. Whatever the case, he finally spoke. He was so quiet that Talla had to lean in to hear: “Yes,” he said. “And so tired.”
It was obvious, even from where she stood. The black crescents under his eyes, the hollows in his cheeks. No amount of market bread would fix this. This was the type of exhaustion sleep would not ease. She had seen it come over him over the past weeks, gradual and inevitable. It was the weariness of waiting for history to repeat itself, and knowing, deep in one’s bones, that when it came again, one would be powerless to prevent it. She’d felt that form of tiredness when Henrik got sick, knowing that there was nothing she could do to save him.
She looked at him with quiet understanding, offering a kind of forgiveness in her gaze. “We all are, love. Every one of us.”
She turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing back. “If you ever need to talk—”
“I don’t,” he said, sharper than he’d meant. He paused, then spoke more gently. “But… thank you.” He raised a hand to his temple. The edge of his vision swayed. He was feeling dizzy.
Talla left back through the alley, her figure disappearing around a corner. Theron stood as still as a shadow, breathing, until the dizziness subsided.
He made his way to the outskirts of the village, to the edge of the path where it fell away into brambles and thin trees. The forest looked tempting in the morning light, branches glazed with ice, every needle and leaf lit up like stained glass. It was the only place he felt right, the only place the echoes of memory faded into silence. He stepped off the path and disappeared into the undergrowth. The only sign of his passage was the slow, deliberate crunch of boots in frost.
Back in the square, the villagers did their bargaining. But now a little quieter of voice, a little tighter of movement. The merchant’s words hung in the air like wood smoke. Fighting in the north, quotas rising, winter coming on mean and hungry.
Theron wandered farther into the trees, his hand curled around the medallion beneath his shirt, his pulse slowing as the cold set in. At least in the deep forest, the rules made sense: kill or go hungry. There were no quotas, no expectations, no questions. Only silence. Only peace. He knew in his heart it wouldn’t last much longer.