The abandoned shed stood crooked, its wood warped and brittle from years of neglect. Malric slipped inside, crouching low to avoid brushing against the doorway. Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the walls, casting faint lines across the dirt floor. He placed his satchel beside him, his skeletal fingers resting on the worn leather as he sat motionless, his mind churning.

The night was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves outside. Malric’s thoughts drifted to the villagers he had encountered. The drunkard, oblivious to his true nature, had been simple to manipulate. Then there was the worker—cautious, wary, but ultimately unaware of what stood before him. Malric’s bony hands clenched into fists as he contemplated their fragility.

They survive on ignorance, he thought. Their world is built on an illusion of safety, of control. Yet, they thrive.

His resentment simmered, but he forced himself to remain calm. The living were not entirely predictable, nor were they uniform. There were those like Aric Blackthorn—willing to speak with something like him without recoiling. Was it arrogance, or something deeper? And what of those who might sense the truth and choose to act? Malric knew his interactions thus far had been tests, mere experiments. The real challenge lay ahead.

He tilted his skull back, staring at the fractured roof above. Understanding humans wasn’t just a tool—it was a necessity. To walk among them unnoticed was his shield, his weapon. Malric could not afford to underestimate their potential to surprise.

The dawn’s faint light seeped through the cracks in the shed, and Malric rose, his cloak brushing against the floor as he stepped outside. The village remained quiet, its streets still cast in shadow. He moved toward the edge of the village, keeping to the periphery, observing the signs of life stirring within.

He paused, leaning against a weathered fence as his mind turned to the next step. Aric Blackthorn’s words about the Basilisk’s Fang were vague, cryptic. Malric needed a plan—something tangible. His bony fingers traced the edge of his satchel as he considered his options.

Interrogation, he decided. The villagers were a resource to be tapped. Someone here would know something, even if they weren’t aware of it themselves. Travelers, merchants, or even gossipers at the local tavern—all were potential fonts of information.

But Malric couldn’t rely on brute force. Not yet. Killing recklessly would only draw attention, and attention was the last thing he needed. Subtlety was key. He would start with observation, selecting a target who seemed likely to know more than the average peasant.

The merchant was the perfect candidate.

Malric spotted him just as the sun began to crest over the village. The man stood near his cart, a sturdy wooden structure loaded with supplies—tools, provisions, and small trinkets. He moved with practiced efficiency, inspecting his wares, securing ropes, and occasionally muttering under his breath.

Malric lingered in the shadows, his skeletal form concealed beneath his cloak. He studied the merchant’s movements, noting the cautious glances he cast toward the road. This man was no fool; he had the air of someone who had traveled far and seen much.

This one has dealt with danger before, Malric mused. If he knows the roads, he knows what lurks on them.

Malric waited, watching as the merchant finished tying down the last of his supplies. The man’s muttering grew louder, though his words were still indistinct. A faint trace of unease lingered in his movements, a wariness that Malric recognized. This was someone who understood the risks of the world—but that understanding could be exploited.

When the merchant turned to adjust a bundle of goods on the side of the cart, Malric stepped forward. He moved carefully, his footsteps measured, his cloak pulled tightly around him to obscure his skeletal features.

“Good morning,” he called out, his voice carrying the practiced roughness of a weary traveler.

The merchant turned sharply, his hand instinctively moving toward the knife at his belt. His eyes narrowed as he took in Malric’s cloaked figure.

“Morning,” the merchant replied cautiously, his grip on the knife relaxing slightly. “You’re out early.”

“As are you,” Malric said, nodding toward the cart. “Heading out for trade?”

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The merchant hesitated, his eyes flicking over Malric again. “That’s right. You looking to buy something, or just passing through?”

Malric took a step closer, careful to keep his hood low. “Passing through,” he said. “But I’ve heard the roads aren’t safe these days. Bandits, or worse.”

The merchant snorted, though the tension in his posture didn’t ease. “Aye, there’s always something out there. Bandits, wild beasts... rumors of worse things, too.”

“Worse things?” Malric pressed, feigning curiosity.

The merchant glanced around, lowering his voice slightly. “Some say there’s a group moving through the region. Dangerous folk, organized. Not just bandits—something bigger. Don’t know the details, but if you’re smart, you’ll keep your head down and stay out of their way.”

Malric tilted his head, his hidden skull reflecting on the merchant’s words. The Basilisk’s Fang? Or another group? He needed more information, but pushing too hard might draw suspicion.

“Good advice,” Malric said, his tone neutral. “I’ll keep it in mind. Any idea where they might be operating?”

The merchant frowned, his suspicion flaring again. “Can’t say for sure. Most folks just hear whispers—supply lines being hit, people going missing. Could be anywhere.”

Malric nodded, stepping back slightly to ease the tension. “Thank you,” he said. “Safe travels.”

The merchant gave him a wary nod before turning back to his cart, muttering something under his breath as he resumed his preparations.

Malric melted back into the shadows, his mind alight with possibilities. The merchant’s words were vague, but they confirmed that something significant was happening in the region. Whether it was the Basilisk’s Fang or another group, Malric knew he was on the right path.

He clenched his skeletal hand into a fist, the faint creak of bone inaudible beneath the rustling of his cloak. His plan was working, slowly but surely. The living would reveal their secrets, and he would use them to his advantage.

For now, he would continue to observe, to listen, and to learn. His disguise was holding, but the true test lay ahead.

Soon, he thought, I will find them. And when I do, they will not see me coming.

With a final glance toward the waking village, Malric slipped away, a shadow in the growing light of dawn.

Malric crouched low beneath the gnarled roots of a sprawling oak, its twisted branches veiling him in shadows. The morning sun filtered weakly through the trees, casting dappled light across the village below. He remained motionless, his skeletal form concealed beneath his dark cloak, as the sounds of life stirred in the settlement.

Villagers moved about in the crisp dawn air. A woman lugged a wooden bucket to the well, her face flushed from the cold. A man whistled to himself as he worked to repair a wooden fence, his rhythm steady and deliberate. Others tended to animals, their voices muffled in the distance as they called out commands or greeted neighbors.

Malric’s hollow gaze swept across the scene. The village was small, its routines predictable. The living were creatures of habit, tied to patterns that dictated their every action. It was a weakness that Malric could exploit, though he remained wary of the rare exceptions—those whose behavior strayed from the norm, like the cautious merchant he had spoken to earlier.

Predictable, but not always without surprises, he thought. The same carelessness that keeps them alive could just as easily get them killed.

He lingered in his thoughts, the contrast between his own existence and theirs gnawing at his mind. They clung to the illusion of normalcy, blind to the dangers around them. Malric, on the other hand, had no such illusions. His survival depended on vigilance and cunning.

The merchant’s words still echoed in his mind as Malric withdrew deeper into the treeline. His skeletal fingers absently traced the edge of the satchel he carried, feeling the engraved crest beneath the leather flap. The talk of a dangerous group operating nearby intrigued him, and it was too coincidental to ignore.

He perched on a low ridge overlooking the village, his thoughts turning toward strategy.

The merchant was cautious but not unapproachable. Malric could follow him, observing his interactions and seeing where he traveled. This could lead to connections—potential allies or targets within the mysterious organization. Yet, trailing someone like that came with risks.

On the other hand, Malric could continue to operate from within the village, blending further into its fabric. The drunkard had been easy to manipulate, the worker hesitant but ultimately oblivious. If I spend more time here, he mused, I may find someone else useful—a traveler, a trader, or even a village elder who might know more.

His jaw tightened, the faint creak of bone muffled beneath his cloak. There was also the option of force, of seizing what he needed through intimidation or worse. Yet Malric knew that such actions carried consequences, especially in a place where strangers were noticed and rumors spread quickly.

Subtlety first, he decided. Force is a last resort.

By midday, Malric’s focus returned to the merchant. The man was preparing to leave the village, his cart loaded with goods. Malric slipped through the underbrush, keeping to the shadows as the cart creaked its way down the dirt road.

The merchant’s movements were deliberate, his pace steady as his horse trotted along the uneven path. Malric followed from a safe distance, staying within the cover of the trees. His bony feet moved soundlessly over the forest floor, his cloak blending with the shifting patterns of light and shadow.

As they traveled, Malric observed the merchant’s habits. The man occasionally glanced over his shoulder, his hand brushing the hilt of the knife at his belt. He muttered to himself, his words inaudible but rhythmic, as though they kept him company on the solitary journey.

Malric noted these details with care. The merchant’s vigilance made him a challenging target, but it also confirmed his suspicions: this man was no stranger to danger. Such wariness hinted at experience, perhaps even knowledge of the region’s darker elements.

The road forked ahead, splitting into two paths—one leading toward a distant town, the other veering into the wilds. The merchant paused his cart at the crossroads, stepping down to inspect a wheel that had begun to wobble.

Malric pressed himself against the trunk of a tree, his skeletal form blending into the shadows. He watched as another figure approached from the opposite road—a traveler with a pack slung over his shoulder. The two exchanged brief greetings before falling into conversation.

Malric edged closer, his movements as silent as the wind. He strained to hear their words.

“...roads aren’t safe,” the merchant said, his voice low but firm. “Heard more disappearances near the valley. People are saying it’s bandits, but…” He trailed off, glancing toward the treeline as if sensing unseen eyes.

The traveler nodded, shifting uneasily. “I’ve heard the same. Better to keep your head down and move quick. Some folk think it’s something bigger—a group, maybe. Organized.”

The merchant grunted, returning his attention to the cart. “Could be. Either way, keep an eye out. You never know who—or what—you’ll run into.”

Malric lingered in the shadows long after the merchant and traveler parted ways. His mind churned with the implications of their words. The whispers of an organized group aligned with what he had already learned, and the merchant’s unease hinted at deeper knowledge.

If this is the Basilisk’s Fang, they are careful, Malric thought. Clever enough to remain hidden, yet their presence is felt.