Misty prowled ahead, her ginger coat a bright contrast against the muted greens and browns of the undergrowth. She moved with practiced ease, her ears twitching at unseen sounds as she occasionally paused to sniff at something of interest. At one point, she crouched low, her tail flicking as though she’d cornered invisible prey. Emerging moments later, she stopped to lick a paw and groom her face, the slight rise of her tail carrying an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

Beside Del, Elara walked with quiet purpose, her keen gaze sweeping the forest. There was a watchfulness to her movements, as though she half-expected trouble to spring from the shadows. Her vigilance was interrupted when a flicker of motion caught her eye. She touched Del’s arm lightly, halting his steps.

“Look,” she said softly, nodding toward a cluster of wildflowers swaying near the path. Hovering above them was a small insect, its translucent wings catching the light like fractured crystal.

Del squinted, his head tilting slightly. “It looks like a butterfly,” he murmured. Its wings, patterned with rich golds and muted crimsons, reminded him of something distant and half-forgotten. “Like a Red Admiral… at least it reminds me of one.” A frown crept across his face as the words left his mouth, a brief pang of nostalgia tugging at him. The comparison felt absurd in this place. He let the thought fade, replacing it with a rueful shake of his head.

Elara’s eyes lingered on the creature as it flitted away into the trees. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her tone thoughtful.

They continued on, their steps quieter now, as if the forest demanded reverence. Del’s attention drifted to the ground, where faint impressions marred the soft soil. He crouched, tracing the small, narrow prints with a gloved finger. “Some kind of dog?” he guessed, uncertain.

“Maybe a fox,” Elara offered, kneeling beside him. Her voice carried the same note of curiosity as her gaze followed the trail.

A little further along, they encountered larger tracks—rounder, deeper, with faintly cloven edges. “That looks like… a deer, maybe?” Del ventured.

“Probably,” Elara said with a slight smile. “Whatever it was, it hasn’t been gone long.”

The path carried them onward, the sound of the river weaving through their silence. After a time, Elara broke it. “Do you think he’ll go through with it?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Seth, I mean. Bury Bran, start over somewhere far away?”

Del hesitated, weighing the question. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “Losing everything changes people. He sounded sincere, but who knows how long that will last?”

Elara nodded, though her brow furrowed faintly. “He seemed… afraid,” she murmured. “Not just of us, but of what he might become.”

“That fear might be enough to save him,” Del said. “It’s a push in the right direction, at least. I couldn’t see the point in killing him. Not when there’s still a chance he could change.”

For a moment, Elara said nothing, though the slight easing of her posture suggested she shared his hope—or wanted to. Ahead of them, Misty reappeared, perched on a low branch with her tail flicking in an almost theatrical display of impatience. Del felt a subtle pressure at the edges of his mind—faint but insistent. The nudge was followed by an impression of movement: forward, faster.

Del sighed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “We’re coming,” he muttered under his breath. Elara glanced at him, puzzled, but said nothing as he waved her question off. “Just Misty, being Misty.”

The trees continued to thin, patches of open sky growing more frequent. The soft calls of birds mingled with the rustling of reeds along the riverbank, a quiet symphony of life. With every step, the world ahead seemed to grow a little closer.

The river widened as they continued, its banks edged with reeds that swayed gently in the breeze. Birds flitted overhead, their calls a melodic counterpoint to the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps on the path mingled with the gentle babble of the river as Del and Elara made their way forward. The forest thinned further with each step, revealing glimpses of blue sky through the treetops. For the first time in days, the tension that had dogged their every move seemed to ease. The journey offered a fleeting sense of tranquillity, a welcome balm after the chaos of recent days.

As they crested a shallow rise, the village came into view. It nestled in the valley below like a forgotten treasure, its sturdy wooden palisade encircling the settlement like a protective embrace. The timbers, aged and grey, stood firm against the elements. Inside, a patchwork of thatched roofs dotted the landscape, their golden straw glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. The buildings seemed haphazardly arranged, as if the village had grown organically rather than by design; their placement dictated by necessity rather than aesthetics.

At the village’s heart lay a communal square, its centre marked by a weathered stone pillar standing crooked with age. Around it, a small collection of market stalls added splashes of colour to the rustic scene. Beyond the square, the river meandered lazily, its course spanned by a narrow stone bridge softened at its edges by moss and ivy. Smoke rose from chimneys in slow spirals, carrying with it a tapestry of aromas—roasting meat, fresh bread, and the faint tang of ash.

As they descended towards the village, new scents joined the mix. The pungent musk of livestock mingled with the occasional sharpness of manure, grounding the idyllic scene with earthy reality. The lowing of cattle and grunts of pigs created a rustic symphony, blending with the faint creak of cartwheels and the occasional shout of a vendor. Beyond the palisade, fields stretched out in neat rows, vibrant crops swaying gently in the breeze. Some homes boasted vegetable gardens, their tidy plots evidence of a hardworking community.

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Del paused for a moment, taking in the scene. His gaze lingered on the thatched roofs and the bustling square. ‘Looks like a picture come to life,’ he thought, the image of a pastoral painting springing to mind. ‘A Constable; complete with hidden sharp knives.’

As they approached the outskirts of the village, the atmosphere shifted. Children playing outside the palisade noticed them, their laughter fading into cautious silence. Wide-eyed, they stood frozen for a moment before one broke away, bolting toward a building near the riverbank just outside the gates. The others quickly followed, darting into alleyways or slipping through the gates, their excitement replaced with the wariness of strangers.

The building the child ran to stood out among the others. Its roof was tiled rather than thatched, the dark slate glinting faintly in the sunlight. A tall chimney jutted from the rear, belching thick plumes of smoke into the sky. The rhythmic hammering they had heard earlier ceased abruptly as the child disappeared inside.

Moments later, a man emerged. Broad-shouldered and solid, his frame spoke of a life spent in physical labour. Soot smudged his skin, and sweat gleamed on his brow, catching the light. He wore a heavy leather apron, its surface scarred and worn, and carried a large hammer loosely in one hand. His sharp, calculating gaze fixed on them as they approached.

Del took in the sight with a faint trace of wry amusement. ‘Well,’ Del, he mused, if that’s not every storyteller’s perfect depiction of a village smith, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

“Afternoon,” the smith said, his voice low and deliberate. It carried a mix of curiosity and guardedness, a reminder that they were strangers here. “Don’t get many coming down from the hills.”

Del returned his gaze evenly. “We’ve been travelling for a few days,” he replied. “Exploring and hunting. Found the river and followed it down.”

The smith nodded slowly, though his expression didn’t soften. “Can be dangerous up there,” he said. “Lots of folks that have no good in mind for honest people.” His tone was calm but carried an unmistakable challenge, as though testing the truth of their story.

“I know,” Del said. “Ran across a couple of bandits who tried to have at us. They’d already gotten the better of some other poor soul.”

“Really?” The smith straightened slightly, his grip on the hammer shifting just enough to draw attention to its weight. “Can you describe them? What about this other fella?”

Del recounted the encounter, describing the bandits as best he could. Elara added her own touches, weaving small details into the story with a storyteller’s ease. When Del described the unfortunate victim they had found, something in the smith’s stance changed. It was subtle—a tightening of his jaw, a faint narrowing of his eyes—but it spoke of recognition.

“There was nothing on him that could help me identify him,” Del said, reaching into his pouch. “Except this.”

He pulled out the pendant, holding it up for the smith to see. The metal was worn smooth, its edges softened by time. The smith leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the piece. A flicker of recognition passed over his soot-streaked face, though his expression remained guarded.

“Show this to Vita,” he said, straightening. “She’s the village bonesetter. If anyone’s likely to know something about it, it’s her.”

Del nodded, slipping the pendant back into his pouch. “Thanks, I will.” He hesitated briefly before continuing, “Is there an inn or tavern where we can freshen up? Maybe get something to eat?”

Merl gave the two of them a long, measuring look, his gaze flicking between Del’s tired face and Elara’s wary posture. His eyes narrowed slightly, as though weighing whether they might bring trouble to his quiet village. Finally, he nodded.

“Inn’s just on the other side of the square. You can’t miss it. Jake’s a good man and a terrible cook, so here’s hoping his wife’s in the kitchen tonight. Tell him Merl sent you, and he’ll see you right.”

Del extended his hand, and Merl grasped it in a firm handshake, his grip rough with years of hard labour. “Thank you, Merl. I’m Del, and this is Elara,” Del said, gesturing to his companion. He glanced around, his eyes searching for a familiar flash of ginger fur but finding nothing. Misty was likely off doing whatever it was that Misty did.

“I’m sure we’ll see you again before we leave,” Del added with a faint smile. “We need supplies and probably some gear maintenance.”

“I’ll be here,” Merl replied. He stepped back into the forge doorway, his broad frame silhouetted against the glow of the hearth. Del could feel the smith’s eyes lingering on them as they moved away, a silent guardian of his village. Moments later, the rhythmic clang of his hammer resumed, ringing out over the square.

Del and Elara stepped further into the heart of the village. The dusty streets were alive with activity, bustling with the sounds and smells of a thriving community. Children darted between cottages, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleys. A group of them raced past, their bare feet kicking up little puffs of dust as they shouted and giggled in a language that was universal to all children.

Older youths moved with more purpose, balancing bundles of firewood or hefting buckets of water as they completed errands. Women bustled between homes, some carrying baskets overflowing with vegetables or cloth, others lingering at garden gates to exchange gossip. Their chatter blended with the occasional peal of laughter, creating a lively hum that filled the air.

Del’s eyes roamed the scene, taking in the details. A carpenter’s shop stood open to the street, where two men worked side by side, their tools moving in synchrony as they shaped wood into something he couldn’t quite identify. Across the way, a cooper sat on a low stool outside his workshop, carefully tapping staves into place on a large barrel. The rhythmic sound of his mallet was a quieter echo of the smith’s hammer.

Further down the street, Del caught a glimpse through the open window of another cottage-turned-shop. Inside, a man was meticulously folding and arranging clothes on a series of low tables. The space was simple, but the garments were clearly cared for, their colours vibrant against the muted backdrop of the shop’s stone walls.

Most of the businesses appeared to be converted front rooms of cottages, their doors propped open to welcome customers. The village had a rustic charm that felt homely and unpretentious, as though it had grown organically over time rather than being carefully planned. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, carrying with it the rich scents of baked bread and spiced stews, mixed with the rustic smell of livestock from the nearby fields.

Del slowed his pace, the atmosphere tugging at something deep inside him. The scene reminded him of a place he knew so well—his small-town home from what felt like another lifetime. The nostalgia hit him hard, a bittersweet pang that settled in his chest like a dull ache.

‘Don’t go getting daft now,’ he chastised himself, the thought sharp but tinged with a hint of humour. ‘Too much to do to get tied up in homesickness, you daft old bugger.’

Elara glanced at him, her expression curious but saying nothing. She seemed to sense his momentary lapse into introspection and allowed him his silence.

Ahead, the square began to take shape, the central stone pillar standing crooked but proud at its heart. Del focused his thoughts forward. There was still much to do—and questions to answer.