The late autumn air bit at Elias’s exposed skin, a constant reminder of the encroaching winter. He hunched deeper into his worn leather jerkin, pulling the brim of his wide-brimmed hat lower over his face. The road was little more than a muddy track winding through the skeletal remains of harvested fields, the stubble poking through the damp earth like broken teeth. Elias wasn’t a powerful wizard, not in the grand, world-shaking sense. He was a hedge wizard, a purveyor of small magics, charms for good harvests, poultices for ailing livestock, the occasional love potion for lovesick youths. He was on his way to the village of Duskhaven, hired to bless their winter stores against rot and vermin. A simple job, but one that would put a few much-needed coins in his threadbare purse.

He’d been walking for the better part of the day, the only sound accompanying him the crunch of his boots on the frozen ground and the whisper of the wind through the bare branches of the hedgerows. He was so lost in thought, calculating how much he could haggle for a decent pair of winter gloves in Duskhaven, that he almost missed the shift in the wind, the subtle rustle of leaves that didn’t quite match the breeze.

Then, he heard the soft footfall behind him.

Elias stopped, his hand instinctively going to the simple wooden staff he carried. It wasn’t a weapon, not really, but it was something to hold onto. He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the hedgerow. Nothing.

“Show yourself,” he called out, his voice hoarse.

A figure detached itself from the shadows, melting out of the undergrowth like smoke. It was a man, lean and wiry, dressed in dark, close-fitting clothes that blended perfectly with the surrounding foliage. He carried no obvious weapons, save for a small, sheathed dagger at his belt. He offered a disarming smile, but his eyes, dark and sharp, held no warmth.

“Just a traveler, like yourself,” the man said, his voice smooth and oily. “Lost my way, I’m afraid.”

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Elias didn’t believe him for a second. There was something about the man’s posture, the way he held himself, that spoke of coiled tension, of a predator about to strike. He kept his grip tight on his staff.

“The road to Duskhaven is straight ahead,” Elias said, his voice firm. “You can’t miss it.”

The man’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps you could accompany me?” he suggested. “It’s always safer to travel with company.”

Before Elias could respond, the man moved. It was a blur of motion, too fast for Elias to react. The man’s hand flashed to his belt, and the small dagger was in his hand, its blade glinting in the weak sunlight. It wasn’t a longsword or a battle axe, but a rondel dagger, designed for piercing armor and finding the gaps between ribs.

Elias barely had time to raise his staff in a futile attempt at defense. The man lunged, his movements precise and deadly. The rondel plunged into Elias’s side, just below his ribs, finding its mark with chilling ease.

A sharp, searing pain shot through Elias’s body. He gasped, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down at the dagger protruding from his side, the dark stain of blood spreading across his jerkin.

The man twisted the blade, a cruel, deliberate motion that sent another wave of agony through Elias. He stumbled back, his vision blurring, his legs giving way beneath him. He fell to the muddy ground, the cold earth pressing against his back.

The man withdrew the dagger, wiping the blood on Elias’s cloak. He knelt beside the fallen wizard, his face devoid of any emotion. He reached into Elias’s purse, quickly emptying its meager contents.

Elias lay on the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the life draining out of him, the cold seeping into his bones. He looked up at the man, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and disbelief.

The man simply shrugged, a gesture of indifference. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he murmured, before turning and disappearing back into the hedgerow, leaving Elias to die alone in the cold, silent field. The wind whispered through the branches, a mournful dirge for the hedge wizard whose journey had ended far too soon.