The road to Greyhaven is nothing but churned-up earth and regret. It twists through dead fields, past blackened trees where crows peck at things better left unseen. Mud clings to my boots. 

It’s late afternoon, the sky iron-gray, and the wind is thick with the stink of damp earth and woodsmoke. The road leading into Greyhaven is little more than a muddy scar, carved deep by wagon wheels and the heavy boots of men who think themselves free. I shoulder my pack, adjusting the weight.

My pack digs into my shoulders, heavy with all I own—spare clothes, a whetstone, a bit of dried meat, and my spear wrapped in oilcloth. The blade is chipped, the shaft worn, but it’ll serve. A weapon like that doesn’t forget its purpose, and neither do I. 

To the passing eye, I am just another wanderer. A vagrant with a weapon strapped across his back, the haft of my spear worn smooth by my grip. A man without a home, without a name that matters.

They don’t know me. They don’t know I was once Hawks Taylor, a Spear of the King.

That name is dead. Burned away, like the banners I once swore to. The weight of a kingdom’s failure is not mine to carry anymore. I’m here for simpler things—coin, land, a place to set roots. Greyhaven is the last patch of civilization before the world turns wild. If I can carve out a place here, then maybe I can start something new.

The gates are open, flanked by guards too tired to look twice at me. They’re young, their armor patched and worn, hands resting loose on their weapons. No discipline, no real training. They don’t expect trouble. They don’t know it will come anyway.

I pass through, boots sinking into the half-frozen muck of the main road. Greyhaven is what I expected—a frontier town held together with spit and hope. Wooden buildings slumped against each other like drunkards, smoke rising from chimneys in thick curls. The streets are choked with carts, horses, and men who look like they’ve fought something worse than bad harvests. Farmers, adventurers, a handful of merchants, and the occasional woman with a sharp eye and a hidden knife.

A beggar sits against a building, wrapped in tattered furs, his eyes hollow. A pair of children dart between carts, swiping apples with deft fingers before disappearing into an alley. A blacksmith hammers at his forge, sweat gleaming off his arms despite the chill in the air.

To my left, an old woman hawks bread from a cart, her voice hoarse from years of shouting. "Fresh! Still warm!" A man argues with a merchant over the price of grain, their voices sharp, edged with desperation. Further ahead, a group of sellswords lounge outside a supply store, their hands never straying far from their weapons.

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I step aside as a man on horseback thunders past, his cloak flaring behind him. His face is gaunt, hard lines carved by hunger and worry. A hunter, maybe. Or someone being hunted. Greyhaven is full of those kinds.

A tavern looms ahead, the sign creaking in the wind. The Hollow Oak.

I push open the door, warmth and stale ale rushing over me. The place is busy, men huddled at tables nursing tankards, some whispering, others laughing too loudly. A fire crackles in the hearth, spitting embers onto the stone floor. A few heads turn as I step in, their eyes skimming over me, judging. Stranger. Dangerous. Not worth the trouble—yet.

I move to the bar, drop a few coppers on the wood. The barkeep eyes me, a thick-armed man with a scar running down his cheek.

“What’s your poison?” he asks.

“Water.”

He snorts but hands me a cup, the water clean enough. I drink, feeling the weight of the room pressing against my back. I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me.

“You just passing through?” the barkeep asks, wiping down the counter with a rag that does more harm than good.

“Looking to settle,” I say. “Work first.”

He nods, like he’s heard it before. “Plenty of that. If you don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

I glance at my hands. Calloused, scarred, stained from things I don’t name. “I don’t.”

A man slides onto the stool beside me. He’s got the look of someone who spends more time with a blade than a plow. His beard is patchy, his eyes sharp. “You looking for coin?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I finish my drink, set the cup down. “Depends.”

“There’s trouble,” he says, voice low. “Farmsteads north of here, near the tree line. Something’s been taking livestock. Then a boy went missing.”

The fire crackles behind us, the tavern’s warmth suddenly feeling thin. I roll my shoulders. “Beasts?”

The man shakes his head. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

I know what that means. The Demon Wastes aren’t far. Things crawl out of them sometimes, things with too many teeth and eyes that shine in the dark. Greyhaven is on the edge of the world, and when the world bites, it bites hard.

I hold out my hand. “Tell me where.”

The man grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Knew you were the type.” He slaps my palm. His grip is firm. “Name’s Vren.”

“Hawks.” I let my old name sit in the air, weightless. It doesn’t feel like a lie. Not yet.

Vren gives me the details, farmsteads a few miles out, families too scared to go out at night. I listen, nodding, committing it to memory.

“Pay?” I ask.

“The farmers scraped together what they could. Not much, but if you handle this, people will remember.”

I don’t care about reputation. I care about the land. Coin gets me there. I nod. “I’ll leave at first light.”

Vren claps me on the back. “Good. Hope you can handle yourself.”

I finish my drink, let the warmth settle in my gut. The tavern hums around me, oblivious. Outside, the wind shifts.

Something’s out there. Something hungry.

And it doesn’t know me yet.

But it will.