The market streets seemed to ripple with an unspoken tension as Arien followed Kael through the thinning crowd. What had been a bustling, lively square at midday now appeared oddly subdued in the light, as though it were enveloped in a pale haze that muted even the most vibrant of colors. Tall, crooked wooden stalls—each one draped with weathered cloth awnings in dull shades of ochre, russet, or gray—lined the cobblestone paths. The city’s usual hum had hushed to a discordant murmur: vendors with tired voices called out halfhearted last-minute deals, children no longer sprinted or shrieked with playful abandon, and the once-sure steps of horses and passersby dragged with a palpable wariness.
Arien caught the faint scent of onions and smoke drifting from a distant cookfire, though the pungent tang that normally set his mouth watering felt hollow, as if the smell carried no promise of warmth or flavor. Stray bits of straw fluttered in the breeze, and scraps of parchment bearing scribbled advertisements tumbled past his feet. He walked carefully around them, an inexplicable sense of unease constricting his chest. Something was off about this hour and this place. He might have dismissed it as simple fatigue if not for the subtle prickle at the base of his skull.
He glanced at Kael, whose sharp eyes were scanning the crowd with unusual focus. The old man, so often carefree and full of quips, wore an expression of measured alertness. He was dressed in his typical layered attire: a long, threadbare vest of faded charcoal gray over a simple linen shirt, and well-worn boots caked with the dust of countless roads. Despite the tattered look, Kael’s garments seemed arranged with a purposeful ease, a careful blend of nondescript practicality that let him slip into crowds unnoticed. Even his silvered hair—once a proud crest, Arien imagined—was slicked back just enough to keep it out of his eyes without drawing attention.
As Arien watched him, he felt the odd pressure in his mind tighten. It was like a dull ache blossoming near his temples, accompanied by a faint sense of disorientation. The market’s half-lidded eyes and faded voices underscored the feeling, the atmosphere thick with secrets left unspoken. He rubbed the back of his neck in a fruitless attempt to dispel the sensation. It was almost like hearing a dissonant note from a far-off horn, a sound low and ominous, too soft to pinpoint but loud enough to set his nerves on edge.
“Don’t let it bother you so much,” Kael muttered under his breath. He must have noticed Arien’s stiff posture and the shallow rise and fall of his shoulders. There was a strange mix of amusement and caution in Kael’s voice, as though he was both impressed and a little wary of Arien’s sensitivity. “If you focus on it too hard, it’ll only get worse.”
Arien opened his mouth to ask for some explanation—anything to anchor his increasingly anxious thoughts—but the mental pressure suddenly shifted. What was once a barely perceptible wave now crested and crashed, making him gasp and nearly lose his footing. He gripped the edge of a nearby stall, a rickety wooden structure filled with half-rotten apples that gave off an acrid scent. The fruit-seller behind it—an older woman with sunken cheeks—turned toward them, but her eyes slid past, as though she had already forgotten their presence before she even managed a word.
Kael’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile as he observed Arien struggling. “Not bad, boy,” he said quietly, his tone carrying a grudging respect. “You felt that, didn’t you?”
“What… what is it?” Arien asked, voice low and trembling. The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, as if the heaviness in the marketplace threatened to swallow them whole.
The old man chuckled—a soft sound that resonated oddly in the tense quiet. “Just a little… adjustment to how we’re perceived,” Kael said, an undercurrent of pride lacing his voice. “A handy trick when you don’t fancy lingering.” He waved a hand in a vague gesture, and Arien could almost sense the invisible webs Kael had spun around them.
Arien wanted to probe further. He could practically taste the question in his throat: How are you doing that? Yet, Kael set off again, tugging Arien’s sleeve to pull him along. The gesture was firm, but not harsh. Around them, the crowd seemed to thin further, and the scattered individuals who remained wore blank expressions, as though each person had simply forgotten their own reason for being there.
They wove through a maze of stalls, turning corners where spools of coarse fabric were displayed and gliding past tables stacked with dull knives and chipped pottery. At one stall, a young woman halfheartedly fanned flies away from bunches of wilted herbs and battered tin cups. She flicked her gaze upward when Arien passed, only to let it slide off him as if he were a shadow drifting by. It was a disquieting feeling, being so completely overlooked in a place where travelers normally drew curiosity or at least a passing glance.
“Kael,” Arien ventured, his voice tight with both fear and fascination, “are you… doing this?”
Kael shot him a sly sideways look, his grizzled features twisting into a lopsided grin. “Me? Whatever gave you that idea?” His reply was playful, but there was a seriousness beneath the teasing. The strange, oppressive air around them felt charged, like a storm waiting to break. “Come along now,” Kael added more briskly, “no time for dawdling. The road is eager for our footsteps.”
With one final surge of that intangible pressure, as though Kael had nudged the invisible atmosphere around them into a different arrangement, they stepped into the stableyard of a modest inn. It was as if they had passed through a transparent curtain separating the strangeness of the market from the familiar humdrum of everyday life. The intangible weight lifted. Arien inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the simple scents of hay, manure, and old wood beams. The stableyard was calm in the early evening, lit by a pair of lanterns swaying gently in a breeze that whispered of coming dusk.
The courtyard itself was a patch of dirt and gravel fenced with rough timbers, lined with small wooden sheds that creaked softly whenever the wind picked up. Despite the yard’s simple appearance, Arien could tell the inn took pride in keeping the area tidy: the troughs were filled with clean water, and the feed bins were neatly stacked. A donkey tethered near the inn snorted irritably, stamping its hoof as if to protest some invisible annoyance. Several other beasts of burden—tired horses, graying mules—drowsed quietly, flicking their ears at flies.
Arien felt another flicker in his mind, something like the crackle of distant flames, gone as soon as it came. He whirled to face Kael, and found the old man staring back with open curiosity.
“You’re sharper than you look, lad,” Kael said, patting Arien’s shoulder with a rough, calloused hand. That grin of his, perpetually on the edge between friendly and knowing, softened almost imperceptibly. “Most folk wouldn’t notice a thing. They’d just feel… uneasy. You? You see the ripples in the water.”
Arien swallowed, torn between pride at Kael’s words and apprehension for what it might mean. “What am I supposed to do with that?” he asked, voice quavering slightly.
Kael only shrugged, as though it were self-evident. “Keep it close. Keep it quiet. Keep your eyes open. That’s a fine start.” Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he pivoted on his heel and waved to a wiry stable hand standing near one of the stalls.
The stable hand, a boy just older than Arien by a few years, looked up with a curious mix of awe and caution. He had sandy-brown hair that curled across his forehead, and his shirt was missing two buttons, revealing a wiry frame and a scatter of freckles along his collarbone. Kael drew out a small pouch, the coins within jingling just enough to spark the boy’s eager grin.
“Quick hands get quick pay,” Kael said, handing the pouch over with a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s get our cart ready, shall we? No sense loitering when there’s a good road to be traveled.”
“Yes, sir,” the stable hand replied, voice lively with the promise of a decent tip. He tossed the pouch in his hand once, testing its weight, then nodded eagerly and hurried off to prepare the donkey and cart. Arien watched him go, envying the boy’s easy confidence.
While the stable hand busied himself, Kael turned back to examine Arien with an almost paternal interest, as if weighing how far he could trust the boy’s instincts. The old man crossed his arms, leaning against the side of the stable. Arien could smell the faint tang of leather and a metallic whiff, perhaps from the dagger Kael kept hidden in his boot. Kael rarely showed it, but Arien knew the old traveler was seldom truly unarmed.
After a few minutes, the stable hand led out their donkey, which was small and stout, with a coarse brown coat and ears that perked up whenever it heard its name—though the boy never spoke it aloud. The donkey eyed Arien and Kael placidly, snorting as if to greet them or perhaps voice a complaint at being roused. The cart itself was modest: simple boards hammered together with iron nails, patched in places with mismatched planks. Yet everything looked neatly tied down, from the small barrels of supplies to the sacks of provisions. Kael had always impressed upon Arien the importance of securing one’s load—no point in buying goods only to let them tumble away on the first bump in the road.
“Fine work,” Kael remarked to the stable hand, running his palm over the cart’s side to check for any loose boards. “Tell your mother you’ve earned your keep today.”
The boy beamed, chest puffing out proudly. He stepped aside to let Kael and Arien climb aboard, and Kael flicked the reins lightly. The donkey lurched forward, cart creaking in protest before settling into a steady rhythm out of the stableyard. The last Arien saw of the boy was his triumphant grin as he tucked the coin pouch into his belt.
They reentered the thinning streets of the town, making a slow but steady path toward the main gate. By now the sky had taken on the hues of early sunset: streaks of gold, pink, and orange melding into a gentle tapestry overhead. Arien felt the tension in his limbs begin to ease as they got closer to leaving the city behind.
“I’d like to keep to the gate we entered through,” Kael explained, breaking the companionable silence. There was a firmness to his tone that Arien understood as caution. “Some gates are friendlier than others, especially when you’re trying to get a donkey cart out without trouble. A bit of consistency helps in these places.”
Arien nodded. Though Kael’s words were mild, he noted the subtle alertness in the old man’s posture: the set of his shoulders, the quick glances he cast at every side street and alleyway they passed. With the donkey’s hooves plodding on the uneven cobbles, they crept along. The day’s final wave of foot traffic was mostly locals heading home with baskets of produce or travelers like themselves trying to exit before darkness blanketed the roads.
Moments later, Arien saw them: two men standing near the gate’s stone archway. He recognized the distinctive attire right away. Each wore a cloak with a collar of ornate feathers, bright crimson in color, over layered garments of earthen browns accented with carved beads. They were emissaries from the Bloodbound Empire of Xochiral. Arien’s stomach gave a small lurch. The Xochiral were known for their single-minded devotion to their god Itzhalmu—a shadowy deity revered in foreign lands far to the south. Emissaries seldom traveled alone, often preceded by rumors and half-spoken legends about the empire’s blood-soaked rites.
Kael’s fingers tightened on the reins, and a tension rolled through him like a stiff breeze shaking a tree’s branches. The old traveler whispered something that Arien couldn’t make out, then leaned over just enough to murmur, “Keep your eyes forward, lad. Let me do the talking if they come our way.”
Arien swallowed, gripping the edge of the cart until his knuckles paled. The donkey, oblivious to all but the next step, trotted forward at its plodding pace. As they drew nearer, the two Xochiral emissaries looked their way, almost in unison. The taller one, with high cheekbones and sharply angled features, nudged his companion and began to approach.
“Good day, traveler,” he greeted, his tone suggesting a forced cordiality. He spoke the common tongue with a slight accent, syllables tapering like a drawn blade. “A fine evening for commerce, is it not?”
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Kael offered a well-practiced grin, one that conveyed neither subservience nor overt hostility. “That it is,” he replied, nodding past them to where a hay cart was blocking half of the gate, its driver cursing and waving his arms. “Though that fellow’s burden might disagree.”
The shorter emissary, stockier and sporting a thick wrist-guard carved from obsidian, glanced at the hay cart but said nothing. He stood with a rigid discipline, as though waiting for an opportune moment to speak—or to strike. The taller man, however, was clearly the mouthpiece. He returned his focus to Kael, eyes narrowed.
“We are in search of a small place,” he said, each word clipped. “Greywood, I believe it is called. Perhaps you have heard of it?”
Arien felt his heart hammer in his chest. The mention of his home made him want to shrink into the seat. His attention flicked to Kael, who remained as calm as ever.
“Greywood?” Kael echoed with a casual shrug. “Can’t say I have. We’re just passing through ourselves. Might want to ask someone local to the region. We come and go, seldom lingering anywhere for long.” His words slid out so smoothly that it took Arien a moment to recall the truth: they were indeed from Greywood, and with each sentence, Kael was crafting a lie as deftly as a weaver threading a tapestry.
The emissary’s gaze shifted, turning toward Arien. A sense of dread settled in the boy’s gut when their eyes met—he couldn’t quite place why, but something in that stare felt invasive. “And the boy?” the tall man asked in a deceptively gentle voice. “He seems capable. What is your name, child?”
Arien tried to hold the man’s gaze without trembling, but he felt the weight of that presence like a heavy stone on his chest. Despite his desire to remain calm, his mouth went dry. He was sure Kael was about to intercept, but the old man merely waited, trusting Arien to respond. Panicked, Arien stammered, “Uh… I—I’m Bran. From a farm… near the northern fields.”
He forced the lie out clumsily, wanting desperately for it to sound natural. His mention of a farm was an impulsive addition—he recalled seeing farmland outside the town gates, not far north. The hope was that it would be too commonplace to question.
The emissary made a thin smile, showing almost no teeth. “Bran, a strong name,” he said, but there was a faint undercurrent of mockery. “We trust Itzhalmu’s favor shines on your path.” He reached into a small pouch at his side and withdrew a single coin. Flicking his wrist with uncanny precision, he tossed it toward Arien. Reflexively, Arien flinched, but Kael snatched it out of the air with deft speed.
“Very generous,” Kael said, handing the coin to Arien. His tone was disarming, as though they were being offered a simple gift.
Arien held it gingerly. At first glance, it was embossed with the symbol of Itzhalmu—a stylized obsidian serpent coiled around a crimson sun. But as soon as it touched his palm, the icon shimmered, then vanished. Left behind was an ordinary-looking copper piece. Cold sweat trickled down the back of Arien’s neck. He fisted the coin, trying not to let his fear show.
Just then, the hay cart at the gate lurched forward, and the air filled with the braying of an overburdened donkey and the driver’s hoarse, triumphant shout. The Xochiral men, distracted by the sudden commotion, shifted their attention away from Kael and Arien. Kael took that moment to click his tongue, urging their own donkey forward. They slipped through the gate, glancing over their shoulders only once to see the frustrated gate guards watching the emissaries with open suspicion. Tension radiated in the air, but it no longer encircled Arien and Kael.
Beyond the gate, the countryside stretched in gentle slopes and wide fields that were at times dotted with outcroppings of wildflowers—tiny bursts of color among the tall, sun-baked grasses. As the last bits of daylight gave way to dusk, a soft haze settled along the horizon, giving the farmland a dreamlike quality. The donkey’s steady clopping on the packed dirt road was an oddly comforting sound now, a reminder of normalcy.
The road rolled on under their cart, dust kicking up behind them. Arien turned the coin in his fingers, unsettled by how it had changed. “What was that about?” he asked quietly, once they were far enough from the gate that any eavesdropping ears were left behind.
Kael pursed his lips, casting a quick look over his shoulder. Satisfied they were alone, he said, “Just a couple of vultures on the hunt, hoping to pluck secrets from unwary travelers. Don’t trouble yourself over them.” Then, catching the worried flicker in Arien’s eyes, he added, “They know lots of names, lots of places, and they’ll try to pry your guard loose with their fancy words and baubles. Best to stay out of their way.”
Arien’s grip tightened on the coin as he tucked it into a small side pouch on his belt. The quiet hush of the countryside felt immense after the constriction of the city. His mind still wandered back to the market, to the press of that unseen force, to Kael’s cryptic magic. “But they specifically mentioned Greywood,” Arien insisted, not quite willing to let the matter drop. The mention of his home by strangers from a distant empire was too unsettling.
“Could be a coincidence,” Kael said, his voice deliberately casual. Then, as if relenting a little, he sighed. “Or they might have business there that doesn’t concern you or me.” A hush followed, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the cart and the soft rustling of wind across the fields. Eventually, Kael gave Arien a sidelong look. “Look, lad, the less we dwell on it, the better. Not every curiosity deserves our full attention. Sometimes it’s safer to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Arien could sense the boundary Kael was drawing—the line that said the conversation was over unless Arien wanted to overstep. Though his unease lingered, he decided not to push further. Kael’s secrets were piled higher than a fortress wall; the old man doled out knowledge carefully, piece by piece.
They continued their journey for hours, the sky shifting through the final shades of dusk into full darkness. Crickets began their nightly chorus, a continuous, high-pitched thrumming that merged with the cart’s wheels. Occasionally, a farmhouse would appear at the edge of the road, yellow candlelight shining through windows, the silhouette of a watchful dog against the yard. Arien couldn’t help but let his mind wander to local folklore—stories of shapeless monsters that roamed the fields by night, of howling shadows and eerie lights that lured travelers astray. Sitting beside Kael, he was comforted by the old man’s calm presence, but that old prickle at the base of his skull never fully went away.
At one point, they passed a signpost listing distances to several villages—names Arien faintly recognized from conversations in the Greywood tavern: Harrow’s Bend, Riven Oak, and a few more. The sign creaked in a gentle breeze as if whispering them farewell. When the donkey let out a long, low bray, Kael murmured, “We’ll find a place to camp soon,” though the tone in his voice suggested he had every intention of pushing on until they reached Greywood.
Arien stared up at the sky. The stars were bright pinpricks against the velvet black, a scattering of glitter that beckoned the imagination. He remembered nights in Greywood when he’d lie on the hillside outside the apothecary, counting stars or trying to spot the shapes local elders claimed formed mystical beasts—giant serpents, winged lions, the cyclical twin suns. Tonight, the twinkling constellations felt like silent observers, watching over them with an indifferent calm.
Eventually, the weariness of the day settled over Arien like a thick blanket. He yawned, resting his head against the side of the cart. The rough wood dug into his cheek, but he was too tired to care. Kael guided the donkey, occasionally humming a tune so softly that Arien could only catch fragments—snippets of a lullaby from some far-flung land, perhaps. Although the tension from the encounter with the Xochiral emissaries still lingered in the back of Arien’s mind, he found his eyelids growing heavier with each turn of the cart’s wheels.
He slipped in and out of a doze. In that half-dreaming state, he heard echoes of the market’s subdued chaos, saw again the coin’s shifting emblem, and felt that uncanny mental pressure. Shadows danced at the corners of his vision—were they people from the market or the rumored creatures that haunted farmland nights? He saw Kael’s face, etched with an expression of patient amusement, and overhead the sky seemed to shimmer with impossible colors.
When Arien’s eyes next opened fully, the star-filled sky had been replaced by a thin wash of pink and gray along the horizon—dawn was near. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept. The cart creaked forward at a weary pace, and Kael sat hunched over the reins, a stern expression on his face. Dew clung to the grass that lined the road, and a light fog drifted across small ponds they passed, creating a ghostly stillness.
Not wanting to break the silence just yet, Arien studied Kael’s profile. The old man’s brow furrowed as though he were deep in thought. Then Kael caught Arien looking and offered a soft, crooked grin. “Glad you got some rest, lad. You’ll need your wits about you soon enough.”
Arien nodded, uncertain what new trials the day might bring but trusting Kael’s instincts. The donkey plodded on, and as the sun’s rays brightened, Arien recognized the familiar landscapes closer to Greywood—the gentle, rolling hills and the clusters of birch trees that gave the hamlet its name. A mild breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth and hinting at the pine forest beyond.
They reached Greywood by midmorning. The small hamlet was little more than a collection of wooden cottages around a humble market square, flanked by a blacksmith’s forge and the apothecary where Arien spent most of his time assisting Ael. Smoke curled from chimneys, and a scattering of chickens darted around the yards. The air felt markedly cleaner here, as if a soothing calm blanketed the place. In the distance, a solitary watch-hound barked. It was a simple, unassuming settlement—yet at the moment, it felt like a sanctuary.
Tharvik, the local blacksmith, stood outside his forge, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was tall, towering over most men in Greywood, with thick, corded muscles that rippled beneath a sooty leather apron. His beard, braided in two thick strands, swung slightly as he turned to watch their approach. The rhythmic clang of the forge was absent, suggesting he was between projects or simply taking a break.
The moment Kael guided the donkey and cart into the yard near the apothecary, Tharvik ambled over. The blacksmith’s voice, deep as a horn’s bellow, asked no questions at first; his sharp eyes took in Arien’s exhausted form, the loaded cart, and Kael’s subdued posture. Satisfied that they were intact, he finally spoke. “Long trip?” He didn’t wait for an answer, shifting his gaze to Arien. “Let me take the boy.”
Without waiting for permission, he lifted Arien out of the cart as if he weighed nothing. Despite Tharvik’s imposing presence and rough hands, his touch was gentle as he carried Arien toward the apothecary’s entrance. Arien, only half awake, rested his head against the blacksmith’s shoulder, catching the comforting smell of smoke and iron that clung to him.
Inside, Ael waited. She stood near a table lined with clay jars and bundles of dried herbs hanging overhead. A mortar and pestle sat on the table, flecked with green residue from the night’s work—likely some salve or herbal brew. Her straight, hair was bound into a practical braid, and her sharp green eyes flicked from Tharvik to Kael. The apprehension in her gaze was immediate. She was usually reserved, not prone to dramatic outbursts, but her eyes spoke volumes: What happened? Is Arien all right?
Tharvik set Arien down on the small bed in the corner. It was a makeshift cot stuffed with straw and covered by an old quilt patched with a dozen different fabrics. Ael, arms still crossed, glared at Kael. “What happened?” she demanded, voice kept deliberately low but brimming with urgency.
Kael ambled in, casually resting against the doorframe. “We ran into a couple of Itzhalmu’s vultures by the city gate,” he said, his tone as breezy as if he were discussing the weather. “They knew about Greywood.” He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. “Strange to see them so far out, isn’t it?”
Ael frowned, her expression clouding with both concern and anger. The lines around her mouth deepened. “And Arien?” she asked, gaze flicking to the boy’s pale face. “He looks like he’s been through quite an ordeal.”
Kael smirked, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. “Ah, the lad gave them a false name. Lied to them with a straight face—‘Bran from a farm,’ he said.” The old man chuckled. “He told it convincingly enough that they left us be. Surprised me, if I’m honest. Didn’t think the boy had it in him.”
Ael looked momentarily stunned. She folded her arms more tightly, as though warding off a chill, then ran a hand over her forehead. “He lied? Arien?” She glanced over at the boy, who was already half-asleep. “But he’s so… honest. He hates lying, even to strangers.”
Kael shrugged, an unspoken satisfaction lingering in his expression. “Desperate times, my dear. Perhaps he’s learned something from me.” He offered a playful wink, though his voice dropped to a murmur only Ael seemed to catch. There was tenderness in that moment, a fleeting softness as if Kael knew the worry that brewed in her mind.
Exhaustion tugged at Arien’s eyelids. He felt the last vestiges of consciousness slip away, lulled by the warmth of the apothecary and the soft hush of Ael’s voice. With one final glimpse, he saw Tharvik nod to himself and step out, presumably to see to the forge. Ael’s and Kael’s words drifted into whispers, their concerns swirling around him like an invisible cloak.
In that twilight between waking and sleep, Arien’s thoughts wandered back to the Xochiral men. He recalled their feathered cloaks, the mock courtesy in their voices, and the chilling emptiness in their eyes. Greywood. They’d asked for Greywood. His home. The place he’d grown up, where he’d learned the properties of dozens of herbs under Ael’s tutelage, where he’d seen Tharvik mold molten metal into works of utility and art, and where Kael had first strode in from the world beyond with tales of lost cities and cryptic artifacts. Arien’s heart ached at the idea that strangers from such a fearsome empire might cast their shadows here.
Still, as he lay beneath the patchwork quilt, the familiar scents of dried lavender and rosemary in the apothecary steadied his racing mind. Ael was near, and Kael—despite his infuriating half-answers—watched over him with an experienced care. Tharvik guarded Greywood like a silent sentinel, his forge an ever-burning torch of protection. Arien closed his eyes, letting sleep take him. The last thing he heard was Kael’s voice, softened by distance, speaking hushed words with Ael. He couldn’t catch them clearly, but he felt the concern and the subdued relief behind them.
Then his dreams claimed him, gentle at first, drifting through memories of simpler times—gathering mushrooms in the forest with Ael, laughing at Tharvik’s jokes as he hammered a piece of steel. But behind those visions lurked distant shadows, faintly echoing with the image of a coin transforming in his hand. He slept, carried away into that nebulous realm where illusions mingle with truths, leaving the whispers to fade into the night.
