The tavern smelled of smoke, beer, and cabbage stew. Black beams sagged beneath the ceiling, and fresh reed mats had been scattered across the floor, crunching under boots. Villagers and a few travellers sat at the benches, speaking in low tones, yet all of it blended into one warm hum—even though the news carried a chill beneath it.

  Semaj and Algar sat by the wall, near a window with green-striped curtains. Two clay mugs stood before them. Semaj lifted his now and again; fieldwork had left him thirsty. Algar stared into the thick foam as if he might find there the answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked. He’d told neither his brother nor his father about his dream.

  The door swung hard and cracked against the wall hook. A hunter pushed inside. His cloak was soaked through, and his face had soured like spoiled milk. He carried his bow unstrung and his quiver empty. He stopped on the threshold and shrugged off a bag that clinked with something hard.

  “Gern, you look like you stared into the abyss. Sit,” the innkeeper called, lifting his head from a cask.

  The hunter didn’t answer. He crossed the room with slow steps, reached into the bag, and tossed something onto the nearest table. A wolf’s fang—blackened at the tip as if burned. The room fell quiet the way a song does when someone cuts off the refrain.

  “Right at the forest’s edge—three hundred paces in at most,” he said. “Three wolves. Split open. Skin black on the inside. As if they’d been smoked over coals. Crows wouldn’t land. Not even a fly.”

  Someone snorted, trying to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat. Someone else blew out a breath. Semaj leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  “And I was grumbling all morning the day was dull.”

  Algar didn’t answer. He took a pull of beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and listened.

  “Few tracks,” the hunter went on. “Ground was hard—wouldn’t take a print. Just blood, guts, and that.”

  The innkeeper set a mug in front of him. Gern drank half in a single draught, twisting his mouth. He spotted Algar and let his gaze rest there for a moment.

  “And the dogs?” someone asked.

  “Barked all the way there. Went quiet at the wolves.” Gern wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then nothing. For a long time.”

  “The gods are watching,” someone whispered.

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  “The gods watch through priests’ eyes, and priests prefer coin to corpses,” the innkeeper muttered—softer than usual.

  The door opened again, this time gently. Roch came in with two cronies. Same mocking smile. Wind-tossed red hair. The smell of the byre clinging to him. He stopped, looked around, and spotted Semaj and Algar at once. His smile faded. As he passed, he flicked the edge of their table with his finger so Algar’s mug trembled and spilled a drop onto the plank.

  “Sickle-boy,” one of his hangers-on muttered.

  “Well then, kid?” Roch leaned a hip against their bench. “Got the guts to step outside?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Not enough?” Semaj lifted his head calmly.

  “Not enough. We’ll smash both your faces in, you mangy curs.”

  His cronies burst out laughing. Algar looked up at Roch the way you look at a particularly sticky turd on your boot. He clenched his fists.

  “Beat it,” Semaj said, sliding his brother’s mug back from the edge. “We’re listening to the hunter.”

  “The hunter says the woods are haunted,” Roch said with a theatrical grimace. “Fairy tales for empty heads like yours.”

  Suddenly he leaned in and tapped the fresh nick on Algar’s finger. The pain was small but sharp—insolent. Something clicked inside. Algar shoved the bench back and stood; the wood squealed across the mats.

  “Not worth it,” Semaj warned, laying a hand on his forearm.

  “Let him stand,” Roch said, smiling wider. “We’ll see how handsome he is with a broken face.”

  He barely finished before a hard blow cracked against his head. He staggered. Algar moved—another punch thudded into Roch’s shoulder, short and solid. Roch took half a step back and grunted, as if someone had nudged him in a crowd. He swung wide, aiming for Algar’s cheek. Algar slipped low; the punch skimmed his hair. From below he drove one into Roch’s ribs. A table smacked against the wall. Someone dragged a bench aside; someone else yanked a child out of the way.

  “Enough!” the innkeeper barked, slapping a ladle against the table—but it was just noise. The room had already entered a motion that took orders from no one.

  Roch crashed in with his hip, braced, and tried to bull Algar to the floor. He took him to the room’s center and threw him down—but couldn’t hold him. Algar twisted his hips and sprang up like a loosened spring. Their faces were close. Beer and sweat mixed in the heat between them. Roch hissed, tried for a knee; caught thigh instead of kneecap. Algar absorbed it and answered with a quick shot to the chin. Clean. Roch reeled and slammed back-first into a post.

  It lasted only a moment longer before the innkeeper and several men grabbed fistfuls of their clothing and heaved them out the door. Semaj landed beside them—he’d been scrapping with Roch’s cronies. He had a blackening eye but seemed satisfied after breaking one man’s nose.

  Roch caught his breath and wiped his lip. A thin smear of red stained his fingers. He stared at it, and something in his face changed. No shout. No smile. For a moment he was colorless.

  “Leave the girl alone, sickle-boy, or you’ll end badly.” His voice was soft—almost warm.

  “Tomorrow evening, under the big birch,” Algar said quietly. “Bring a staff, a knife—whatever you like. I won’t kill an unarmed man.”

  Roch held his gaze for a long moment and saw something there that stripped him of swagger and bravado. Even Semaj fell silent and held his breath.

  “We’re done here,” Semaj said at last, pushing to his feet and brushing off his trousers. “See you at home. Clear your head.”