As they approached Wesmere’s Tip, the sun rode low, spilling amber fire across the sky. It cast long shadows over the hills, painting the road in fading gold and gray. The cart creaked its protest as it passed beneath a leaning ridge of pine and shale, the scent of damp earth thickening with every turn.

  Brann lifted his head as the first rooftops came into view, slate and timber, smoke curling from narrow chimneys, clustered close together as if huddling against the weight of wind and time. The town nestled in a bend of the Iskaroth, where the river widened into deep, cold pockets that flashed like steel beneath the last light.

  He had learned a few things during their slow journey, The Tip wore its trades as plainly as its name.

  Fishing, in the swirling depths of the Iskaroth, where longboats bobbed between half-sunken pylons and nets hung like pale ghosts on wooden racks.

  Forging, in the soot-streaked lowstone workshops that lined the water’s edge, each marked by red-glow chimneys and the sharp clang of iron meeting iron, and Logging, thanks to the narrow stone bridge that arched across the river’s northern bank, narrow enough that two carts could not pass abreast, yet sturdy enough to hold back the wilderness that pressed from the far side.

  That forest, Duskmire, they called it, looked harmless from a distance. Sunlight danced through its leaves like gold through wine. But beauty was no promise of safety. It was said the trees still remembered the old songs, and if a druid ever chose to awaken them, the roots would move, the canopy would close, and men would vanish.

  Still, the river protected them.

  The Iskaroth cut like a living blade between town and wild, its current cold and deep.

  He also learned that the bridge, though narrow, was rigged with fire charges and set to fall if danger ever came.

  One spark and the forest would be alone again.

  But Brann wasn’t interested in trees or fish. Not this time.

  He needed answers, a sword, a shield and armor.

  The old set had been left behind in the jungle, buried beneath charred vines and blackened roots. The memory of it, his own blood drying on its straps, felt like a distant dream now. He hadn’t died there, but he had come close enough that death had looked at him and blinked, or had it ? An image of those red lifeless eyes came into his mind and he shivered.

  Westmere’s Tip had smiths, true smiths, the kind that sang while they worked and spoke to iron like it was a stubborn mule, the kind who didn't ask questions if you paid in labor instead of coin. Maybe not the best in the kingdom, those would be found in Caldrithorne, but good enough.

  Brann had no money, he rarely did.

  But he had hands, and muscle, and a will that never snapped.

  He’d find work.

  And then there was… the other thing, the story that Oakrin told him.

  "Some say a druid founded this town," he said, Brann was curious about this bit of information, if he could find a druid that he could actually talk to and that would listen to him, maybe he could uncover more secrets.

  Ridiculous, Oakrin said, druids didn’t hide in river towns, they didn’t listen. They destroyed.

  But Brann had learned not to dismiss even the most absurd tales.

  Too much of what the kingdom knew about druids was written by people who had never seen one.

  He had.

  He had seen what they could do, what they could become.

  And he needed to know more.

  He didn’t plan to stay in Westmere long, just long enough to rebuild what he had lost.

  Just long enough to find the truth, if truth waited there in the shadows.

  And then, east, to the citadel or one of the towns near it, he would work his way up once he knew more.

  Their cart clattered into Wesmere’s Tip just as the town was folding itself inward for the night. Even the air felt weary, thick with the stillness that followed long labor and early suppers. Lamps behind shuttered windows painted golden squares on the worn cobblestones, and the last of the shopkeepers pulled in awnings and turned locks with hands slow from repetition.

  It was the hour when stew thickened on quiet hearths, and tired voices lowered out of habit more than caution.

  The square was near-empty, not abandoned, just settled. A cat stretched beneath a bench and vanished into shadow, the echo of hooves on stone carried longer than it should have.

  Oakrin pulled the reins with a grunt and leaned forward, bones creaking louder than the cart.

  “Well,” he said, voice rasping with spent energy, “guess our timing’s a shade off. I’ll head to the town hall, see if anyone’s still up to stamp papers and scratch parchment. If not, I’ll be sleeping with the grain tonight.” He chuckled, the sound dry but not unkind. “You’re welcome to the wagon, if the benches don’t break your spine.”

  Brann stretched his legs and straightened his back, eyes sweeping the narrow streets and low buildings. Stone foundations and timber frames, functional, weather-worn, built to last. It was quiet, but not unwelcoming, the kind of place where time passed without much hurry.

  “I think I’ll walk a bit,” he said. “Stretch my legs. What direction’s the town hall?”

  Oakrin raised a weathered hand and pointed.

  “Down that lane, just past the old bell post, it’s the only two-story building still standing straight, stone front, shutters painted green if the wind hasn’t taken ‘em.”

  Brann gave a short nod.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Without another word, he stepped down from the cart. His boots touched the ground with a faint puff of dust, and he adjusted his cloak, drawing the hood just enough to soften his features in the lantern glow.

  He walked.

  The cobbles beneath his feet were uneven, worn smooth in places where generations of boots had passed. The smell of river mist and hearth smoke lingered in the air, mixed with the faint, clean tang of fresh-cut lumber.

  Here and there, a dog barked once, then went quiet. A door creaked open somewhere down a side street, then shut again, gently, as if not to wake the walls.

  Brann kept walking, letting the town unfold around him, not looking for anything in particular, but watching all the same.

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  Something about this place felt... still, safe, perhaps, but paused as though even the ghosts here had taken to sleeping through the night.

  Only the inn was alive. Laughter spilled from its half-cracked door, rough, unguarded. The kind of laughter men shared when their cups were full and their memories conveniently short. Brann lingered a moment at the sound, the familiar pull of stories and heat and voices tugging at him.

  But he had no coin. Not even a copper.

  And inns don’t feed ghosts.

  He moved on, head low, boots dragging. Yet as he passed beyond the warm halo of torchlight and clinking mugs, he felt a pull, not from the inn, not from the square behind him, but something deeper, quieter, and harder to name. It had stirred in him ever since Oakrin first spoke the name: Duskmire.

  He didn’t know why, but he wanted to see it, the forest and the bridge.

  He wanted to stand where the stone met water, and look out across the treeline, to see if it watched him back.

  He was passing through a narrow lane when he heard voices. Not adult voices, but younger, sharpened by bravado and shaped by poor intent. He slipped into the shadows, his instincts rising like old friends.

  Three boys, no older than fifteen, had a girl cornered beneath an old awning, half-lit by the glow from a shuttered window. They weren’t hurting her, not yet, but they weren’t letting her go, either. One of them leaned too close, speaking soft, oily things, while the others blocked her path.

  Brann was already moving.

  Then it happened fast.

  The girl’s eyes flared, not with fear, but fire. She kicked the first boy hard in the shin. He let out a yelp and crumpled. Before the second could react, she spun and cracked him clean in the chin with a tight, practiced punch. He dropped like a sack of flour.

  The third took a stumbling step back in shock, and landed on Brann’s foot.

  He turned, saw a man where no man should be, and bolted like a hare in spring.

  The girl, now wincing and clutching her hand between her legs, glanced up. One boy was crawling away the other was groaning and limping.

  She looked at Brann.

  “You want some of this as well?” she said, eyes still blazing.

  Brann let out a small chuckle. It wasn’t much, but it was real, the first in days.

  “No, sorry for intruding I thought you needed help, seems I miscalculated.”

  She snorted: “Serves them right.” Then her brow furrowed. “Who are you, anyway? Don’t think I’ve seen you around town.”

  “Name’s Brann,” he said. “I just arrived in town and I’m looking for work, though I suppose that’ll have to wait till morning.”

  She tilted her head, uncertain.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, have a good night,” Brann added, already turning to leave.

  She hesitated, then said, “I’m Lysa, my father’s the cook at the inn. I suppose he could use help in the kitchen. Not like you’ve got anything else going on.”

  Brann paused. Kitchen work wasn’t what he had in mind when he’d imagined forging swords and chasing whispers of druids. But the inn was a good place for information, and warmth had a way of making hard truths speak.

  He gave her a nod.

  “Well, thank you, Lysa. Your help is appreciated.”

  She nodded once, curt, efficient, then turned and began walking toward the inn without waiting for him.

  Brann followed, his steps quiet, the first warmth of the town brushing against the edges of his solitude, the forest would have to wait for now. Her pace was quick and sure, the quiet confidence of someone who belonged and soon enough they reached the entrance to the inn. The door creaked open, spilling light and warmth onto the street, and the two of them stepped inside.

  The laughter that had been so alive moments ago dimmed, not stopped, but softened. Heads turned and conversations slowed. Brann felt the weight of eyes press against his cloak. Men with tankards paused mid-drink, brows knitting with quiet curiosity, but no words rose, not with Lysa walking beside him.

  She didn’t look back as they crossed the common room. The inn smelled of spiced meat and old wood, of pipe smoke and heat baked into the stone. Brann kept his head down but let his eyes sweep the space, catching little details: a weather-worn sword hanging above the hearth, a faded map pinned behind the bar, runes barely visible at the edges.

  They reached a wooden door tucked between two barrels, and Lysa pushed it open without ceremony. The kitchen beyond was warm and alive, brighter than the front room, filled with the soft clang of pots, the hiss of oil, and the sharp tang of onions cooking down to sweetness.

  A boy, no more than six or seven, sat cross-legged by a stack of dented pans, stirring an empty pot with deep concentration. His cheeks were smudged with flour, and he wore an expression of great purpose. Nearby stood a robust man, turning something on a smoking grill with practiced ease. His black hair curled slightly at the edges, and his beard was thick but trimmed. But it was his eyes that caught Brann off guard, green as moss after rain, startling in the warm light.

  The man glanced over his shoulder just as Lysa said:

  “That’s my younger brother, Riven. He gets into all kinds of trouble, so Father keeps him close.”

  The boy looked up, affronted.

  “I do not!” he declared, indignant.

  Lysa rolled her eyes with the weight of every older sister who’d ever had to share a kitchen.

  “And that’s Dad, or for you, Torvil, one of the greatest cooks in the kingdom.”

  Torvil was already eyeing Brann, one eyebrow lifted, spatula still in hand.

  “And who’s our guest?”

  Lysa opened her mouth.

  “I found this one by the river,”

  But Torvil cut her off sharply.

  “What were you doing by the river at this hour?” His tone hardened. “Do I need to remind you again of the dangers?”

  Lysa threw her hands up.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault, Jeren was trying to kiss me again.”

  Torvil turned red in the face, a deep scowl furrowing his brow.

  “Well, I’ll be fixing that tomorrow.”

  Brann stepped in before the fire could spread.

  “No need, I think. She got him pretty good.”

  Torvil turned to Lysa, a flash of pride softening his expression, then back to Brann. He set the spatula down with a solid thunk.

  “So, stranger, what’s your name? And what brings you to these parts?”

  Brann gave a respectful nod.

  “Name’s Brann and I came in with a supply cart, Oakrin’s, just arrived tonight.”

  Torvil blinked, then gave a sharp laugh, deep and real.

  “Oakrin? That old bastard’s still breathing, is he? Thought the roads would've eaten him by now.” He grinned wide enough to show a missing tooth. “If you could stand him the whole way here, you might be made of sterner stuff than you look.”

  Brann returned a faint smile and shrugged.

  “Lysa mentioned you might be looking for help at the inn. I plan on staying for a while.”

  Torvil studied him again, longer this time, the kind of look that weighed more than a sword. He didn’t trust easily. That was plain.

  But Oakrin’s name counted for something. And if this Brann had ridden beside him and hadn’t robbed him blind, well… that put him ahead of half the men Torvil had hired before.

  “That’s true,” Torvil said slowly. “If you’re interested, you can start tomorrow. It’s hard work, long days and don’t expect to be thanked for keeping the stew from burning.”

  Brann gave a small nod.

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “Good. I’ve got a small room in the back. It’s yours while you’re useful.”

  He turned back to the grill, flipping something that hissed and snapped in the pan.

  Riven beamed up at Brann with bright curiosity.

  “I hope you can chop faster than Lysa, she cries when she cuts onions.”

  “Do not,” Lysa muttered.

  Brann, for the first time in days, let the corner of his mouth twitch into something not quite a smile, but close.

  Warmth was warmth, and even the smallest fire held back the dark.